Embracing the Full Moon: A Personal Reflection

Candlelit stone circle surrounded by flowers in a moonlit forest

I thought the full moon was last night.

Turns out I was a little early.

Tonight, August 27 into the early hours of August 28, the Moon is not only full, it is passing almost completely into the shadow of the Earth.

Here in Ontario, the penumbral eclipse begins this evening, the obvious partial eclipse begins around 10:33 p.m., and maximum eclipse arrives shortly after midnight. According to NASA, at the deepest point of the eclipse, about 96.3 percent of the Moon’s disk will be inside the Earth’s umbra.

Almost total.

But not quite.

And somehow I think that makes it more interesting.

Maybe understanding the machinery does not remove the mystery.

We know what is happening. The Earth is passing between the Sun and the Moon. The Earth blocks the sunlight that normally illuminates the Moon. Some of that sunlight filters through our atmosphere, which can give the shadowed Moon that familiar copper or reddish appearance.

No dragon is eating it.

No deity has stolen it.

The Moon has not died.

There is no cosmic battle taking place above us.

And yet, if you walk outside tonight and actually look up, knowing all of that does not make the sight any less extraordinary.

That got me thinking about something larger.

Where exactly does the sacred come from?

The Moon Does Not Need Our Mythology

Modern Paganism has developed an enormous collection of lunar correspondences. Full moons have names, colours, herbs, crystals, intentions, gods, goddesses, rituals and recommended magical workings attached to them.

Some come from old traditions. Some come from particular cultures. Some are modern constructions. Some appear to have originated approximately fifteen minutes before somebody turned them into an infographic.

That does not automatically make every modern practice meaningless. Religions have always developed, borrowed, adapted and changed.

But occasionally I wonder whether we become so busy assigning meaning to nature that we forget to experience nature.

The Moon tonight does not require me to assign a correspondence to it.

I do not need a particular coloured candle.

I do not need the correct crystal.

I do not need to know which herbs supposedly correspond with an August lunar eclipse.

I can simply walk outside.

Look up.

And watch the shadow of the planet I am standing on slowly move across another world.

That alone is pretty damned magical.

And Apparently Humans Have Been Doing This for a Very Long Time

Interestingly enough, while I was looking around the Pagan web for something worth discussing tonight, The Wild Hunt published a story about archaeological research in the Czech Republic.

Researchers studying a prehistoric enclosure near Chleby believe people living there more than 6,500 years ago constructed a large ritual space whose entrances were deliberately oriented toward movements of the Sun and Moon.

The site predates the major prehistoric construction at Stonehenge by more than a thousand years.

The enclosure is enormous, roughly 230 metres across, surrounded by a deep ditch and broken by a dozen entrances. Researchers studying the geometry of those entrances have identified alignments associated with important solar and lunar cycles, including the solstices and extreme positions in the Moon’s long cycle across the horizon.

There is also evidence suggesting that the place was more than an astronomical measuring device. Animal remains, including cattle skulls and horns, were found around portions of the enclosure, and the site appears to have been used for ritual and communal purposes.

We should be careful here.

These people were not Wiccans.

They were not Druids in the modern sense.

They were not Heathens.

We cannot simply reach six thousand years into the past, grab whatever looks vaguely familiar and declare, “See? Pagans.”

We do not know exactly what they believed.

But we can see what they did.

They watched the sky.

They watched the seasons.

They noticed patterns.

They gathered.

They built.

And apparently the movements of the Sun and Moon mattered enough that generations of human beings invested significant labour into physically marking those movements on the landscape.

That interests me far more than trying to claim them as members of some modern Pagan tradition.

Thousands of years later, I can walk outside in Ontario and look at the same Moon.

Different culture. Different language. Different religion. Different understanding of the universe.

Same sky.

Then We Invented the Internet

Which brings us to another recent piece from The Wild Hunt.

A guest essay published earlier this month argued for the importance of in-person connection within Pagan and occult communities. The author described an online environment increasingly shaped by echo chambers, manufactured outrage and division, and suggested that physical gatherings can build relationships capable of surviving disagreement in ways that online interaction often does not.

This one struck a nerve with me.

Because those of us who remember Pagan community before social media remember something that is very easy to forget.

You sometimes had to deal with people you disagreed with.

In person.

Imagine that.

You could disagree with somebody about theology in the afternoon and still need their help putting up a dining shelter before the rain arrived.

You could think somebody’s interpretation of a tradition was completely backwards and still sit beside them at the fire that night.

The person who irritated the living hell out of you might also be the person holding the other end of the tent pole.

Or carrying water.

Or cooking dinner.

Or watching the fire.

Or helping when something went wrong.

That changes relationships.

It does not eliminate conflict. Pagan communities have never lacked conflict, politics, personality clashes or spectacular explosions of human stupidity.

But physical community forces us to encounter the whole human being.

Social media often reduces that same person to the one sentence we disagree with.

Then the algorithm discovers that our anger keeps us scrolling.

And suddenly disagreement becomes entertainment.

So Pagans Are Trying to Reinvent the Village

Another curious thing I stumbled across is a relatively new social platform called FolkRealms.

It describes itself as a human-powered community for people interested in Paganism, Heathenry, mythology, folk traditions and related subjects. What caught my attention was not simply that somebody built another Pagan social network.

We’ve seen Pagan forums, email lists, message boards, social networks and communities come and go before.

What interested me was what FolkRealms says it does not want.

No advertising.

No algorithm deciding what keeps you sufficiently angry to remain on the platform.

No bots.

No AI-generated content.

The stated intention is real people talking to real people.

Whether that particular experiment succeeds in the long term remains to be seen. Creating a platform is easy compared with creating a healthy community. Eventually every community has to answer the difficult questions: who belongs, who decides, how disagreement is handled, what behaviour is acceptable, and what happens when two people’s definitions of community collide.

Those problems existed around fires long before broadband.

Technology simply changes the size and speed of the argument.

Still, the fact that people are deliberately looking for online spaces without algorithms, bots and artificial content tells us something.

Maybe people are getting tired of being processed.

Which Brings Us to AI Writing Pagan Books

This is where tonight’s little journey through the Pagan web becomes particularly strange.

The Wild Hunt also reported this week on an investigation into potentially AI-generated religious books being sold through Amazon.

The investigation examined 2,034 books in Amazon’s Religion & Spirituality category, mostly published during the first half of 2026.

The researchers estimated that 63 percent of the books examined were likely AI-generated.

Among books categorized around Witchcraft, the estimate was 78 percent.

Seventy-eight percent.

Now, there is a very important qualification here.

AI detectors are not infallible.

They can produce false positives. Different writing styles can trigger them. Researchers themselves acknowledge limitations in using detection tools.

So we should absolutely not turn that number into the claim that “78 percent of Witchcraft books are definitely written by AI.”

That is not what the research establishes.

But even with that caution, the findings raise a rather uncomfortable question.

What happens when Paganism starts being taught by authors who may never have practised Paganism at all?

That concerns me more than the existence of artificial intelligence itself.

Because there is an important distinction that tends to disappear whenever we discuss AI.

A human being can use a tool.

A writer can bring decades of experience, memories, research, arguments, mistakes, conversations and lived practice to a piece of writing and use technology to organize information, check grammar, compare sources or help shape material.

The experience is still coming from somewhere.

That is very different from typing:

“Write me a complete book about ancient Celtic full moon magic.”

And then selling whatever comes out under the name of an author who never existed.

The machine has never stood beneath a full moon.

