Posts Tagged ‘Antinous’

Change of venue

I’ve decided to move house blog-wise, gentle readers. I’ve started another WordPress blog and will be posting there from now on. I hope that the hundred or so wonderful people who are following me here will add my new blog to their feeds and bookmarks and continue to read about me, Antinous, and my weird polytheistic life at:

Antinous for Everybody

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So yesterday I did a thing which I have been thinking about for a while. And I am pretty amazed at myself–and praising the gods, too–because I actually did the thing.

I made a set of prayer beads for Antinous and devotional stuff generally.

I’ve always been really attracted to simple, repetitive prayer. I treasure my rosary of rosewood beads, which I used less for the traditional rosary prayers than for reciting phrases from the Revelations of Julian of Norwich. I meditated over her words on the bus and while working to work for years. And when I became involved with Buddhism, I acquired several malas and enjoyed saying and singing mantras, and still do.

Lately I’ve been sitting down and meditating and actually doing it fairly consistently, really for the first time in my life. At first I was just counting my breaths from one to ten, over and over, which is one of the Zen methods (the easy one). Then one day I began saying “Antinous” over and over, mentally, just as I exhaled. Subsequently it became easier to say the god’s name than to count breaths; I felt more focused. And gradually what had been a purely meditative/contemplative practice became more devotional.

Thus I started thinking about prayer beads for polytheistic devotion. I poked around online and priced some malas of amethyst beads, all of which cost more than I wanted to spend right now. As it happens, though, I live about four blocks from a beading supply store. While my laundry was in the dryer yesterday, I walked down there and came home with about twenty dollars’ worth of stuff and a rough plan for using it.

I have, somewhere, a board for beading. I’d swear I saw it recently. Of course, now that I needed it, I couldn’t find it, anywhere. I want you to know, dear readers, that it is entirely possible to lose something in about 250 square feet of apartment. I could not find my lovely beading board, but I lined those beads up on the table, lit Vesta’s candle and some incense, pulled up an image of Antinous on my laptop, and went to work.

Every so often I get this urge to make something. It must be a divine compulsion, because I failed scissors in kindergarten and have more thumbs than are strictly necessary. I once sewed a Tarot bag by hand out of a scrap of cloth a friend gave me. I’ve never tried to duplicate the feat. Despite my abundant thumbs, despite the crap lighting, I managed to string together what I wanted: Twenty-three sparkly clear Czech glass beads, two silver double-spiral beads, a red bead, a white bead, and a black bead. The red, white, and black beads are for Antinous’ aspects as the Liberator, the Navigator, and the Lover; the two silver spirals are for his association with the moon; the sparkly beads were the prettiest, twenty-three because I hear that’s an Antinoan number.

It’s sitting on his shrine in a little lavender organdy bag. I plan to use it for the first time tonight. I may even try to take a picture on my crap phone and upload it.

Ave Antinoe! In his honor, I did the thing!

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Antinous the Lover


You do not have to wait to be chosen.

It is not necessary to be chosen by a god to worship a god. It is not necessary to be a priest, witch, druid, clergy, oracle, diviner, or any kind of specialist in order to worship a god.

Paying cultus to gods, spirits, and ancestors is normal. It may have been forbidden fifteen hundred years ago, it may be unfashionable and strange, but really, like walking and running, it is quite natural. Like breathing, it works if you do it.

“You did not choose me, but I chose you,” says Jesus in the gospels. He is speaking to his disciples, his special students. Put that out of your mind. It doesn’t apply here.

Antinous is my god and my gateway to acquaintance with other gods, spirits, and ancestors. He did not choose me; I chose him. But what is important is that Antinous welcomed me.

I am welcome in his presence, among his worshippers. I am welcome to his help and blessings. I feel at home with him. It seems kind of odd at times to be an ostensibly heterosexual middle-aged woman devoted to Antinous, yet I do feel I fit in.

There have been so many times and places in my life when I did not fit in, when I did not feel welcome, when I tried to cultivate someone’s friendship and good will and was ultimately rejected. To feel welcome with Antinous touches me deeply; it is a source of comfort, strength, joy.

