Welcome, Wanderer. You’ve stepped across a threshold.Here, the air carries story, symbol, and silence.Here, questions are offered like lanterns in the dusk—not to answer everything,but to help you see...

There’s a difference between saying “I breathe” and saying “I am breathing.” One is a label. A fact pinned to a board.The other is a pulse in motion — a truth that lives only in the moment it is spoken. That difference, small as it seems, is the same difference that has troubled me for years about the famous phrase: …

Virtus Crescit Sub Pondere A traveler once wandered into a mountain village and heard the same story repeated by every tongue. Nothing grows up there, they said, pointing to the ridgeline where the cliffs broke the sky. The soil is too shallow. The stones are too heavy. The wind strips the life from anything that dares to take root. Most nodded in agreement, for they had tried and failed, or else never tried at all.

There’s a curious quirk in modern Paganism that always makes me grin. We’ll gladly accept a handwoven dreamcatcher for spell work.We’ll happily take a bottle of homemade mead for energy healing.We’ll even nod approvingly if someone mows our lawn in exchange for a ritual. But—gods forbid—slip a twenty into the exchange, and suddenly the air grows tense. Barter? Noble.

There was once a well carved deep into the earth, lined with stone, ringed with moss, patient as centuries.Yet this well had no water. It was hollow, dry, waiting. And in the long nights when moonlight spilled down its dark throat, it began to dream. The well dreamed of rain—of silver drops cascading from the sky, of thunder announcing their approach, of the sweet ache of being filled to its brim.

There is a space the world seldom notices.A moment stretched thin—where one bell has ceased its ringing,and the next has not yet begun. The air still quivers.The ear still listens.The body still waits for what is not yet here. This silence is not emptiness.It is not absence.It is a threshold. In this breath between resounding and return, something lingers:

On the coldest night of the year, a lantern was lit.Its flame was meant only to guide someone home — a simple beacon, no more. But days passed.Snow buried the path, the wind carved its own rivers through the drifts, and still the lantern glowed. Weeks turned to months.The storms came and left again, and the flame… remained.

Forgiveness isn’t about excusing the harm—it’s about freeing your heart from the weight of someone else’s choices. In this reflection, Papa Onyx invites you to explore what it means to let go without letting someone back in, and how forgiveness can become a sacred act of reclaiming your own becoming.

You must be brave enough to burn, but strong enough to fly. This post explores how we can honor the lessons of pain without getting trapped in them—by embracing sacred action as a form of spiritual wisdom.

There are moments when the gods speak not through burning bushes or whispered dreams, but via action flicks laden with explosions, bleached hair, and the inexplicable presence of three seashells. Demolition Man, that glorious spectacle of '90s excess, is one such sacred transmission. Beneath its muscle-bound bravado and commercial absurdity lies a mythic parable: a tale of extremes clashing, of chaos and order out of step, and of a world that forgot how to dance the sacred rhythm between.

The hearth may have seemed quiet, but behind the veil, the fire was alive—crackling, whispering, reshaping. This wasn’t a pause. It was a passage. I haven’t been idle, though much of what’s unfolded hasn’t been for public eyes. The Work has continued—deep, initiatory, and at times disruptive. Hermes has been close, stirring the coals, shifting the path beneath my feet. And in His way, with that wry smile and unexpected timing, He’s reminded me: not all revelations belong to silence forever.

Reflections on Unity, Magic, and Meaningful Action There's tension in the air lately, isn't there? Anxiety ripples through our community, bouncing from person to person, amplifying fears until some of us freeze, some of us panic, and others just run in circles. It's understandable—we find ourselves in unsettling times, facing pressures from external forces that challenge the very foundation of our freedoms, identities, and spiritual paths.

The Triquetra—a deceptively simple yet deeply significant knot—has woven itself into the fabric of history, myth, and magic. It carries whispers of forgotten wisdom, its looping form hinting at secrets hidden in plain sight. A bridge between ancient knowing and modern seeking, it beckons the curious to look beyond the surface, to follow its interwoven paths and listen for the echoes of lost voices.

Introduction In the shadows of the Sumerian pantheon, where gods of light and sky take center stage, there reigns a queen beneath the earth—Ereshkigal, the ruler of the underworld. Hers is a kingdom of silence and inevitability, a realm where all must pass and few may return. Unlike her sister, the radiant Inanna, Ereshkigal does not dance in the heavens; she…

"The Trickster laughs, the wise shake their heads, and the Fool walks the path no one else dares tread. The question is: whose Fool are you?" The Trickster’s Wisdom In our community, we often revere the Trickster—the sacred jester, the divine disruptor, the one who turns the world upside down to reveal hidden truths. Loki, Coyote, Hermes, Puck—these figures dance between wisdom and folly, reminding us that what appears foolish to the world is sometimes the only way to see beyond illusion.

Brigid, the luminous goddess of poetry, healing, and smithcraft, has long been revered across the Celtic lands. She is the fire that sparks inspiration, the wellspring of wisdom, and the anvil upon which transformation is forged. Her presence endures beyond time, making her one of the most beloved and enduring figures in Celtic spirituality. Revered across Ireland, Scotland, and beyond, she embodies the fiery force of inspiration, the nurturing power of the hearth, and the transformative energy of the forge.

They say the wellspring of the soul must flow freely, lest it become stagnant and brackish—but let’s be honest, sometimes it feels less like a flowing stream and more like a neglected birdbath in midsummer, coated with dust and just waiting for a good rain to clear it out. And oh, my dear wanderers, how true that is. Because when the waters slow and the flow weakens, it’s not that the source has dried up—it’s that something unseen is obstructing the way, waiting for us to notice and clear the path.

Ah, my friends, gather close and listen well, for today we weave our way into the mischievous world of Anansi, where trickery and wisdom are spun together in an intricate dance of fate and fortune. The spider trickster of West African and Caribbean folklore is a master of deception, a teacher cloaked in humor, and a reminder that sometimes the sharpest blade is a clever mind.