It has never tended a ritual fire.

It has never disagreed with somebody across that fire and had to work beside them the next morning.

It has never buried a friend.

It has never watched a festival site change over twenty years.

It has never felt rain arrive halfway through ritual.

It has never sat alone in the woods wondering whether the gods are listening.

It has never had the experience of suddenly realizing that something you believed twenty years ago no longer makes sense.

It can process descriptions of those things.

It cannot have them.

Maybe That Is the Thread Connecting All of This

Tonight the Earth is casting its shadow across the Moon.

More than six thousand years ago, people built a massive ritual enclosure that appears to have helped them track the movements of that same sky.

Today Pagan writers are worrying about losing lived spiritual experience to machine-generated books.

Other Pagans are worrying that online interaction has replaced human community.

And still others are attempting to build digital spaces where algorithms and artificial content are deliberately excluded.

Those stories initially looked completely unrelated.

I don’t think they are.

They are all asking the same question.

Where does meaning actually come from?

Maybe it comes from participation.

Watching instead of merely reading about watching.

Doing instead of endlessly consuming instructions about doing.

Gathering instead of merely following.

Remembering instead of allowing an algorithm to decide what history appears in our feed.

Learning from people while remembering that people are fallible.

Using tools without allowing the tools to become substitutes for experience.

Perhaps that is something modern Paganism needs to think seriously about.

We have more Pagan information available to us today than at any other point in modern history.

Books. Podcasts. YouTube. Websites. Archives. Academic papers. Social networks. Digital libraries. Artificial intelligence.

And yet information is not necessarily wisdom.

A correspondence chart is not a relationship with the Moon.

A Facebook group is not automatically a community.

A book is not automatically tradition.

An ancient archaeological site is not automatically evidence for whatever modern belief we would like it to support.

And technology is neither automatically our salvation nor automatically our enemy.

They’re tools.

The question is what we do with them.

Meanwhile, There Is an Eclipse Happening

And after wandering through 6,500 years of human history, Pagan community, archaeology, artificial intelligence and the future of spiritual publishing, I find myself coming back to where this started.

The Moon.

Tonight I don’t particularly need somebody to tell me what the eclipse is supposed to mean.

I think I’d rather look at it.

Because perhaps one of the oldest Pagan practices available to us is also one of the simplest.

Pay attention.

To the sky.

To the land.

To the people around the fire.

To the stories being handed to us.

To who wrote them.

To what is real.

To what we merely want to be real.

And every now and then, put the damned screen down and look up.

The Moon was here long before Pagan social media.

It was here long before our books.

It was here long before Stonehenge.

And tonight the shadow of the Earth is slowly moving across it.

That seems worth stepping outside for.

Sources and further reading: NASA Scientific Visualization Studio, August 27–28, 2026 Deep Partial Lunar Eclipse; Timeanddate, August 28, 2026 Partial Lunar Eclipse in Ottawa, Ontario; The Wild Hunt, Study Reports AI-Generated Books Flood Witchcraft and Religious Publishing; The Wild Hunt, A Thousand Years Before Stonehenge: Ancient Czech Sanctuary Tracked Sun and Moon; The Wild Hunt, Ecumenical Occulture: The Importance of In-Person Connection; FolkRealms, About FolkRealms.

What Is Left When You Take the Pagan Community Away?

Cloaked woman walking through forest with ghostly figures and standing stones

Fine. Take away the festivals. Take away the organizations, the councils, the temples, the covens, the kindreds, the groves and all the committees that inevitably seem to appear whenever more than three Pagans gather in the same place. Take away the authors whose books told many of us what Paganism was supposed to look like, the historians who tried to record what actually happened, the personalities, the politics, Facebook, Reddit and all the other places where we have spent an astonishing amount of time arguing about who is Pagan enough, who isn’t Pagan at all and who has apparently been doing Paganism wrong since breakfast.

Now what?

Are you still Pagan?

I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time lately chasing rabbits through Pagan history, community, festivals, scholars, organizations, personalities, memory, selective memory and the question of what actually gets preserved when a community starts telling its own history. It has been fascinating, occasionally frustrating and, as rabbits tend to do, it has led me somewhere I wasn’t really expecting to go. Because eventually you have to ask what all of those things have to do with Paganism itself.

Organizations aren’t Paganism. Festivals aren’t Paganism. Authors aren’t Paganism. Historians aren’t Paganism. Community politics certainly aren’t Paganism, although sometimes you’d be forgiven for thinking they were one of our principal devotional practices. All of those things can carry Paganism, influence it, teach it, preserve it, distort it, package it, organize it and occasionally make an absolute dog’s breakfast of it, but none of them are actually the thing itself.

So suppose tomorrow all of that disappeared. There is no gathering next month. No group meeting Tuesday night. No elder to call. No author telling you which direction to face or what colour candle belongs where. Nobody watching you. Nobody approving of what you’re doing and nobody standing nearby waiting to explain that you’re doing it wrong.

There is just you.

Maybe there is a fire. Maybe there is a tree you’ve known for years. Maybe there is a bowl of water, an offering, a handful of herbs, an old song or simply a place where you have learned to become quiet. Maybe there is nothing particularly dramatic at all. You step outside, notice the season changing and acknowledge it in whatever way has become yours.

Do you stop being Pagan because nobody else is there?

I don’t think so, and that is where this rabbit gets interesting. Because if Paganism can continue without the institutions surrounding it, then perhaps Paganism does not primarily live in those institutions. Maybe it lives in relationship and repetition. Not repetition for its own sake, but the things we do again because doing them once wasn’t enough. We light the fire again. We make the offering again. We acknowledge the season again. We speak the names again. We return to the same place, tell the same story, remember the dead, notice the moon, leave something for the land, or teach somebody younger why this particular day matters to us.

Somewhere in all of that, practice starts becoming tradition.

And then, naturally, another rabbit sticks its head out of the hole.

If nobody writes those Pagan things down, how do we know they happened?

That question has been bothering me more and more as I’ve been digging through Pagan history, because history has a bias toward things that leave evidence. Books leave evidence. Meeting minutes leave evidence. Organizations leave records. Festivals print programs. Scholars write papers. Websites get archived. Arguments leave enormous amounts of evidence because human beings apparently become excellent archivists when sufficiently annoyed with one another.

Ordinary practice is quieter.

Who writes down the person who always tended the fire? Who records the joke everybody knew? Who documents the little gesture someone always made before entering ritual space, or the food that somehow appeared every year without anyone ever officially declaring it traditional? Who records the person who wasn’t clergy, wasn’t an organizer and wasn’t particularly famous, but somehow became the person newcomers went to when they didn’t understand what was going on?

Usually nobody.

Yet those things are culture too. In fact, I suspect they may be a much larger part of culture than the stuff that makes it into the official record.

We tend to think of tradition as something carefully handed from one person to another, intact and labelled. Someone knows a thing, preserves the thing, teaches the thing and the next generation receives the thing exactly as it was given. Nice and tidy.

I don’t think human beings work that way either.

I suspect tradition is usually handed down crooked. Somebody remembers most of it. Somebody else remembers it differently. One person forgets a piece entirely. Another adds something because it makes sense to them. The next generation keeps the part that speaks to them and quietly stops doing the part nobody can explain anymore. Thirty years pass and eventually somebody says, “We’ve always done it this way.”

Have we?

Maybe. Probably not exactly.

And perhaps that isn’t necessarily a problem.