If you are attracted to a god, a pantheon, don’t wait to be chosen. Do some research and find or compose some respectful prayers. Bring food, water or wine, pleasant incense and candles to burn out before an image. Pray and present offerings. Be consistent, be patient. You may well find that the door is opened for you and the gods welcome you in. And that can feel very good.

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Once in a while on Tumblr, where I indulge mostly my fannish interests and my love of birds, I post what I call a “Who’s your daddy?” list, where I ramble about who are the definitive actors in certain iconic roles. For example, Jeremy Brett is my Sherlock Holmes, Leonard Nimoy is my Spock of Vulcan, and Spock is canonically a descendant of Sherlock Holmes because he said so in Star Trek VI.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the gods and about the influences that have formed my conceptions of them. To do that, I have to look back to my childhood and think about the books I read.

I was a voracious reader as a child and a precocious one. I was always interested in myths and gods and religion, and I read and re-read a lot of books, both children’s collections of stories and adult books on archaeology, history, and world religions. The truth is, most of the children’s books on mythology I can’t remember, except for the ones with my favorite illustrations.

You know the books I mean. You read them, too, I’m sure. Many of them are still in print, a fact which gladdens my heart.

I somehow skipped over the D’Aulaires’ book on Greek myths. I cannot remember whether my neighborhood library owned it or not. But I don’t know how many times I borrowed their Norse myths book.


That’s Thor. That’s always going to be what Thor looks like, in my head. A big man with red hair and red beard, tall, muscular, a hint of beer belly. The sort of guy who loses his temper quickly, shouts and crashes around, cools down and apologizes ten minutes later. A guy who’ll always lend you his ladder or help you move something heavy. Not Chris Hemsworth; more like Ray Winstone.

Anthony Hopkins made a pretty awesome Odin for Marvel, but in my head, Odin still looks like this:


The D’Aulaires weren’t the only book on Norse myths I read, however. More influential in terms of the text than the illustrations was The Children of Odin by Padraic Colum, illustrated by Willy Pogany. Colum included the story of Sigurd the Volsung, which may be why I mutter darkly when I hear Wagner’s Ring operas–“Sigurd, not Siegfried!” It was Pogany, however, who gave me my images of Loki, in graceful Art Nouveau lines:


Yes, Sif’s lovely naked breasts appeared in a children’s book. We weren’t quite so sensitive in those days. And my personal favorite Loki illustration:


The determination and malice in Loki’s face as he eats the heart of Gullveig, knowing that he does not know what the consequences will be and not caring. Colum and Pogany sanitized the stories less than the D’Aulaires, I think. For all the delicacy of Pogany’s drawings, they carry a menace in them, a seriousness.

I think children’s books about the Greek gods influenced me less than photographs of the abundant statues and vase paintings that portray the gods. I even had a coloring book of Greek art that reproduced some of the most famous vase pieces. Likewise Egyptian art, which I liked very much as a child, was full of depictions of the gods in their human and animal forms. (For a long time I only drew human figures as the Egyptians did, in profile, with the eye looking out from the side.) Perhaps because I absorbed the idea so early, it didn’t seem odd to me that a god of writing should have the head of a bird, or a goddess of war and violence the head of a lioness, or that Zeus should become a bull, a swan, a shower of light.

People wonder if children can tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t, if they’ll confuse the stories in books and on television with accounts of real life. I’m not sure if I can say definitively, I thought the gods were real, or I thought the gods weren’t real, or I thought Jesus was real but not Hermes and Odin and Thoth. In a sense all the gods, and Jesus, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, Captain America, even, are all equally real to me because they are all stories. There are real stories and then there are not-real stories. If a writer creates a story which mentions an important book that doesn’t exist, is that book real? Is the Necronomicon real? Whose Necronomicon is real? Which is the “real” Bible–the latest translation, or the Authorised Version, or the crumbling manuscripts the translators used? Which is the real book of Isaiah, the Masoretic Hebrew, or the Septuagint, or the version from the Dead Sea Scrolls?

