An Urban Wicca
By Alex Miller-Mignone
Samhain
OK, I'll admit it; I celebrate and commemorate all the Sabbats, but I live Samhain (maybe it's my Scorpio Rising). Ever since I can remember, the lure of Hallowe'en has been strong—probably a remembrance of lifetimes lived by Wiccan principles.
In general, we keep our celebrations focused outdoors from Vernal Equinox to Autumnal Equinox, and indoors for the dark half of the year. But Samhain is one of those periods where we overlap. At Samhain, we take full advantage of all the property has to offer.
Our celebration of Samhain is... extensive (to say the least). Preparation often starts as early as August, when we begin raiding the local card shops and "dollar stores." (For the uninitiated, these are chain stores with frequently rotating stock where everything costs a dollar; they're great for seasonal decorations, etc.) We seek that perfect addition to the boxes upon boxes of saved decorations from Samhains past.
Much of the natural decorations of Autumn Equinox—pumpkins, Indian corn, gourds—are just as appropriate for Samhain, and we sometimes discreetly sneak in an art tissue bat or ghost when we begin to prepare for the Equinox celebrations, about September 15th. We try not to overstep the bounds of good taste before October 1st, but by mid-October the house is festooned with spider webbing, the ten-foot-high walls have borders of art tissue skull and jack-o-lantern garlands, and dozens of bats (last year we had 99) sweep and swoop their way across the ceiling.
Outside is no different. Small ghost, bat or pumpkin figures have replaced the fireflies on the strands of mini white lights that line the birch tree, its leaves now a golden yellow, and the perennial bed beneath the birch has been transformed into a temporary cemetery, complete with realistic tough plastic tombstones and a papier-mâché mummy hand clawing its way out of the earth.
Fresh-cut jack-o-lanterns glow from each window and fill available table space inside. When it comes to Samhain, we leave little doubt that we endorse the season. But it isn't all "secular." Alongside the pumpkin carving and bat hanging, the preparations for the Samhain ritual proceed.
Samhain is one of the most sacred days of the Wiccan calendar, representing the shift into the balsamic phase of the psychic year (a time of purging and cleansing for the new year ahead that will be birthed at Yule). It is also a time of tremendous psychic energy, having retained more of its original symbolism than any of the other Great Sabbats. It seems that everybody, Pagan or not, is tuned into Hallowe'en—the children most of all. It is refreshing to tap into this strong psychic current which resonates even in our modern times.
The garden table where we perform our open-air rituals is ringed with four black and four orange glass-encased candles, and small pumpkins are carved as markers of the Four Directions. We prepare special locust pod rattles for the Samhain eve ritual, and heap the table with the fruits of the season: dried corn, gourds, chestnuts (both in and out of the hull), sycamore pods, fallen colored leaves. It's easy to find whatever you need in the city, if you know where to look.
Identifying trees in local parks and squares is a fun and useful summer occupation. When autumn comes, you'll know where to find the best droppings. There are several ancient, hoary locust trees about a half-mile from the house, and it is here in mid-October that we gather the fallen pods for our Samhain.
The rattles are easy to assemble: take six to ten long, perfect pods and a good length of twine (you could use thin wire or regular string or thread, but we like the old-fashioned look of the twine). Holding the first pod horizontally in front of you, wrap the twine three times around it, catching the end under the loops. Add the next at a forty-five degree angle from the right end, wrapping it securely with the twine, and then add a third to mirror that one from the left. Afterwards, you can add as many or as few as desired, at the end carefully untwisting the original tip of twine to knot it with the tail end bit. The resultant rattle is a perfect accompaniment to the litany of the ritual, its soft and almost snake-like tones forming the ghostly response to the spoken word.
The official celebration of Samhain takes place over a full week, from the Sun's conjunction with the black hole Dionysos on October 30th until the astrological Power Gate of 158 Scorpio is illuminated by the Sun about November 7th. Black hole Dionysos is about sexual healing, and we usually reserve that night for a special celebration of the Great Rite, which seems all the more an affirmation of life in this season of death (I was conceived on Hallowe'en, so there may be a personal connection for me in this). Hallowe'en and traditional Samhain is the occasion for the more secular aspects of the season, and the house is always bursting with guests from near and far (our Samhain table is justly renowned, and invitations are coveted).