That leads to a thought that initially sounds almost heretical when we’re talking about preserving Pagan history: maybe Paganism isn’t supposed to survive intact.

I don’t mean Paganism should disappear. I mean maybe nothing that is genuinely alive survives completely intact.

A preserved thing and a living thing are not necessarily the same thing. Put something in a museum and you can preserve it remarkably well. Control the temperature, control the humidity, keep the light off it, don’t touch it and don’t change anything. It may survive for centuries.

But it isn’t alive.

Living traditions are messier. They encounter new people, new places and new circumstances. They borrow. They forget. They reinterpret. They discover that something which made perfect sense fifty years ago doesn’t make much sense anymore. They encounter questions their predecessors never had to answer and situations their predecessors couldn’t possibly have anticipated.

So they change.

That makes us uncomfortable because we tend to associate continuity with authenticity. If something changes too much, is it still the same thing? That’s a fair question. But I think the opposite question deserves just as much attention: if a tradition can survive only by freezing itself at one particular moment, have we preserved the tradition or merely preserved a photograph of it?

Paganism has never been particularly easy to photograph in the first place. Even the word itself is troublesome. We use “Paganism” as though we’re describing one coherent religion when we’re really talking about an enormous landscape of traditions, reconstructions, revivals, devotional practices, magical practices, philosophies and personal spiritual paths, some of which have considerably less in common with each other than the umbrella term suggests.

Maybe that diversity isn’t a defect. Maybe it tells us something about how this whole strange thing survives.

Perhaps Paganism doesn’t survive because somebody manages to preserve every piece. Perhaps it survives because somebody keeps picking pieces up.

One generation finds an old story and gives it meaning again. Somebody else reconstructs a ritual from fragments. Another person couldn’t care less about reconstruction but develops a deep relationship with the land beneath their feet. Somebody inherits a practice from their parents and changes the language around it. Somebody reads an old book and finds one idea worth keeping. Somebody attends a gathering, hears a song around the fire and carries it home. Someone teaches their child to leave the first portion of something outside, and that child may not completely understand why until twenty years later.

Some things disappear. Some mutate. Some are abandoned because they should be. Some return after being forgotten. Occasionally something completely new becomes old simply because enough people keep doing it long enough.

Which brings me back to the original question. Take the Pagan community away. What remains?

For me, I think what remains is relationship expressed through practice. Relationship with place. Relationship with the seasons. Relationship with gods, spirits, ancestors or whatever language a person uses for those things they experience beyond themselves. Relationship with memory. Relationship with those who came before us and, perhaps, some responsibility toward the people who may come afterward.

Not simply believing something, but doing something because of it.

That may be one of the simplest answers I’ve found in this whole rabbit warren.

A community can disappear and practice can continue. An organization can collapse and practice can continue. A festival can end and practice can continue. A famous Pagan can fall out of favour and practice can continue. Books go out of print. Websites vanish. Traditions split. Communities fracture. People move away. People grow old. People die.

And somewhere, somebody still lights the fire.

Maybe that’s how we know.

Not because every Pagan thing gets written down. It doesn’t. Not because every generation receives a perfect copy of what came before. It won’t. We know because something continues to be done, even if it has changed a little, even if parts have been forgotten, even if someone added something that a Pagan a century earlier wouldn’t recognize at all.

Somebody does the thing. Somebody else sees it and asks why. A story gets told. Maybe they try it themselves. Maybe they change it. Maybe their children change it again.

And for a little while longer, whatever this enormous, untidy collection of things we call Paganism actually is remains alive.

Maybe our job isn’t to preserve Paganism intact. Maybe our job is to carry what seems worth carrying, remember what we can, write down what deserves recording, question what needs questioning and leave enough behind that someone walking this road after us has something to pick up.

They probably won’t carry it exactly the way we did.

Good.

Neither did we.

What Are We Leaving Behind?

Family gathered around a table reviewing photographs, journals, and handmade objects

The Breadcrumbs at the End of the Warren

I did not expect this rabbit hole to end here.

Then again, that is probably becoming the unofficial motto of Unplugged Pagan.

I started with a simple thought.

Third-generation Pagans.

I realized I did not think I had knowingly met one. I knew second-generation Pagans. I knew people who grew up around Paganism and sometimes described it, affectionately or otherwise, as the weird thing their parents did.

Some still came to gatherings.

Some retained pieces of the culture even if they did not retain the religion.

And some are now old enough to have children of their own.

That raised the question of what those children are inheriting.

Which led to tradition.

Tradition led to memory.

Memory led to archives.

Archives led to history.

History led to mythology.

Mythology led to founders.

Founders led to succession.

And succession eventually dropped me here.

Legacy.

What are we leaving behind?

I do not mean that in the grand sense of monuments or famous books or organizations carrying someone’s name for a century.

I mean the smaller things.

The things communities are actually made from.

A photograph with names written on the back.

A ritual someone bothered to type out.

A song recorded before the person who wrote it was gone.

A festival program saved instead of thrown away.

A story written down while someone was still alive to say, “No, that isn’t quite how it happened.”

A child remembering that once every summer their parents took them somewhere strange and wonderful where adults danced around fires.

Those are breadcrumbs.

And perhaps that is what I have been leaving without quite realizing it.

I started chasing rabbits because I wanted answers.

Something would catch my attention. A name. A gathering. A claim. A symbol. A connection between communities. An old tradition. Something somebody remembered differently from the way I remembered it.

So I followed it.

Sometimes the rabbit went nowhere.

Sometimes it opened into an entire warren.

But every time I wrote the journey down, something else happened.

A record was created.

Not the record.

That distinction matters.

I am not an omniscient narrator of Pagan history. Nobody is. I see events through my own experience, relationships, memories, disagreements, loyalties, disappointments, and curiosity.

Someone else who stood beside me at the same fire may remember it differently.

Good.

They should write their version too.

That may be the real lesson at the end of this warren.

History becomes healthier when more people leave records.

Not because every record agrees.

Because they do not.

Future historians learn as much from disagreement as agreement. Two people remembering the same event differently tells us something. A newspaper account contradicting community memory tells us something. An old festival program challenging a story repeated for twenty years tells us something.

The goal should not be creating one authorized Pagan history.

That sounds dreadful.

The goal should be leaving enough pieces that somebody later can reconstruct something resembling the truth.

That means our stories matter.

Our photographs matter.

Our old newsletters matter.

Our defunct websites matter.

Our arguments sometimes matter.

Even our ridiculous moments matter because communities are not built entirely from solemn rituals and profound spiritual revelations.

Sometimes community is the thing that happened when the tent collapsed in the rain and six people tried to fix it while everybody else laughed.

That belongs to history too.

And perhaps this is where the third generation circles back into the story.

Someday somebody may ask:

What was Paganism like before I was born?

Not ancient Paganism.

Ours.

What were the gatherings like?

What did people argue about?

What did they believe?

Which traditions already existed?

Which ones were being invented?

Who were the elders?

What disappeared?

What survived?

Why?

Those questions cannot be answered entirely from archaeology or medieval manuscripts.

The answers are sitting in our basements.

They are on old hard drives.

They are disappearing from the internet.

They are inside the memories of people getting older.

They are in songs nobody has recorded.

They are in photographs whose subjects have never been identified.

And they are in stories we keep assuming everyone already knows.

Everyone does know them.

Until suddenly nobody does.

So perhaps recording these things is not vanity.

Perhaps it is stewardship.

Not preserving ourselves because we believe future Pagans desperately need to know what we thought about everything.