What is fictional is real to me. What is mythical is real to me. “News” is not real in my universe. Propaganda is not real. Facebook is not real. Yet I don’t want to pray to Captain America, I only want to write stories about him. I did not encounter Antinous in my childhood reading about the gods of the world; I only heard him referenced, later, as the lover of a Roman emperor, a beautiful youth who died young. But having discovered him as a god, I pray to him, and he responds.

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I had a strange Lent and an even stranger Holy Week. While I last posted on Holy Saturday, nearly a month ago, the only Holy Week liturgies I attended were Palm Sunday and Good Friday. For the former, I was the narrator for the dramatic reading of Matthew’s Passion Gospel; for the latter, I went to the little parish where I grew up for a taste of old-fashioned Anglo-Catholic religion.

And then I woke up one day and realized that I no longer believed in what was in the Creeds. Actually, it was probably in the shower. I realize a lot of things in the shower. If I actually believed that other gods existed–which I did, and possibly always had–if I actually believed I could pray to Antinous, a deified Greek youth, and get a response–which I definitely did, and had–then I really was not a Christian.

I still believe Jesus was a historical person who lived and died and was resurrected, becoming divine even if he wasn’t pre-existently divine. I believe he was and is a God on the side of the poor, the occupied, the oppressed, the disenfranchised. It’s just that he and I really don’t have much of a relationship. I don’t think we ever have.

My relationship has always been with the tradition, with Anglicanism, with saints like Julian of Norwich, with the music of Byrd and Tallis, with poetry like Donne’s and Herbert’s, with writers like C.S. Lewis, Dorothy Sayers, T.S. Eliot, Charles Williams. Not, ironically, with the God who inspired them.

I’ve been praying and making offerings to Antinous and observing the festivals of the Ekklesía Antínoou for about the last month, with a good deal of personal satisfaction. I’ve started a side Tumblr where I’ve been writing about my experiments with devotional polytheism, Antinous for Everybody. I will still be posting here and hanging out on other WordPress blogs, though.

I feel like I have suffered a lot of losses in the past two years. Yet that has left me extraordinarily free to pursue my religious and creative aims. And I have been blessed with a stable job, good friends, and the company of my pet cockatiel Rembrandt, aka Spanky. It’s a good life.

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I’ve been roaming the blogosphere lately, looking for new writers to read, and by curious chance (or perhaps divine guidance) I came across this post by Cat Treadwell, “Sacred Reading”. Cat, a Druid, writes movingly of reading a book about a woman’s stay in the Trappist monastery of Gethsemani in Kentucky, made famous by enclosing the writer Thomas Merton, and being struck by the ancient monastic practice of lectio divina, sacred reading. Lectio is a slow, ruminative, prayerful encounter with the sacred, primarily in the Christian Scriptures, but also, potentially, in other texts and other ways of seeking meaning.

I myself was struck by finding a pagan Druid writing of Christian monastic life and spiritual practices when I have lately been restless and unhappy after immersing myself in much the same sort of reading for months. Now I was seeking pagan bloggers, druid bloggers, new pagan books.

In early 2013 I transferred my church membership to a new parish (new to me, that is, not to the area) and had contentedly identified myself as Episcopalian, no qualifiers, for the past year. At least, that has been my story. I put books on magic and pagan topics in empty Amazon boxes, determined to give them away, yet somehow they never found their way out of the apartment. My New Hermetics pantacle, my Tarot decks, my tiny statues of Buddha sitting zazen and Isis on her throne lingered in my possession, along with books I never even considered giving up. And since the beginning of this year, more or less, the words of the Daily Office have withered, disconnected from the actual relationship I am having with Jesus, and I have been missing another deity I used to have a relationship with: Antinous.

I have said all along that I think Antinous pointed me toward my Episcopal church and said, “Visit one more time. You’ll see.” I felt that if I asked for his help again, politely, he would be inclined to give it.  He has this in common with Jesus: He does not turn people away, regardless of who they are. He excludes no one. (Jesus’s followers haven’t always lived up to that principle, but I think the Gospels are pretty clear that it was his modus operandi.) And the Bithynian Boy has indeed calmed my anxieties and helped to clear my mind over the past few days.

