Can Landscapes Create Culture?

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Timea Kutlu

Can Landscapes Create Culture? Caria as a Cultural Ecosystem and Spatial Technology of Attention, by Timea Kutlu

If you stand on the high, arid plateau above the Marsyas Valley in southwestern Turkey and look toward the horizon, the Aegean world appears to fragment into a labyrinth of stone. Jagged limestone massifs, deeply gouged by winter torrents, rise abruptly out of fertile alluvial pockets. Dense stands of maquis and wild olive twist out of thin topsoil, while subterranean waters carve hidden channels through the karst beneath your feet.

This is Caria. Today, its coastline is familiar to millions who flock to the turquoise bays of Bodrum or Marmaris, navigate the wooded shores of Datça, or visit the more famous monumental centres of western Anatolia, such as Ephesus. Yet just inland, within a broken terrain of mountain massifs, enclosed basins, and river valleys, lies a landscape that classical history has quietly struggled to place.

To historians trained on the grand narratives of the Mediterranean, Caria has often presented an interpretive irritation, unsettling many of the conventional metrics through which ancient civilizations have been classified. Even when the Hekatomnid dynasty transformed Halicarnassus into a monumental capital, no single urban centre permanently absorbed the region’s political, religious, and territorial identities. It left behind no unified, overarching state apparatus that could be neatly mapped across a single century. Although many Greek poleis articulated civic identity through a strongly defined urban centre, Carian communities often made the relationship between city, territory, route, and extra-urban sanctuary unusually visible.

Ancient authors offered no single, stable definition of the Carians. Herodotus preserved competing accounts of their origins, while other traditions associated them with maritime mobility, military service, inland strongholds, and sanctuaries whose local identities did not fit neatly within later Greek categories.

Modern archaeology long inherited this confusion. For generations, scholars viewed Caria through a lens of absence. Because the region did not fit the template of a centralized state dominated by a single urban elite, it was frequently categorized as peripheral, backward, or merely “Hellenized” — a passive recipient of Greek, Persian, or Anatolian influences. The physical remains of Carian culture — isolated mountain sanctuaries, rock-cut tombs perched above river valleys, processional ways stretching across miles of empty scrubland — were treated as scattered anomalies, footnotes to the greater stories of Ephesus, Athens, or Persepolis.

But this diagnosis of absence relies on a fundamental assumption: that culture is something forged exclusively by human hands upon a passive, neutral stage. We have been conditioned to look for civilization in the concentrated, the monumental, and the monumentalized — in the single temple that commands an acropolis or the written codex that codifies a law.

 

What if this assumption is precisely what obscures the intelligence of Caria? What if Carian society was not a failed attempt at an empire, but a brilliant, highly sophisticated response to a very specific set of physical conditions?

To understand Caria, we must abandon the idea of the landscape as an empty canvas. We must ask a different, more demanding question: Can a landscape actively participate in creating human culture?

The Myth of the Neutral Canvas

For over a century, the social sciences have approached the natural world through two opposing, yet equally reductive, frameworks.

On one side stands environmental determinism. Popularized in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this view posited that geography was destiny: climate, topography, and soil quality directly dictated the intelligence, political structures, and economic outcomes of human populations. In its coarsest forms, determinism reduced human agency to a simple equation, claiming that flat plains naturally produced autocracies, while jagged coastlines bred seafaring democracies. Because of its rigid, often racially charged oversimplifications, environmental determinism was rightly discarded by modern scholarship.

In reaction to this, human geography and anthropology swung to the opposite extreme: cultural constructivism. Here, the physical world was stripped of all agency. The landscape became nothing more than a passive backdrop, an arbitrary stage upon which humans projected their social meanings, economic ambitions, and religious fantasies. A mountain was merely a pile of rock until a priest named it sacred; a river was simply moving water until a merchant turned it into a border. Human culture, in this view, was an entirely internal, self-contained phenomenon — a matrix of language, power, and symbols operating independently of the earth beneath its feet.

Both frameworks suffer from the same blind spot. They separate the human mind from the environment it inhabits. They treat the brain as a central processing unit that receives external data, processes it internally, and then executes actions upon an unfeeling world.