Leaving evidence.

Leaving context.

Leaving breadcrumbs.

The people who come after us can decide which ones are worth following.

That may be the appropriate ending to this particular warren.

We spend a remarkable amount of time in Paganism searching for the people who came before us.

Perhaps occasionally we should remember that someday we will be the people who came before.

And somebody we will never meet may come looking for us.

Leave them something to find.

From Revival to Tradition

People gathered around a stone fire pit during a woodland ceremony

When Does Modern Paganism Stop Being Modern?

Modern Paganism has an odd relationship with time.

We look backward constantly.

We read old myths, old laws, old poems, old folklore, archaeological reports, medieval manuscripts, surviving prayers, place names, inscriptions, and anything else that might tell us how pre-Christian people understood their world.

Then we take those fragments and attempt to build something we can actually live.

That process has been called revival, reconstruction, reimagining, restoration, reinvention, and occasionally several less polite things.

But there is a question hiding underneath all of those words.

How long can a revival remain a revival?

Suppose a Pagan tradition is established in 1970.

People practise it for fifty years.

Children are raised within it.

Those children raise children.

Rituals are repeated thousands of times.

Songs are written and become customary.

Gatherings develop annual rhythms.

Elders die and are remembered.

Stories about the early years begin to circulate.

At what point are we no longer merely reviving something?

We may still draw inspiration from ancient religion, but the community itself now has history.

Its own history.

This is something I think modern Paganism occasionally overlooks because we are so fascinated by antiquity.

We keep asking whether our practices are authentic because they resemble something done a thousand or two thousand years ago.

Perhaps there is another kind of authenticity.

Lived authenticity.

A ritual can be historically informed and still be modern.

A ritual can be completely modern and still become traditional.

Those statements do not contradict each other.

Tradition is not necessarily antiquity.

Tradition is transmission.

It is something received, practised, altered, and handed onward.

That distinction matters because otherwise Pagan communities can become trapped in an impossible authenticity contest.

Who has the oldest source?

Who reconstructed the most accurately?

Who can produce the most impressive lineage?

Who is closest to what ancient people supposedly did?

Historical research matters enormously, especially when people make historical claims. If we say something was practised by ancient Norse people, Iron Age Celts, Romans, Greeks, or anyone else, we should be able to show why we believe that.

But history and religion do not have to perform the same job.

History can tell us what evidence survives.

Religion has to tell us what we are going to do tonight.

There will always be a gap between those two things.

No amount of scholarship can recreate the lived religious world of people who died a thousand years ago. Too much is gone. Context is gone. Assumptions everybody understood and nobody bothered writing down are gone. Regional variation is gone. Ordinary people’s voices are mostly gone.

So modern Paganism inevitably creates.

We fill gaps.

We make choices.

We adapt.

We borrow.

We experiment.

And occasionally something works well enough that people keep doing it.

That is where tradition begins.

Not when somebody discovers an ancient source.

When somebody hands something onward.

This makes the second and third generations enormously important.

The convert generation asks, “What can we recover?”

The second generation asks, “What did our parents build?”

The third may eventually ask, “What do we want to keep?”

That final question is the beginning of maturity.

Because inheritance is not the same as obedience.

You can inherit something and decide not to keep all of it.

Families do that constantly.

Cultures do it.

Religions do it.

The third generation may inherit rituals they cherish and governance structures they hate.

They may retain seasonal festivals while abandoning theological arguments their grandparents considered vital.

They may rediscover practices the second generation ignored.

They may create completely new traditions that their grandchildren will eventually assume are ancient.

And perhaps that is exactly what living religion looks like.

Not preservation under glass.

Continuity with change.

We sometimes speak of modern Paganism as though it is permanently standing outside history, looking backward at the real Paganism that happened long ago.

But that cannot be true forever.

We are history now.

The gatherings of the 1980s are history.

The newsletters of the 1990s are history.

The arguments on early internet forums are history.

The first generation of permanent Pagan land projects is history.

The people who built the early organizations are becoming historical figures within their own communities.

And somewhere a child may be growing up hearing stories about those people the way earlier generations heard stories about grandparents who founded churches, farms, lodges, unions, or community halls.

That does not make modern Paganism ancient.

It makes it ours.

Perhaps one day the word modern will become increasingly unnecessary.

Not because we have somehow recreated the ancient world.

Because enough generations will have lived Paganism that Pagan history will no longer be something we only search for in distant centuries.

We will have our own.

Which leaves one final question.

If we are creating history now, what exactly are we leaving behind?

History, Memory and Myth

Four people studying illustrated manuscripts, maps, and coded writings in a library

“We Have Always Done It This Way”

There may be five words more dangerous to community history than almost any others:

We have always done it this way.

Have we?

Maybe.

But humans are remarkably unreliable historians, particularly when the history involves ourselves.

Memory is not a recording. We remember pieces. We fill gaps. We simplify complicated events. We forget people we disliked and enlarge the roles of people we admired. Stories become cleaner with repetition. Motives that were confusing at the time become obvious in hindsight.

Eventually community history can become community mythology.

That is not necessarily malicious.

It is human.

A gathering may begin for complicated reasons involving several people, competing ideas, limited money, a borrowed campground, and somebody who happened to own a vehicle large enough to move everything.

Twenty-five years later the story becomes something much cleaner:

“The founders created this place so Pagans could have a home.”

That may capture the spirit of what happened.

It may not capture what actually happened.

Those are different things.

This is where archives become wonderfully inconvenient.

The old newsletter does not remember the story the way we do.

The festival program lists someone we forgot.

The photograph shows that the thing everyone remembers being built in one year apparently existed several years earlier.

An old message reveals that the supposedly unanimous decision was anything but unanimous.

The evidence interrupts the legend.

Good.

It should.

If Paganism is going to become an intergenerational religious culture, we owe future generations more than good stories. We should leave them enough evidence to challenge our stories.

That might sound strange coming from someone who values bardic tradition.

I do value it.

The bard and the historian are not enemies. They answer different questions.

The historian asks, What happened?

The bard asks, What did it mean?

Trouble begins when either one claims to answer both perfectly.

This matters within Paganism for another reason: we already have a complicated relationship with historical authenticity.

Modern Pagan traditions may draw inspiration from ancient religions, folklore, archaeology, medieval literature, nineteenth-century romanticism, ceremonial magic, twentieth-century occultism, counterculture, environmentalism, feminism, reconstructionist scholarship, personal revelation, and modern invention.

Those ingredients can become tangled very quickly.

Something practised for thirty years can start being described as ancient simply because nobody remembers who introduced it.

A chant written at a festival can gradually become “traditional.”

A ritual created to solve one practical problem can later be explained as though it contained deep theological symbolism from the beginning.

A local custom can be mistaken for something practised everywhere.

This is how myth grows around communities.

But here is the part I think Paganism sometimes gets wrong: admitting that something is modern does not make it meaningless.

Suppose somebody created a ritual at a gathering decades ago.

People loved it.

They repeated it the next year.

Then again.

Children grew up participating in it.

Eventually adults who had participated as children began leading it themselves.

That ritual is not ancient.

It is tradition.

Those two words do not have to mean the same thing.

In fact, distinguishing them allows us to appreciate both.

An ancient practice tells us something about people who lived long before us.

A modern tradition tells us something about the community that created and maintained it.

Both have stories worth preserving.

The problem appears when modern communities become embarrassed by their own newness and start borrowing age as a source of legitimacy.

