From Bucky Beggins

Bucky just passed me this hand written note, apparently he can’t post it himself at the moment, his laptop vibrated off the table over the weekend and the screen no longer functions…

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What Bucky Beggins Has to Say About the Last Two Weeks on Unplugged Pagan

Well now.

It seems Unplugged Pagan has had itself a fortnight.

Not a quiet fortnight, mind you. Not one of those pleasant little “light a candle, sip some tea, thank the land spirits, and go about your business” sorts of fortnights. No, no. This was one of those “the kettle is screaming, the altar cloth is crooked, somebody moved the boundary stones, and the goblins have found the amplifier” kinds of fortnights.

And Bucky Beggins, humble observer of spiritual kerfuffles, social bonfires, and suspiciously loud bass lines, has thoughts.

First off, the rituals.

Apparently, some folk still believe the gods are sitting around with clipboards marking us on candle placement, pronunciation, and whether the offering bowl matches the season. To which Bucky says: nonsense with bells on. The gods are not spiritual health inspectors. Brigid is not failing you because your match went out. Skadi is not taking attendance with a clipboard made of ice. The land spirits are not leaving a one-star review because you forgot the fancy incense.

A ritual done honestly beats a ritual done perfectly.

Then came the matter of roots.

Ah yes, roots. Those inconvenient little things that keep the tree alive while the branches are busy showing off. Bucky noticed that Unplugged Pagan has been circling this idea quite a bit: do not cut off the roots and then act surprised when the leaves start looking poorly. Communities are much the same. So are sacred places. So are people.

You cannot take the pine needles off the forest floor, scrape away the fungi, dry out the soil, and then say, “Why are the trees angry?”

Trees are rarely angry.

But they do remember.

Then there was the whole “gold and silver over kith and kin” business.

Bucky has never been against gold and silver. He enjoys a good coin. He enjoys a paid hydro bill. He is especially fond of groceries that do not require hunting squirrels with a soup ladle.

But gold and silver are poor substitutes for kinship. They buy tents, gates, stages, generators, permits, websites, and signage. They do not buy trust. They do not buy honour. They do not buy the feeling of being welcomed at the fire by people who actually mean it.

And that, Bucky suspects, is the sore spot.

Because the last two weeks were not just about noise, land, festivals, or old disagreements. They were about the difference between being told a place is home and being reminded, when it matters, that you are only visiting.

That is where the frith talk comes in.

Bucky is a jovial fellow, but even he knows this much: a gift given in good faith creates a bond. Labour given in love creates a bond. Ritual presence creates a bond. Years of showing up, helping out, tending fires, honouring land, and treating a place as sacred creates a bond.

And when the giver, keeper, host, steward, or elder breaks that bond, the obligation does not remain untouched.

A gift is not a leash.

A welcome is not a trap.

A sacred place is not made sacred by signage. It is made sacred by relationship.

Now, as for the thunderous goblin rave business, Bucky has only this to say:

One drum can be music.

Twenty drums can be ceremony.

Five hundred synchronized bass drops at ungodly volume becomes a dragon trying to mate with a dump truck.

And if the neighbouring humans, valleys, farms, First Nations community, and various startled raccoons can hear it, then perhaps — just perhaps — the issue is not that everyone else lacks spiritual openness. Perhaps the issue is that sound travels, bass carries, and “community impact” is not just a phrase you stuff in a grant proposal.

Bucky would also point out that laughter matters here.

Because without humour, this all becomes too heavy. Too bitter. Too sharp. Bucky is the little sideways grin in the middle of the mess. He is the fellow who can say, “Well, that’s gone a bit pear-shaped, hasn’t it?” while standing beside a smoking cauldron and a trampled begonia bed.

But make no mistake.

Comic relief is not surrender.

Comic relief is how the truth sneaks past the guards.

So what does Bucky Beggins say about the last two weeks?

He says Unplugged Pagan has stopped whispering.

It has moved from soft reflection into boundary-setting. It has moved from “what do I believe?” into “what will I no longer pretend not to see?” It has moved from candlelight into firelight.

And Bucky, being Bucky, would raise his mug and say:

“Mind your roots. Mind your kin. Mind your noise. Mind your oaths. And for the love of every hedge spirit between here and the next county, stop calling something home if you are going to treat the people who loved it like lawn furniture.”

Then he would pause, look around, and add:

“Also, someone please put the kettle on. Revolution is thirsty work.”

Godspeed,
Bucky Beggins