Hallowe'en afternoon we host a children's party, with ground chicken barbecue, potato chips, deviled eggs and pumpkin cookies or iced "black magic" chocolate cupcakes. By dusk the kids have gone, and the adults descend upon the garden. We take turns performing the part of the Horned One, complete with a leather mask topped with whitetail deer antlers (from a buck my father killed with a bow) and a flowing black cape. The pumpkins and candles on the garden table are lit, the litany is spoken, and the rattles give their replies. If the weather is chill, we will often light a small bonfire as well.
Samhain usually falls near the Blood Moon, the traditional time when farmers slaughtered their animals before the coming winter. It is one of the few times we still eat red meat during the year, in commemoration of the spirits of all the animals who gave their lives to nourish us and our ancestors. So the Samhain Feast is a hearty one. Dinner begins with a salad of escarole, arrugula, smoked gouda cheese, pears and assorted nuts in a cider-caraway dressing. It highlights fried pork chops (with rosemary from our garden and a rich veal demi-glace), jamishka (a Hungarian dish of chunky mashed potatoes with lots of pepper and caramelized onions folded in), dried corn and broccoli in browned butter. (Enough fat and cholesterol for an entire year goes into this meal, so it's just as well we only do it once!) And for dessert there is pumpkin cheesecake (a Samhain favorite) and cutout cookies in the shapes of bats, cats and brooms.
We usually have a group meditation after dinner. There may be some scrying to see the future, or we might use the use of an overturned wineglass and bits of paper with the alphabet inscribed to receive messages from departed friends and loved ones.
We honor the Samhain Fast almost a week later, when the Sun has reached the astrological Samhain point of 158 Scorpio. We spend this day in contemplation of the fruits of the past year, and planning for the work to come in the year ahead. About the fifteenth of November we begin mournfully to remove the ghosts, bats, witches and skeletons, but are heartened to realize that, with Thanksgiving just around the corner, many of the natural decorations will still be appropriate.
It is with a sad heart that we bid this most Wiccan of all seasons farewell, but we remember that in just nine months we can start preparing for it again!
Yule
Yule is the ancient term for the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. The Sun has reached its nadir in the southern sky and is poised to begin the return journey north. A Fire Festival commemorating the victory of Light over Darkness, Yule is the birth of the New Year in many Pagan traditions, and thus corresponds to the New Moon Phase of the calendar year.
"Yule" is an old Anglo-Saxon word for "Wheel," and the round wreaths of green with which we deck the halls at this time are reminders of the turning Wheel of the Year, which has again come full circle to be reborn. Holly was the traditional evergreen of choice for these wreaths, though fir or even grapevine is commonly used today, with accents of holly. The Holly King is the Death aspect of the God, as the Oak King is the aspect of His rebirth, and holly itself was the sacred representative of the Lord and Lady, since the plant comes in male and female varieties, and both are needed to propagate.
Another plant sacred to this time of year is the mistletoe. It was a special emblem of the Sun's power for the ancient Druids, who cut it ritually for both Solstices. Mistletoe is a parasite of the oak tree, and never grows on the ground. When cut it was collected in long white cloths so that it should not touch the earth and lose its magickal powers; mistletoe used today should remain hung in the air which is its natural home. The small white berries were emblematic of drops of semen from the Lord of the Forest, and in its fruited form mistletoe was a powerful symbol of fertility.
Many solar gods and heroes were supposed to have been born at this time, including Egyptian Horus, Roman Mithras, Norse Balder, Celtic Bel and of course Jesus. More than likely the Christian usurpation of this festival for the birth of their savior stems from a desire to win over the Roman Legionaries, whose devotion to Mithras was legendary. All the old pagan festivals were in some way co-opted by the new religion, Saints replacing gods and goddesses and churches built atop the old shrines.
But the God has had his revenge: The secular Santa has far outstripped the Christian images in the popular culture. And in the image of jolly St. Nick with his sleigh and eight reindeer can be seen a reflection of the God in his aspect as Wise Old Man of the dying year, guiding his Sun Chariot with its eight solar Sabbats.
Currier and Ives images notwithstanding, Yule in the Urban setting is not usually a time for snow and sleigh rides. Often there has not yet been a killing frost in our sheltered garden, and hardier herbs such as thyme, rosemary, sage and winter savory still thrive in pots on the protected porch. The trees are bare, and the cold grows stronger, but any snow you see is likely to come from a bag or aerosol can, though sometimes we are favored with an inch or two of slushy matter which quickly melts away.
The weather outside may be less than frightful, but the Need Fire burns delightfully anyway; and mulled cider and roasted chestnuts are the perfect aperitif before the feast to come. The preparation for this day has lasted weeks, and it seems only fair that we extend the celebration as well; so in our home we begin the season with a commemoration of the Sun's conjunction with the Galactic Center, usually about December 18th—just a few days before the Winter Solstice, which usually falls about the 22nd. The time of the Sun's return to the Center is a good one to realign ourselves with Cosmic Consciousness, and to affirm that we are all on the Path that was laid out for us before Time.