Perhaps we do not need to.

A religion that is confident enough to say, “We began doing this thirty years ago because it mattered to us,” may be healthier than one that needs to insist everything came from an unbroken secret tradition stretching into antiquity.

There is dignity in knowing where something began.

There is dignity in saying, “Our grandparents started this.”

That may eventually become one of the great differences between first-generation and third-generation Paganism.

The first generation sometimes searches for ancestors in ancient history.

The third generation may actually have Pagan ancestors.

And those ancestors will not be legendary figures.

They will have names, photographs, mistakes, arguments, unfinished projects, questionable fashion choices, embarrassing stories, and perhaps boxes of poorly organized documents in somebody’s basement.

In other words, they will be human.

That may be better than mythology.

Because once founders become legends, communities can become trapped by them.

The story becomes sacred.

The founder’s preferences become traditions.

The founder’s decisions become precedent.

And eventually somebody has to ask a very difficult question:

What happens when the founders are gone?

Who Keeps the Pagan Memory?

Four people studying manuscripts and runic texts in a stone library

Archivists, Historians, Bards and the People Who Remember

If Paganism is beginning to produce generations rather than merely converts, then Pagan memory suddenly becomes important.

This rabbit feels particularly close to home because when I think about Pagan communities I have known, I can immediately think of people who have tried, in very different ways, to preserve pieces of that history.

Some tried to build archives.

Some informally became historians.

Some became bards and storytellers.

Some simply remembered.

They are not doing the same job.

An archive preserves evidence. Programs, newsletters, photographs, posters, correspondence, minutes, ritual outlines, recordings, websites, maps, membership material, workshop notes, and all the other seemingly ordinary scraps that accumulate around a living community.

A historian attempts to make sense of those scraps. Who did what? When did something begin? Why did a gathering move? When did a practice change? Which story came first? What was the sequence?

A bard preserves something else.

Meaning.

An old program can tell me who was scheduled to perform on Thursday night. A storyteller may remember why that performance became legendary.

A photograph can show twenty people standing around a fire. Someone who was there remembers why everyone was laughing.

Meeting notes might record that a decision was made. A participant remembers the argument beforehand, the personalities in the room, who stormed away, who brought people back together, and why the decision mattered.

History lives somewhere among all of those things.

There is documentary history.

There is oral history.

There is community memory.

There is folklore.

And there is mythology.

The dangerous part is that, given enough time, we forget which is which.

This is particularly easy in Pagan communities because so much of our history has been informal and fragile.

A gathering disappears and eventually its website disappears with it. An old discussion group shuts down. A social media page becomes inactive. A domain expires. Someone dies and their collection of newsletters ends up in a box nobody knows what to do with. Photographs remain on an old hard drive. Recordings sit on obsolete media. Stories that everyone once knew gradually become stories three people remember, then one person remembers, then nobody remembers.

Suddenly a thirty-year history has vanished.

When the community is young, this may not feel particularly urgent. Everyone who matters was there. If somebody wants to know what happened, they ask someone.

That works beautifully until the people who were there are no longer there.

The second generation starts asking questions.

The third generation may ask even more.

Who started this gathering?

Why do we sing this song?

Why is that place considered sacred?

Who carved this?

Why does everyone tell that particular story every year?

What happened here before I was born?

If nobody preserved the answers, the community will create answers.

That is not necessarily dishonesty. Humans dislike empty spaces in stories. We connect dots. We simplify. We remember what makes sense now rather than what made sense then.

That is exactly why the different keepers of memory matter.

The archivist says, “Here is what survived.”

The historian says, “Here is what I think happened.”

The bard says, “Here is what it meant to us.”

The elder says, “Here is what I remember.”

None of them should be treated as infallible.

All of them are valuable.

Perhaps healthy Pagan communities need these roles more than we have realized. Not official positions necessarily. I am not suggesting every gathering needs a Ministry of Pagan Historical Accuracy.

But somebody should be keeping the old programs.

Somebody should be labeling the photographs.

Somebody should be interviewing the elders.

Somebody should be recording the songs and asking where they came from.

Somebody should write down the story behind the ritual while the people who created it are still alive to correct the story.

And perhaps there is another role that sits somewhere between archivist and storyteller.

The rabbit chaser.

The person who notices a loose thread and asks where it goes.

Who finds an old reference and wonders what it means.

Who compares memories against documents.

Who discovers that something everyone thought happened in one year apparently happened three years earlier.

Who asks whether two stories that have circulated for decades can both be true.

Not because there must be a scandal hiding underneath every inconsistency.

Sometimes simply because somebody should write it down.

I did not really set out to think of my own rabbit chasing in that way. I was following questions because they interested me.

But when you follow enough rabbits, something strange happens.

You begin creating a map.

You notice where stories connect. You notice where they contradict one another. You find people, gatherings, ideas, organizations, and traditions intersecting in ways that were obvious to the people living through them but may be invisible twenty years later.

That is a kind of record keeping whether we intended it or not.

And if Paganism is becoming intergenerational, that record may matter to people we will never meet.

But records create another problem.

The documents rarely tell the story exactly the way we remember it.

Which leads us into the next hole.

History, memory, and myth.

The Third Generation

Three people gather around a fire in a forest, with an open book and carved figures.

When Revival Becomes Something You Inherit

So here is the rabbit that started this particular warren: third-generation Pagans.

I know they must exist. Modern Pagan communities have been around long enough for them to exist, and I know second-generation Pagans who are now old enough to have children themselves. Yet I cannot remember often sitting around a fire with someone who introduced themselves by saying, in effect, “My grandparents were Pagan, my parents were Pagan, and I grew up Pagan.”

That will change.

And when it does, I think something important happens.

Imagine three generations.

The first generation discovers Paganism sometime in adulthood. Maybe they begin reading. Maybe they find Wicca, Druidry, Heathenry, reconstructionism, witchcraft, or something that refuses to fit neatly into any category. Maybe they attend a festival, join a group, construct rituals, and gradually develop household traditions.

Their child grows up with those traditions.

For the child, much of the mystery is already gone. The gods are not discoveries in an old book. The altar has always been sitting there. Going to a gathering is not stepping into a strange new world. It is what the family does every summer.

Then that child has a child.

Now we reach the third generation.

Suppose the grandparent created a particular Yule tradition decades earlier. Maybe some of it came from historical sources. Some came from a book. Some came from something another Pagan taught them. Some was invented because it felt appropriate at the time.

The grandchild may know none of that.

The grandchild simply knows: this is what our family does at Yule.

There is the transformation.

The grandparent reconstructed something.

The parent participated in something.

The grandchild inherited something.

At what point does it stop mattering that a family practice began in 1987 rather than 987?

I am not suggesting that invented history should suddenly be passed off as ancient history. Quite the opposite. We should know where practices come from whenever possible. Historical honesty matters.

But traditions have to begin somewhere.

Every old tradition was once new. Someone sang the song first. Someone told the story first. Someone decided that a particular place was where the community would gather. Someone established the feast. Someone carved the first object. Someone lit the first fire.

We often judge authenticity in Paganism by asking how old something is. Perhaps another question is whether people cared enough to keep doing it.

If three generations gather around the same fire, does the third generation need archaeological evidence proving that people a thousand years ago did exactly the same thing before that fire can mean something?

I do not think so.

Historical honesty and lived history can exist together.

That might be one of the most interesting developments modern Paganism is approaching. Many people involved in Pagan revival spent enormous energy looking backward. They tried to recover old gods, old stories, old seasonal practices, folklore, archaeology, magical systems, and forgotten ways of understanding the world.

