I’ve been re-reading one of my favorite books on witchcraft, The Clan of Tubal Cain by Ann Finnin. While it could have used a stronger, more thorough editing (sadly true not merely of many Pagan books but of many books nowadays), it is an interesting and important book, I think, for two reasons. First, it is a candid memoir of the development of a distinctive tradition of witchcraft in the United States, deriving from a British source other than Gerald Gardner; second, it is a useful manual of magical training aimed at producing a skilled individual who can work closely with others using a common body of symbolism and method. I highly recommend it to any reader who is interested in Craft history, magic, or both.
What strikes me most on this reading, however, is something very simple: There is such a thing as a Witch, and I am not one. That is, there is definitely a certain kind of personality, a certain flavor of magic and mysticism, a certain body of symbols and experiences, that are “witchy”. Whether people call themselves witches, Wiccans, Feri, Faery, or what have you, some people are witchy and some aren’t–and I am not.
It would be easy to fall into stereotypes here, but I don’t think one has to. The wanna-bes who traipse around looking like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, even when they’re just headed to the grocery store for a quart of milk, are the extreme of the type, the caricature, and like any caricature, they have only a superficial resemblance to the real thing, an exaggeration of the most obvious features. I would characterize the witchy temperament as the contrast of black and white: The blackness of a dark hooded cloak in the shadows, the white of a full moon at zenith in a clear sky. The witchy temperament is lunar, nocturnal, and a little bit lunatic, a little deranged by the moon, yet at the same time severely, even cruelly practical. The witch crushes herbs and then brews potions or makes soup with the same attention and the same magical awareness. The sweeping of the broom both cleans the room in a mundane and physical sense and readies it for the magical circle about to be cast.
Witchiness is beautiful, fascinating, even admirable. I have no doubt that well-trained, cohesive covens around the world are doing important magical work with this lunar and telluric power, the intertwining power of full moon light and earthy darkness. But I am not a witch. There is probably not a witchy bone in my body. Whatever witchiness truly is, I don’t have it.
I’m a druid.
When I imagine the Witch at work, I see a solitary woman or a group of men and women, gathered on a hilltop beneath that mesmerizing full moon. When I imagine the Druid, I see a man (yes, that’s my first thought) or a woman or a group of people gathered in the open beneath the sun.
Of course, it’s not that simple–Witch = Moon, Druid = Sun. But the images are there. Druid Revival groups have typically held their rituals “in the eye of the sun”, in daylight, visible to the public. ADF’s rites are open to the public on principle. While Druids usually gather in a circle, that circle is an open space, not a magically sealed sphere like the witches’ workspace. Solitary or small groups of Druids may, of course, meditate, do magic, practice music or write poetry in private, but the Druid rite is a public celebration, not a secret one.
The Druidic temperament, as I see it, is at once scholarly and romantic, a poet with a Ph.D., a scientist who sings folk music in coffeehouses. (Which I have done, by the way.) The Druid is more respectable than the Witch by mundane standards, but secretly more daft. The Doctor of Doctor Who is a druidic type; so is Rupert Giles of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which featured quite a few witchy types–Willow, Jenny Calendar, and Willow’s girlfriend Tara. Take any Anglican who’s gone round the bend a bit, and you’ll get a Druid (e.g., your humble blogger). The Druid is a singer, poet, rambler, nature enthusiast, birder, philosopher, absent-minded professor, librarian or archivist, the person who remembers, organizes, has bits of knowledge at hand.
Of course these words are themselves romantic, poetic ramblings, delivered when I should be taking a shower. To every Pagan his or her own path, the inner road to freedom and happiness, for the benefit of all.