Weeks have been spent gathering the appropriate trimmings from landscape and store. Several local parks have yielded a wide variety of natural ornaments, fallen pinecones of several varieties, sweet gum and sycamore pods with their strange unearthly shapes, and sprigs of dead wild roses with dark red rose hips. Some of these will be left in their natural state, others spray painted gold or silver and allied with silk or dried flowers to create festive ornaments for table or tree. Poinsettias and Christmas Cactus have been selected, their bright tones of red and fuchsia adding brilliance to the deep greens of ivy, pine and fir, and the delicate yellow and green of variegated holly.
We gave up decorating the traditional evergreen tree several years ago, and had formerly used a huge potted hibiscus for this purpose; but it has died and its replacement is not yet sturdy enough to be of much practical use in this regard. For the past few years we have selected a grouping of large hardwood branches as our tree of choice, painting them white and silver, edging the tips with glitter or artificial snow. This gives a very pleasant wintry look to the scene, and beautifully highlights our collection of glass ornaments.
Friends come by often during these days, and the Solstice Feast is a special sit-down banquet for eight. It commonly features roast turkey with bread filling and all the trimmings—candied carrots, brussels sprouts with bacon, dried corn and peas in cream. It has become a tradition to serve a special cheesecake for dessert, one of my own creations, featuring a ginger snap cookie crumb crust with a cream cheese filling flavored with amaretto and hazelnut, and dotted with butterscotch chips—an instant favorite. Of course there are also the more traditional cookies and fudge to sample, as well as a tempting array of homemade candies and a special batch of pink and green colored peppermint bark made with white chocolate.
We light the Need Fire in the yard at sunset, which comes early this time of year, and keep it blazing till all hours, a signal of our celebration of this crucial turning point of the Wheel of the Year.
OSTARA
Ostara is the ancient name for the Spring Equinox, the moment when the hours of daylight and darkness are in perfect balance, with the Sun poised to wax to its fullness at Midsummer. The festival usually falls on or about March 22. Winter's hold upon the land is at last loosened, and warm, wet winds stir thoughts of sunshine and summer.
Ostara is the root of the word "Easter." It referred originally to a Saxon fertility goddess who had, among other attributes, the ability to change Herself into a rabbit in the spring. Sound familiar? As with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny (chief springtime emissary of the secular arm of Christianity) has its origins in pagan lore. And that penultimate symbol of the season, the Easter Egg, was decorated in pagan springtime ritual long before anyone in Northern Europe had heard of Christians.
The rabbit and the egg, both powerful tokens of fertility, were natural emblems of this season that evokes a burst of new growth in the plant kingdom and new life in the animal kingdom, as many species give birth in the spring. Streams rush and overflow their banks with the runoff from melted snows, their babbling, and burbling sounds striking a pleasant background tone to the mating cries of birds. All life seems new and reborn in the first flush of its youth.
In the urban garden, winter aconite has burst through Imbolc's mantle of snow, splattering the beds with brilliant bursts of gold, followed by alabaster snowdrops with their gently drooping blossoms. Now crocus emerge, followed by chionodoxa, bluebells and scilla; while tulip, daffodil and narcissus poke nosy green fingers through the freshly thawed earth. These are Beltane's glories, while mint has sent fresh runners, lemon balm is champing at the bit to burst forth in its first vigorous rush of growth; and oregano, chives and thyme are beginning to green. Bee balm sports tender sprouts of forest green, and woodruff sends its delicate new green whorls skyward.
Birch buds swell and show brilliant lime tips, while yellow green catkins snake like so many earthworms from its branches. Time now to pull up the mulches from the beds and scrub clean the altar space. Spring has returned, and our focus turns as well from inner matters to action in the outer worlds.
For the celebration of this Sabbat of renewal, we ring the outside table altar with tall glass-robed candles of yellow and green, to commemorate the return of light and vegetation. Yule's fir branches and Imbolc's birdseed husks have been removed, and the table is lightly dressed with potted early spring flowers such as crocus and iris, primrose and pansies. We call upon the state of balance within ourselves to mirror the perfection of equality we see embodied in the dance of light and dark, and we urge male and female elements to balance themselves harmoniously within us.