The third generation may have the luxury of looking backward only as far as Grandma or Grandpa.

That does not connect them directly to the Iron Age. It does not magically create an unbroken ancient lineage.

But it gives them something the first generation often did not have: a Pagan childhood.

They may have family stories involving Pagan elders. Photographs of their parents as children at gatherings. Places where grandparents performed rituals. Objects made by Pagan relatives who are now ancestors themselves.

That last point fascinates me.

Ancestor veneration changes when some of the ancestors being honoured were themselves Pagan.

The first generation may have had to negotiate relationships with ancestors whose religious beliefs were completely different from their own. A third-generation Pagan may pour a drink for a grandmother who once poured an offering to the same gods.

That is not reconstruction.

That is continuity.

Not ancient continuity. Not an unbroken line back into pre-Christian Europe. Something much more modest, much more honest, and perhaps much more important.

Family continuity.

Community continuity.

Lived continuity.

This is where the language of “new religious movement” starts becoming awkward. How long can something remain new? One generation? Two? Five? A century?

At some point the children of the people who revived or created a tradition stop thinking of it as something revived or created. It becomes the world they inherited.

And that creates responsibilities.

The first generation had the luxury of improvisation because there often was no local precedent.

The third generation may want to know why the precedent exists.

Why do we do this?

Who started it?

Was it based on historical evidence?

Was it borrowed from another tradition?

Did someone invent it around a campfire thirty years ago?

Was it originally a joke that became serious?

If nobody remembers, the answer eventually becomes, “We have always done it this way.”

That is how living traditions are born.

It is also how historical nonsense is born.

The difference between the two is memory.

Which means if Paganism really is reaching a third generation, someone needs to preserve more than the rituals.

Someone needs to preserve the story of how those rituals came to exist.

And that brings us to the next rabbit.

Who keeps the Pagan memory?

The Weird Thing My Parents Do

Multigenerational family gathered around a decorated stone altar in a forest

When Paganism Reaches the Second Generation

I have been thinking about second-generation Pagans.

Not converts. Not people who found a book, wandered into a metaphysical shop, discovered a coven or kindred, attended their first gathering, or eventually realized that there was a name for whatever they had been searching for. I mean people who simply grew up around this stuff.

I have known some of them, and one description I have heard, in one form or another, has always amused me: “Paganism is that weird thing my parents do.”

That sentence may be much more important than it initially appears.

For many people in the generation that helped build modern Pagan communities, becoming Pagan involved discovery. Sometimes it involved rebellion. Sometimes searching. Sometimes books, correspondence, festivals, workshops, initiations, or long conversations around fires with people who finally seemed to speak the same language. They chose Paganism.

Their children did not.

The children inherited the camping trips. They inherited the strange adults wearing cloaks, drums at midnight, circles in fields, songs around fires, people invoking gods with names their classmates had never heard, adults disappearing into workshops, merchants selling things that definitely did not appear at the local department store, and the annual migration to whatever campground or piece of land had temporarily become home.

That is a completely different religious experience.

The first generation often experiences Paganism as discovery. The second generation experiences it as environment.

And that difference matters.

A person who chooses Paganism in adulthood may spend years learning the language, symbols, stories, ritual structures, seasonal calendar, taboos, jokes, and social customs of the community. A child raised around it absorbs much of that without trying. They may know when to be quiet during a ritual without remembering anyone ever teaching them. They may recognize a chant before they understand what it means. They may know which adults can be trusted, which stories get told around the fire every year, and which gathering traditions are considered sacred without ever having sat through a formal lesson.

But absorption does not guarantee belief.

That may be one of the uncomfortable truths facing any religion that reaches a second generation. Parents can transmit a culture. They cannot guarantee conviction.

This is particularly interesting in modern Paganism because so many Pagans value personal spiritual autonomy. Many parents who rejected imposed religion are understandably reluctant to impose Paganism on their own children. The message is often something like: learn, explore, decide for yourself.

That is admirable, but it creates a peculiar paradox.

A religious movement built largely by people who rejected inherited religion eventually has to figure out what inherited Paganism looks like.

The first generation says, “Find your own path.”

The second generation says, “Okay.”

And sometimes that path leads somewhere else.

Yet something often remains.

The stories remain. The friendships remain. The places remain. The jokes nobody outside the community understands remain. The memory of sleeping in a tent while drums echoed somewhere across the campground remains. The knowledge remains that once or twice a year a group of people who seemed perfectly ordinary during the rest of their lives gathered somewhere and temporarily created another world.

So what do we call the person who no longer identifies as Pagan but still attends the gathering?

What about someone who does not perform ritual at home but knows exactly what to do when the circle begins?

What about someone who rolls their eyes when a parent starts talking about the gods but still considers people from the old gathering part of their extended family?

What about the person who follows another spiritual path entirely but still feels that something is missing if nobody lights a fire around the solstice?

Religiously, perhaps they are no longer Pagan.

Culturally, things become considerably more complicated.

Maybe we have been asking the wrong question when we talk about whether Paganism successfully passes from one generation to the next. We tend to imagine transmission as belief moving neatly from parent to child: beliefs, rituals, gods, worldview.

But perhaps transmission can happen differently.

Perhaps belief becomes culture. Culture becomes memory. Memory becomes identity. Identity becomes tradition.

That does not mean every second-generation Pagan will return to active practice. It does not mean every child raised around Paganism will even want the label. Nor should they be required to.

But it does mean that leaving a religion and leaving a culture may not be the same thing.

I have watched people who describe Paganism as the weird thing their parents do continue to show up at gatherings anyway. They come because their friends are there. They come because they grew up together. They come because the place is familiar. They come because, whatever they believe now, that community forms part of their biography.

And that is where this rabbit becomes interesting.

Some of those second-generation Pagans are now adults with children of their own.

Those children may be too young yet to understand what Paganism is. They may simply know that there are fires, tents, music, odd holidays, old stories, and a collection of unrelated adults who somehow count as family.

But that means something new is beginning.

Grandparents discovered Paganism.

Parents grew up around Paganism.

Children may inherit Paganism as part of their family history.

I do not think I have knowingly met many people who could clearly say they are third-generation Pagans. Perhaps some are already among us and simply do not use that language. Perhaps the generation is only now becoming old enough to articulate what they inherited.

Either way, the question is coming.

And once Paganism reaches the third generation, we are no longer talking only about revival.

We may be watching the beginning of tradition.

Apparently I’m an ISFP 6w5 so/sp

Woman holding a leather journal beside a candlelit garden gathering

What the Hel Does That Have to Do With Paganism?

Yesterday’s rabbit came with letters and numbers.

ISFP 6w5 so/sp.

I went looking at personality types and found one that seems to describe me rather better than I expected. That exploration belongs mostly over on Standing on the Ledge, because ultimately it is a discussion about me: how I think, why trust matters so much, why I research things into the ground, why I want people around me while still being extremely selective about whom I trust.

But there was another rabbit hiding underneath that one.

Because once I began looking at the description, I found myself asking the inevitable question:

What the hell does any of this have to do with Paganism?

Quite a bit, apparently.

The Paganism I Practice Has to Mean Something

The ISFP part begins with something called Introverted Feeling, or Fi. Strip away the psychological terminology and what remains is a strong internal value system.

I can learn traditions.

I can read books.

