Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today we begin a little experiment. Kind of like Job in reverse. I am going to mention Cindy Jacobs and DC40 frequently in my posts, giving them ample opportunity to find this site. Let's see if they can harm me through their prayers. I stand in flat-out opposition to their agenda, so ... have at me, varlets! Jesus is too busy to look after me, so I put myself in the hands of the bored gods. Na na na na BOO BOO! (Bronx cheer with rude gesture)
I've just finished writing 25 spells for next year's Llewellyn Spell Almanac. Many of them are based on the Appalachian hedge magick I grew up with, so they tend to be cautionary and protective. And serious. My grandmother showered me with dire predictions of what the "black dog" and the "booger men" would do if I strayed too far from home. (This, of course, was for her convenience. Much magick works this way.)
As for me, I find that the strongest spells are those laced with humor. How many times have I said it here? Laughter is the best medicine!
(Speaking of which, when you're through here, go look at Yellowdog Granny's spine-ticklers. She usually puts a slew of them up on Monday morning, and if that isn't strong magick, I don't know what is.
Let's look at a recent event, and you'll see what I mean.
I invited the Great Goddess Freya here, knowing that She's getting busy again but hoping for a moment of Her time. She penciled me into her schedule, dropped by and played with my cats, and shared a horn of local lager. Four weeks later, my daughter The Heir was in downtown Oslo when she was literally rocked by a bomb blast. She was a ten-minute walk from the government complex.
Freya was probably busier than ever that day, but She found time for The Heir. All glory, laud, and honor to thee, Freya, Mother of the North!
Here at Chateau Johnson, the only event that is not mocked and saturated with humor is the death of a loved one. At that time, and that time only, I become serious. But it passes. As for being angry at the spouse and kids, I turn that over to Anansi, who helps me disappear into a story-world until I've cooled down.
Laugh through the Apocalypse. It's happening to you anyway. Will crying make it any different?
Maybe that's a bad analogy, because all of us Pagans will be laughing through the Apocalypse. We're going to turn all those mega-churches into skate parks and have Rituals at the National Cathedral.
My family has so far been spared from the ravages of fire, flood, and hurricane. But I've been through job loss, work frustrations by the cartload, and the heartbreak of my child's chronic illness. I don't laugh at these things, I laugh at myself going through these things. Best. Medicine. Ever.
With that in mind, I remembered that Philadelphia has its own amazingly powerful counter-spell for malefic magick. It's called the Mummer's Parade, it happens every year on January 1, and this year I will be in it. What ill-guided intentions can stand up to 15,000 crazy revelers in sequins and feathers, carrying parasols and wearing wigs? Get real, DC40. Philadelphia is free!
Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, and a couple of tra la las! That's how I laugh my day away, as I cheerfully thumb my schnoz!