In recent decades, however, breakthroughs across cognitive science, environmental humanities, and spatial archaeology have begun to shatter this duality. Scholars of embodied cognition have demonstrated that human thought is not confined to the cerebral cortex. Our cognition is deeply, fundamentally entangled with our physical bodies and the environments through which we move. We do not think about space from a distance; we think with space. The physical architecture of our surroundings — its textures, inclines, acoustic qualities, light patterns, and spatial boundaries — shapes our memory, directs our attention, and anchors our social structures. When we re-examine Caria through this interdisciplinary lens, a new hypothesis emerges.

Caria was not a civilization that happened to exist in a rugged landscape; it was a culture whose very intelligence, social organization, and religious life were co-invested in the physical terrain. Instead of asking how humans masterfully shaped Caria or how Caria rigidly dictated human fate, we must ask how the Carian landscape functioned as a dynamic environment that encouraged certain modes of perception, movement, and social cohesion while making other forms more difficult, costly, or less durable.

An immediate counter-question arises for any rigorous scholar: Why Caria?                      The Mediterranean basin is filled with dramatic topographies. High mountains define Lycia to the east; deep, isolated valleys slice through Arcadia in the Peloponnese; arid plateaus characterize Pisidia; island topographies define Crete. Why did a specific spatial intelligence emerge in this particular pocket of southwestern Anatolia?

The answer lies not merely in ruggedness, but in topographical and ecological density. For the purposes of this essay, we might describe Caria as a high-resolution landscape: a terrain in which ecological, sensory, and topographical transitions occur at unusually short intervals.

In many parts of Caria, especially where inland basins, karstic uplands, wooded ravines, and deeply indented coasts approach one another, striking environmental transitions occur within relatively short distances. A traveller can pass from an arid limestone plateau into a shaded pine ravine, step across a subterranean spring bursting from a karst cliff, and descend into an olive-rich valley basin within a short journey.

Geologically, karst formation means the ground beneath one’s feet is never entirely static or solid. Waterways vanish underground without warning and re-emerge miles away as sudden, high-volume springs. Caverns, sinkholes, and rock clefts puncture the terrain at every turn. Furthermore, the stark shift from exposed limestone to shaded river corridors creates continuous microclimatic friction.

 

Such a landscape repeatedly rewards close environmental knowledge and makes orientation, seasonal memory, and bodily familiarity especially valuable. It creates recurring situations in which attention becomes consequential. Navigation presents the body with continuous micro-choices: evaluating footing on slippery karst limestone, choosing between branching canyon passes, anticipating the loss of shade, searching for water where a stream goes dry, or pausing at a natural col where the wind and visual horizon abruptly shift.

Landscapes do not possess conscious intentions; they do not “want” to create culture. But a high-resolution landscape acts as a dynamic frame. By continually presenting the human body with physical decision-points, it shapes the conditions under which perception operates.

The Architecture of Attention: From Terrain to Memory                                    When we say that landscape participates in creating culture, we are describing a precise, step-by-step cognitive chain. Landscapes shape bodily decisions. Bodily decisions organize human attention. Organized attention creates repeated behaviours. Repeated behaviours consolidate into collective memory. And collective memory becomes the foundation of culture and religion.

The critical, often overlooked link in this chain is attention. Landscapes do not create culture directly. Landscapes organize human attention. Human societies organize attention through many interacting media: terrain, architecture, roads, boundaries, images, sound, and ritual movement.

In Caria, the unusually compressed transitions of the terrain may have played an especially visible role within that larger system. The landscape did not function as a technology by itself; it became one through the reciprocal work of routes, sanctuaries, ritual practices, and generations of moving bodies.

Where three mountain passes converge at a narrow col, human movement is naturally funnelled into a single point. Attention naturally spikes at this node because navigation requires a decision. Such nodes may attract markers, offerings, gathering practices, or eventually more formal sacred architecture — not by necessity, but because they repeatedly concentrate movement and attention.

Similarly, a steep limestone amphitheatre or a cave entry alters sound — the drip of subterranean water, the echo of a voice, the rush of wind. Human perception naturally zeroes in on these spatial anomalies. Such acoustic properties could contribute to practices of listening, performance, or ritualized speech.

A sudden break in a canyon wall that reveals a vast valley basin or a distant mountain peak creates a natural perceptual pause. Movement slows; the eyes adjust to the expanding horizon; the scale of perception changes. The physical threshold creates a psychological state of liminality.