I can listen to elders, scholars, priests, teachers, community leaders, reconstructionists, historians, witches, Heathens, Druids, and the person sitting across the fire who has been doing this for forty years.

But eventually something still has to pass through my own internal filter.

Does this actually mean something to me?

That may explain a great deal about my Pagan journey.

I have never been particularly interested in belief merely because somebody tells me I am supposed to believe it.

A ritual performed only because the instructions say to perform it leaves me rather cold.

A tradition means considerably more when I understand why people did it, what it represented, how it connected them to their gods, their ancestors, their land, or one another.

I need some living meaning underneath the form.

That does not mean throwing tradition away.

If anything, it makes me want to understand tradition more deeply.

My Paganism Begins With Things I Can Touch

The sensing side of ISFP also makes an interesting amount of sense here.

My Paganism is not entirely philosophical.

It is fire.

Land.

Cold air.

Rain.

Gardens.

Animals.

Food.

Wood smoke.

Changing seasons.

A place that has been walked repeatedly until memories have accumulated upon it.

People gathered around something physical and sharing an experience together.

Then comes the intuitive part.

What does this mean?

What is underneath it?

Why did this particular experience affect me?

Why does this place feel different?

Why did our ancestors attach meaning to this season, this animal, this tree, this fire, this story?

That process is probably one reason so many of the rabbits on Unplugged Pagan begin with something very ordinary and end somewhere philosophical.

I notice something.

Then I want to understand what lives underneath it.

Then Type Six Asks Whether the Community Is Real

This is where things get considerably more uncomfortable.

The central questions associated with Enneagram Six concern trust, loyalty, security, reliability, and belonging.

Put that into a Pagan context and suddenly a lot of my writing makes sense.

Who are my people?

What does it mean when we call ourselves a community?

What obligations do we have toward one another?

What is loyalty?

What is frith?

What happens when trust is broken?

When somebody says that a place belongs to the community, what exactly does that mean?

When somebody speaks for a tradition, where does their authority come from?

What happens when community language and individual behaviour stop matching?

Those are not merely organizational questions for me.

Apparently they strike directly at one of the ways I understand belonging.

I Want Pagan Community

This needs saying clearly because introversion is so often mistaken for wanting isolation.

I do not want Paganism to be something I practice entirely alone.

I can practice alone.

That is different.

I would much rather have the fires, gatherings, conversations, shared meals, rituals, arguments, laughter, storytelling, music, work parties, and all the strange little interactions that happen when people build history together.

I want community.

I want people around me who understand at least some of the same language.

I want people who can sit around a fire until some ridiculous hour discussing gods, history, philosophy, mundane life, and complete nonsense without any clear boundary between them.

What I apparently do not want is the appearance of community without the obligations of community.

That distinction has become increasingly important to me.

If we call ourselves a community, then surely the word should imply something.

Maybe not agreement.

Probably not uniformity.

Certainly not obedience.

But perhaps some combination of reciprocity, memory, responsibility, hospitality, respect, and recognition that none of us exists entirely independently of everyone else.

The Five Wing Wants the Footnotes

Then there is the 5 wing.

This may be responsible for an unreasonable percentage of the material appearing on this blog lately.

Six asks whether something can be trusted.

Five responds by looking it up.

Where did this tradition come from?

Who actually said this?

When did this practice appear?

Was this ancient, or did somebody invent it in 1973?

How did Wicca affect modern Paganism?

Who influenced Canadian Pagan communities?

What did the scholars record?

What did the people who were actually there remember?

What happened to the gatherings that disappeared?

Who kept records?

Who did not?

And suddenly there goes another rabbit.

This is one of the reasons I have become increasingly interested in separating history from mythology about our history.

Both can have value.

They are not necessarily the same thing.

If we are going to understand where modern Paganism came from, then somebody has to ask inconvenient questions about what we actually know.

The Social Instinct Changes Everything

The part of the personality description that really caught my attention was so/sp.

The so means Social instinct comes first.

Again, that does not mean being a social butterfly.

It means that questions involving belonging, groups, roles, responsibility, continuity, and shared identity tend to carry considerable weight.

And suddenly the rabbits I have been chasing recently look remarkably consistent.

Second-generation Pagans.

Third-generation Pagans.

Who keeps our history?

What happens when founders die?

How does a gathering change when the people who created it are no longer there?

What happens to traditions when nobody remembers why they existed?

Can a Pagan community become old enough to have institutional memory?

Can we transmit something to another generation without turning it into dogma?

These are not simply historical questions.

They are social questions.

They ask whether Paganism is merely something individuals happen to practice at the same time, or whether we are capable of creating communities that persist beyond the people who originally built them.

And Self-Preservation Asks Whether It Can Survive

Then comes the secondary Self-Preservation instinct.

This is the part that looks at all those lovely ideals and asks a rather mundane question:

How are we actually going to keep this going?

Someone needs to maintain the land.

Someone needs to build the fire.

Someone needs to organize the gathering.

Someone needs to clean the toilets.

Someone needs to preserve the records.

Someone needs to teach the newcomer how something works.

Someone needs to make sure the bills are paid.

Someone needs to remember what happened twenty years ago.

Ritual may create sacred space.

But eventually someone also has to stack the chairs.

That is not separate from community.

I increasingly think it is one of the ways community reveals whether it actually exists.

Maybe That Is Why Legacy Keeps Appearing

Over the last little while I have repeatedly found myself coming back to legacy.

Not legacy in the sense of wanting my name carved onto something.

I mean continuity.

What remains?

What survives?

What gets passed forward?

What disappears because nobody thought it was worth writing down?

What happens when Paganism becomes old enough that people entering it have no living memory of its formative years?

What happens when second-generation Pagans become parents and third-generation Pagan children begin appearing?

At some point we stop being merely participants in a young religious movement and become ancestors of whatever comes next.

That is a strange thought.

But perhaps it is an important one.

The Fire Keeper

There is an image in all of this that I keep coming back to.

The fire keeper.

The fire keeper does not necessarily own the fire.

They do not control everyone sitting around it.

They do not decide what everyone must believe.

They simply understand that if nobody feeds the fire, eventually it goes out.

Someone watches it.

Someone adds wood.

Someone notices when it is dying down.

Someone remembers how it was started.

Someone teaches the next person how to tend it.

Perhaps that is part of what I have been searching for when I talk about Pagan community.

Not authority.

Not ownership.

Stewardship.

People willing to keep something alive long enough to hand it to somebody else.

There Is a Danger Here Too

The same personality traits that make someone interested in history and community can also lead them badly astray.

If trust matters deeply, suspicion can become too easy.

If patterns matter, unrelated events can begin looking connected.

If research provides security, it can become difficult to stop researching.

If community matters, changes within that community can feel more personal than perhaps they actually are.

That means I have to remember something whenever I chase these rabbits:

The purpose of research is not to prove that I am right.

It is to find out what is true.

Sometimes those are the same thing.

Sometimes the rabbit should lead directly to evidence that forces me to change my mind.

That is not a failed rabbit hunt.

That is exactly what the hunt is supposed to do.

So What Does ISFP 6w5 so/sp Have to Do With Paganism?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

I do not think personality determines religion. I certainly do not believe all Pagans of a particular personality type will practice anything like I do.

But personality probably affects the questions we bring with us.

And apparently I bring questions about authenticity, trust, community, history, responsibility, and continuity.

I want Paganism to mean something personally.

I want to understand where it came from.

I want community, but I want that word to have substance.

I want us to remember the people and places that brought us here.