The truth is, while I’ve been an Episcopalian most of my life, I’m not sure I’ve ever been a monotheist. I remember having two children’s Bibles, one with simple crayon-like drawings and retellings mostly of the Gospels, the other with “religious” paintings of a Protestant kind in which Jesus was, quite bluntly, a blond-haired, blue-eyed hottie. I know I spent a lot of time staring at the illustration of Jesus, naked to the waist, standing thigh-deep in the waters of Jordan at his baptism.

At the same time, I owned or borrowed from the library numerous books on mythology, especially Greco-Roman and Egyptian, and on world religions. There was a lavishly illustrated Time-Life volume I borrowed many times that included a two-page illustration of the Hindu pantheon, done in popular devotional style; photographs of Roman Catholic and Greek Orthodox liturgies; cool black-and-white photos of Zen monks, and chapters on Judaism and Islam as well. I always read far ahead of my grade level and quickly graduated to the mostly-text books on the adult side of the library, on comparative religions, archaeology, and the ancient world.

As near as I can remember, if you’d asked me what those Greek, Egyptian, Hindu gods were doing now that everybody knew Jesus was The Real God, I would have said something like, “They’re retired now.” They weren’t in charge of everything any more, because Jesus, but they certainly existed. I don’t think I ever doubted that they existed. Maybe all those color photographs helped me to understand that all those other people actually took their religions seriously, even if they weren’t Protestant Christianity.

A chance mention somewhere, on someone’s blog, most likely, led me to look up meanings for the placement of Jupiter in my natal chart, in the sign of Gemini. I actually suffered the old cliche of a sinking stomach as I read that Jupiter in Gemini can be a religious dilettante, attracted by everything, always hungry for new information, but not very likely to settle down with one particular path or practice.

I thought about this, and prayed about it, and finally said to myself, I’ve just turned forty-eight. I could live another fifty years or more. Instead of trying to fight this trait in myself, how about turning a bug into a feature? How about just going with the flow and see where it goes?

So tonight the triptych I made for Antinous, my statues of Buddha and Isis, my stones and feathers, rocks and shells, joined my icons of Christ, the Virgin of Tenderness, and the Trinity on my mantel and on the table below. My best photo of my grandmother is there, along with icons of Julian of Norwich, my beloved spiritual mother these thirty years, and Perpetua and Felicity, early Roman Christian martyrs whom I venerate during Lent. Incense is burning and tea lights are lit, offerings to the holy powers. Tomorrow I will go to church, sing Lenten hymns, hear the Word preached, and receive the body and blood of Jesus at his table where all are welcome. Tonight, I feel calm. In the midst of this topsy-turvy time of warmth and cold, longer days, Lent over here and Purim over there, Ostara and Holi and at last the crocuses are opening, the birds are singing, I finally feel calm.

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My OBOD materials are on their way, travelling by air mail from Lewes in Sussex. Huzzah!

Meanwhile, I have The Dedicant Path through the Wheel of the Year, by Michael J. Dangler of ADF, and I’m realizing I can telescope the first few weeks of the program. Tomorrow is the start of Week Two by my current count; by the end of this calendar week, I should have performed my first High Day ritual using the liturgy of the Solitary Druid Fellowship and made my First Oath, a commitment to the path of Neopagan Druidry, as a part of that ritual.

It’s an oath I have made before, the last time I took a stab at the Dedicant work. I think that while I have not upheld the oath, the Powers have held me to it: Here I am again, more certain than ever that Druidry is where I belong, and finally undertaking some structured training. I’m an INFJ, and I need a good deal of structure; AODA has a fine curriculum, but I think it proved a little too seat-of-your-pants for  my needs, or I proved a little too much in need of specific direction for the program. In any case, if I carry out my plans for the next few days, I’ll have covered the first three weeks of Dangler’s schedule and can then sit back and recap using the SDF liturgy and observing the Antinoan holidays of the season as well.

And then, of course, I’ll be celebrating Christmas with my family. It’s all good.

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