The voices in the desert

Oh night thou was my guide

Of night more loving than the rising sun

Oh night that joined the lover

To the beloved one

Transforming each of them into the other

(Dark Night of the Soul ~ Loreena McKennitt)

I have been a pagan believer and practitioner for almost 20 years now.

Just pagan, yes. I confess that I no longer feel comfortable with calling myself a witch, since "witchy" and "mystical" became commodified things more related to aesthetics and social media engagement than to any spiritual depth. But this is not a post about how the invisible hand of capitalism has hijacked witchcraft. This post is about reclaiming something else – something a lot deeper than a name.

My journey started when I was a teenage girl and a book about Wicca fell on my head in a bookstore. Back then, the "old religion" was rather unknown here. I used all my monthly allowance (which wasn't much) to buy it and, over the next couple of days, devoured the book.

It's no exaggeration to say that that book changed my life, because it did. Now, I had always had a certain religious inclination. I was baptised a Catholic and grew up studying in a Catholic school. Since I was a small child, I used to pray for the well-being of my family, and for whatever other things that could trouble a child. I considered it very natural to reach out to God and speak to Him. And I knew myself heard.

So the book on Wicca changed my life by introducing the idea of a Goddess – a mother, a companion to God. It seemed obvious to think that, if we had a divine Father, then there must be also a divine Mother. I never felt guilty for this particular shift in my beliefs. Back then, spiritual matters were very spontaneous and natural to me. In any case, I was amazed by such revelation and soon, with whatever little money I had, I started setting up my own altar.

Then I grew up. Then life happened. And as I became more cynic and more disenchanted with the world, that spiritual life that had always been part of me began to bear the brunt of all my adult dissatisfactions. I developed a sadistic self-criticism that made me doubt and question all my spiritual experiences. Impostor syndrome hit me whenever I tried to practise my spirituality, and my rituals began to feel like empty pantomimes bolstered by wishful thinking.

I was also filled with the need to be intellectually approved in a world that still saw spirituality as something that only charlatans and/or delusional people cared about. Thus, for me to deserve any intellectual respect, I had to relinquish my irrational spiritual yearnings, or at least keep them well hidden under the floor.

 

There was also the fact that I was often surrounded by people who conflated spiritual needs with mindless adherence to unscientific and often prejudiced thinking. I loved science, but I also felt compelled to understand things that science alone could not explain. How could I claim to be scientific in anything I did if I still clung to beliefs that any rational person would quickly dismiss as nonsense?

By the time I reached 30, that easy, natural spirituality had crumbled, and I was left in a void. I tried to fill that void with intellectualism. I am a psychology undergraduate student, so I threw myself in my studies with renewed fervour. I still had my spiritual attachments, to to speak – I have been a tarot & oracle reader for many years, and continued to read professionally, regardless of my own "dark night of the soul". I even did a crystal healing course, but could never truly reap its rewards; how could I help anyone if I wasn't even sure that I believed in what I was doing?

Then I began to bargain. If the Deities wanted me to follow Their path, surely They would send me a sign, right? What about all those people who had undeniable spiritual experiences that cleared all their doubts? I could surely use one, right?

Thus, I waited for my great enlightenment. For nothing.

The Deities were silent, or so I felt. I flew into a rage; I sold and gave away all of my Craft items. I got rid of my books on the subject. Heck, I even sold most of my tarot and oracle collection – which was, in itself, a good thing, since I helped me to declutter and focus only on the decks I actually liked and used. And I believed myself to be pretty much over it all.

At some point, I even attempted to rid myself of all illogical beliefs, and become a complete atheist  – which, to me, was akin to deciding to survive in the desert with as little water and shade as possible. Spiritual seeking is an integral part of my nature, and to deny it is like denying myself in the deepest way possible. But instead of listening to my thirsty soul, that was begging to be lead out of that self-imposed exile, I entrenched myself even more in it. I became profoundly ashamed of my deep need for spiritual meaning, and began to think of myself as fundamentally defective.

Why can't I be like those people who have no need for Gods, and find all the comfort they need in science and rationalism? And on the other hand... why can't I be like the people who easily believe in anything? Who give themselves over to every little mystical experience? Why must I always be in-between, always lost and alone and unsure of my path?

And so, I despaired. And this is not a story from a long time ago. Until quite recently, that despair was very much real in my heart. In a sense, I am still under the shadow of its wings.

The Gods were silent, it seemed – but of course, that was my interpretation. I had been contaminated with world-weary doubt. I had introjected the idea that unless my rational mind could scientifically approve something, it could not be considered valid. The Deities better write my name in a lightening across the sky and call me in the middle of the traffic jam for all to hear, or else I will not believe Them.

So, you see, it was not that the Deities were silent. It was I who was deaf. And blind. And spiritually callous.

Recently, it dawned on me that, for many years, I had been like Jacob wrestling with the angel. The Divine was right in front of me – in my case, inside me. The Deities were the void in my heart, that cried out to be filled. All this time They had been calling me through this very pain, this despair, this forlornness that inhabited me, which I interpreted as an evidence of Their absence.

I was in a desert. But, you see, the Gods they are the desert.

A strange silence filled me at this realisation. The raging doubts and criticisms ceased for a while. The stormy sea of despair was becalmed.

And this is where I stand now. Right in the middle of this stillness.

~*~

I know not how my path will go from now on. My first plan is to start practising devotion again – I am setting up a new altar for that. I feel like I am approaching something akin to home...

I cannot say for sure if my dark night is over. But, right now, when I look up at the vast darkness of the heavens, I can see some stars. Even the desert has its own magic, its own Gods. And I do not feel so lost and lonely anymore.