More than anything else, Ostara is a time of laying groundwork for the coming seasons of growth and fertility. Whether that means plowing the fields for planting, or outlining a manuscript, cleaning the attic, or planning a new herb garden, we can all initiate action now to enable us to reach the goals we set for ourselves this year at Yule and Imbolc.
Midsummer
Midsummer is the Pagan festival commemorating the Summer Solstice, which usually falls about the 21st of June. The days are long and the heat has begun to wax toward its August swelter, but the nights are still pleasant and cool.
The urban garden is in full swing, with the pansies and ranunculus of spring retreating before the advancing heat, giving way to impatiens and caladiums, hosta and begonia. Spikes of balloonflower begin to sport their first tentative buds and the herbs are growing thick and furiously. Lemon balm has ranged far and wide and vies with mint and mother-of-thyme for the choicest spots of earth; the mint runners always seem to win. Sage and basil grow bushy while lemon verbena, rosemary and bay laurel stretch delicate new arms towards the sun's embrace.
The garden that has become a birch grove has never seemed more sacred as we set the scene for the Midsummer ritual. Long gone from the altar table are the Yule greens and birdseed husks of winter; it serves now as the nursery for new pots of mint or other herb cuttings which we are propagating. And several potted lantanas that we have wintered for years adorn the stone lion figurehead with their solar bursts of orange and yellow blossoms. Large glass-sleeved yellow candles mark the four directions, while smaller green glass votive candles mark the Cross-Quarter Sabbats. Green glass and wire sconces are hung along the wooden wall beneath the birch, where they illumine statues representing the Oak King, Dionysos, Pan, the Christ.
As the Sun waxes to Midday we retrieve some carefully stored trophies from the freezer. Summer Solstice is the time when the Oak King replaces the Holly King as the Consort of the Goddess. In preparing to honor this sacrifice we clipped small cuttings from the garden's male holly last Imbolc, complete with frozen snow and icicles, and stored them in ziploc freezer bags, along with one perfect, large snowball. At noon we place these tokens of the transfer on the altar and at the base of our new two-foot pin oak sapling. The snowball we leave atop the lion's head to give itself in sacrifice to the sun.
By dusk the revelers have gathered, and the glow of candlelight seems to have captured the last rays of the setting sun. The ritual is a simple one, evoking the power of the sun and the fragile victory of the light over the darkness. It may be the shortest night of the year, but when next the sun rises it will be on a day that witnesses its waning, which will culminate in six months at Yule.
Following is the Feast: a cold buffet of traditional summer favorites such as deviled eggs with tarragon or dill and rosemary potato salad, both spiced with the herbs from the garden. Asian sesame noodles and cabbage slaw is balanced with American staples such as chilled barbecued chicken wings and baked beans. Dessert features the many berries of the season, mixed in a rich nougat tart or nestled beneath the crispy crust pastry cobbler. Some of the blackberries and strawberries are from our own plants, supplemented with raspberries and loganberries from the local Farmer's Market.
The day has been one of rest and revelry, but the season to follow is one of the busiest of the year. There is the garden to water and tend, herbs to harvest, dry and propagate, and flowering plants to pick over to encourage new growth and bloom. We pick special herbs and flowers now and in the Lammas octave. The herbs for amulets and charms. The cloth bags that will soon hold them we carefully sewed or crocheted during the long nights of Imbolc and Yule—it seems with Wicca there is always something to prepare!
Now is the time also to pluck the new corn from the cobs and string it on thread to dry in time for the Lammas necklaces in six weeks. Rune sticks rough-hewn from evergreen branches at Yule have weathered sufficiently now that we can strip them of their needles and bark, and trim or carve them to more perfect shapes. Soon we will paint or etch them in preparation for their use in the divinatory rituals of Mabon.
As the days grow hotter, one can hear cicadas and locusts high in the birches. We need to firmly remind grasshoppers that there is an entire field of weeds they could be eating just a few blocks away, instead of devouring the herbs. And mosquitoes make the warm summer evenings just slightly less inviting. Before long the days are noticeably shorter, as the Wheel which is never ending continues to turn through time.
EDITORIAL Alex Miller-Mignone, Urban Wicca at large, is a professional writer and astrologer, and past president of Philadelphia Astrological Society. His specialty is Galactic Astrology, which uses Deep Space points in addition to the planets and asteroids of our own solar system. His work appears frequently in The Mountain Astrologer and Welcome To Planet Earth, and he publishes a newsletter, "The Galactic Calendar," eight times yearly. He can be reached for information or consultation at 627 S. 26th Street, Philadelphia, PA, 19146 or (215) 735-1872. | 