I want us to build things capable of surviving us.

And I want to know that when the people around today’s fires are gone, somebody will still remember how to light the next one.

Perhaps that is why I keep chasing these particular rabbits.

Maybe I am not merely trying to understand Paganism.

Maybe somewhere underneath all these questions I have been asking something else:

What are we building together that will still exist when we are gone?

That rabbit may keep me occupied for a while.

When We Become the Ancestors: What Will the Third Pagan Generation Remember About Us?

Three elderly people reading and writing from old books at a wooden table with herbs and crystals

We started this rabbit by asking what happens when Paganism is inherited. Somewhere along the way, the rabbit turned around and began looking at us. Because if there is a second generation, eventually there can be a third. And by then something changes that contemporary Paganism has not had to think about very much. The people who rebuilt, revived, invented, argued over, organized, researched, practised, and carried these modern traditions will begin dying in large numbers. Some already have. The convert generation becomes the grandparent generation. Then the ancestor generation. That may be when contemporary Paganism finally stops being able to describe itself primarily as a revival. It will have its own dead.

There Is a Difference Between Ancient Ancestors and Our Ancestors

Pagans often speak about ancestors in enormous historical terms. The Norse. The Celts. The pre-Christian Europeans. The ancestors before conversion. Sometimes those ancestors are genealogical. Sometimes cultural. Sometimes imagined as spiritual predecessors. But the third generation of modern Paganism may have another category available to it. They may know the names. “My grandmother was Wiccan.” “My grandfather kept a Heathen hearth.” “My parents met at that festival.” “This altar belonged to my aunt.” “That song was written by someone my mother actually knew.” “Our family has done this at Samhain since before I was born.” Those claims are not ancient. They are stronger in another way. They are remembered.

We Are Creating Primary Sources Right Now

This thought makes me slightly uncomfortable as a writer. Every blog post, ritual script, argument, photograph, festival program, newsletter, social media archive, meeting minute, book, podcast, and personal journal may become somebody else’s historical evidence. We spend a great deal of time complaining about gaps in the historical record of pre-Christian religions. Meanwhile we are generating mountains of records about ourselves and still managing to lose context at astonishing speed. That means stewardship includes archives. Who keeps the records? What happens when websites disappear? Who preserves community newsletters? Does anyone write down why a ritual changed? When an organization closes, do its records vanish into somebody’s basement? When a founder dies, does the history become whatever the loudest surviving person remembers? These questions sound administrative until twenty-five years pass. Then they become history.

Our Fights Will Become Their Myths Unless We Explain Them

This may be one of the stranger inheritances. Every community has conflicts that feel enormous while they are happening. Years later, the details disappear. One side becomes the villains. One side becomes the heroes. A complicated dispute becomes a sentence. “They split because of politics.” “She ruined the group.” “They betrayed the old ways.” “That festival changed.” “Those people took over.” Future generations inherit conclusions without context. I have spent enough time trying to reverse-engineer Pagan networks and histories to know how frustrating that is. Perhaps one thing we owe the future is the humility to record conflict without turning our own interpretation into scripture. Say what happened. Keep the documents. Admit what we do not know. Let the next generation make its own judgment.

The Third Generation Will Not Be Impressed That We Were Pioneers

This is worth remembering. The first generation often has founder energy. We discovered things. We built organizations. We created festivals. We wrote books. We fought for recognition. We established spaces where Pagan practice could happen openly. That deserves recognition. But grandchildren are merciless historians. They may appreciate what we built while also asking why we tolerated obvious problems. Why did you let that leader behave that way? Why did nobody keep proper records? Why did the community fracture over something so small? Why did you repeat history you already knew was wrong? Why did you talk about nature while neglecting the land you actually lived on? Why did you say everyone was welcome when clearly everyone was not? I hope they ask those questions. It would mean they inherited the rabbit.

What Do I Want to Be Remembered For?

This is where the series stops being about Paganism in the abstract. Because eventually every legacy question becomes personal. I do not control whether anybody remembers me. I certainly do not control what they remember. But I can influence what I leave behind. I can leave polished certainty. Or I can leave the trail. I think I prefer the trail. Here is what I thought. Here is what I got wrong. Here is the source I found. Here is the source I could not find. Here is why I changed my mind. Here is the community I loved. Here is where I became disappointed. Here is the practice that still mattered afterward. Here is the tree. Here is the fire. Here is the rabbit hole. Keep going if you want to know more.

Maybe the Best Ancestor Is Not the One with All the Answers

There is a certain arrogance hidden in imagining oneself as an ancestor. It is easy to picture future people reverently quoting us. Reality will probably be much funnier. Some future Pagan may discover one of our old arguments and wonder why anyone cared. They may find our ritual unbearably wordy. They may laugh at our technology. They may reject half our theology. Good. An ancestor does not need to win every argument after death. Maybe a useful ancestor leaves tools rather than commandments.

The Seven Rabbits Come Together Here

What happens when Paganism is inherited? The seeker religion becomes a family memory. What does the first generation owe the second? Truth, usable practice, safer communities, and freedom. Can the tradition survive without a village? For a while, yes. But relationship gives inheritance depth. What happens when the village builds gates? Structure becomes necessary, and authority must remain answerable. Does the child have the right to leave? If our talk of spiritual independence means anything, yes. What happens when sacred place is lost? Memory carries the old place while relationship begins again where we stand. And finally: What happens when we become the ancestors? We lose control of the story.

That May Be the Point

A living tradition eventually belongs to people its founders never met. If it cannot survive that loss of control, it is not a tradition. It is a personal project. The third generation will choose what is useful. They will discard things we thought essential. They will revive things we forgot. They will misunderstand us. They will correct us. They will probably invent traditions and swear they have always done them. Human beings are remarkably consistent that way. But perhaps they will also inherit a healthier habit from us. Maybe they will check. Maybe they will say, “We do this because our grandparents began doing it in the early twenty-first century.” And perhaps that will be enough.

Keep the Fire. Leave the Rabbit Loose.

I began this series thinking about children raised Pagan. I end it thinking about dead Pagans. That seems appropriate. Religion lives in the movement between those two groups. The living receive something. They alter it. They add their own experience. Then eventually they hand it forward. My own Pagan journey has been one long attempt to connect dots without pretending the dots make a cleaner picture than they do. I suspect that is what I would want to pass on most. Not a demand that somebody arrive at my conclusions. A permission slip to keep asking. Question the history. Question the institution. Question the elder. Question yourself. But do not become so devoted to questioning that you forget to live something worth questioning later. Light a fire. Feed somebody. Remember a name. Plant something. Keep a promise. Write down what happened.

And when a rabbit disappears into the brush, follow it occasionally. You never know what the grandchildren may need to find.

References

Berger, H. A. (1999). A community of witches: Contemporary Neo-Paganism and witchcraft in the United States. University of South Carolina Press.

Bengtson, V. L., Putney, N. M., & Harris, S. C. (2013). Families and faith: How religion is passed down across generations. Oxford University Press.

Fennell, J., & Wildman-Hanlon, L. A. (2017). The children of converts: Beyond the first generation of contemporary Pagans. Social Compass, 64(2), 288–306. https://doi.org/10.1177/0037768617704165

Kermani, S. Z. (2013). Pagan family values: Childhood and the religious imagination in contemporary American Paganism. New York University Press.

Mazumdar, S., & Mazumdar, S. (2004). Religion and place attachment: A study of sacred places. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 24(3), 385–397. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jenvp.2004.08.005