The charming gentleman on your left is not, apparently, Scarecrow from Batman Begins, but one of the subjects of National Geographic’s recent photo-essay on terrifying, amazing-looking costumes still donned in various areas of Europe (basically all areas, just the remoter parts!) for fertility and hunt festivals. The pictures are completely extraordinary; Mallory hates when I reference The Mists of Avalon, but obviously these are all men one could look forward to being ceremonially deflowered by at the Beltane Fires.

There are clearly many reasons why monotheism mostly pounded the spectrum of more seasonal Earth-based paganistic European religions into the ground, but, despite not really believing in much of anything, it seems like such a shame to me. Spring comes, then summer, then fall, then winter. Repeat. Things are born, then they die. What’s to doubt? What I’m saying, I guess, knowing literally nothing about these traditions and speaking fatuously about them, is that it seems completely arbitrary to me that people who are pagans or Wiccans or what-have-you at this point are seen as a bit of a joke by most of mainstream society, or, best case scenario, just politely ignored. The goofy goddess-y girls that Willow and Tara make fun of, or your aunt’s friend who owns a bunch of cats and a candle store. It seems to me that one either leans towards believing in the yawning maw of the Void, or believes in some sort of other thing, all of which would seem to have similar validity, and it really is not clear why believing in an OLDER THING would be weirder or more frivolous than a newer thing.

Wouldn’t it be comforting to think there was a reason or answer for the bee thing, beyond “whoa, that’s fucked up”? Like, “okay, well, this has happened, so let’s all don these outfits and trace a line around ourselves and hope for the best.”

I’ll bring snacks.

Works Referenced:

Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Mists of Avalon (Indiebound | Amazon)