Because such features repeatedly influence where bodies stop, look, listen, and make decisions, they can support recurring collective practices. People begin to pause at the same spring, assemble at the same mountain, and mark the same cave mouth.

Over centuries, these repeated patterns of shared attention solidify into tradition. Tradition becomes codified as ritual. Ritual anchors collective memory. And collective memory forms the bedrock of an enduring cultural identity. The durability of Carian identities may therefore have depended in part on a landscape that repeatedly renewed the spatial practices through which communities oriented themselves, assembled, and remembered.

This attention-organizing framework helps explain why Carian political centralization repeatedly coexisted with a distributed sacred and territorial system, a distributed Ecosystem.

If you walk through the ruins of Stratonikeia — one of the major inland cities of late ancient Caria — you quickly realize that the city itself is spatially incomplete without its surrounding territory. Although cities such as Miletus or Priene articulated civic identity through strongly defined urban centres, their political and religious worlds also extended into surrounding territories. In Caria, however, the relationship between city, route, landscape, and extra-urban sanctuary often became unusually prominent and ritually explicit.

Stratonikeia was tethered to a site six miles away: the Sanctuary of Hekate, Lagina. During major festivals, the city reoriented itself toward the landscape, processing along a sacred road across hills, riverbeds, and ravines to reach the shrine. Similarly, the ancient city of Mylasa was permanently bound to the sanctuary of Labranda, set high in the mountains above Mylasa, among gneiss outcrops, springs, and monumental terraces.

In an ecosystem, no single node holds all the information or resource capacity of the system. Meaning, power, and identity are held in the relationships between nodes. The terrain repeatedly complicated complete and durable centralization, even when powerful dynasties such as the Hekatomnids attempted to reorganize the region around monumental centres.

The landscape is naturally partitioned into semi-isolated valleys separated by formidable limestone ridges. Each basin offered arable land, but no single basin was vast enough to support a megalopolis that could permanently subjugate the rest.

Rather than concentrating civic, religious, and economic life in one urban centre, Caria distributed these functions across distinct landscape types: mountain peaks associated with seasonal assembly and divine authority; low, watery valley basins associated with communal ritual, memory, and threshold guardian deities; and coastal promontories serving as nodes of maritime trade and external exchange.

The true centre of Carian culture was neither the city nor the mountain shrine alone, but the network of pathways, mountain cols, and processional roads that stitched these diverse environments together.

To live in Caria was to be in constant spatial motion between different ecological and symbolic zones. Identity was not static; it was performed through transit. A Carian was not simply a citizen of a specific town, but a participant in a broader territorial circuit.

This distributed model explains why Carian culture exhibited such remarkable resilience across centuries. Imperial powers — from ancient regional powers to the Persians, Hekatomnids, Greeks, and Romans — could conquer individual Carian towns, but Carian identity remained rooted in a network of mountain shrines, sacred caves, and processional paths embedded deep within the rock.

To understand how this spatial order was reproduced across generations, we must examine one of its most visible ritual mechanisms: the processional journey.

Modern mobility is obsessed with speed and efficiency. We view the distance between our departure point and our destination as dead space — an unfortunate obstacle to be overcome as quickly as possible. When we travel, we retreat into insulated bubbles, staring at screens or highways designed specifically to minimize our engagement with the terrain we are crossing.

In the ancient Carian ecosystem, this relationship was inverted. The journey was not the cost of arrival; it was a primary cultural act.

Consider the Sacred Way connecting Stratonikeia to Lagina. This was a paved avenue engineered to cut across miles of undulating terrain. During major festivals, participants travelled between Stratonikeia and Lagina along the sacred route connecting city and sanctuary. The ceremonial transport of Hecate’s sacred key made this connection not merely geographical but ritually enacted. Among those who walked the route were priests, civic officials, performers, worshippers, attendants, and sacrificial animals.

If we view this procession merely through the lens of traditional sociology, we see a display of political hierarchy or religious conformity. But if we analyse it through the lens of spatial cognition and embodied memory, a far more sophisticated technology becomes visible.

Prolonged collective walking can coordinate pace, gesture, vocal rhythm, and attention, producing a bodily experience of belonging that cannot be reduced to doctrine alone.

Processional routes also contained — or naturally produced — points of interruption: springs, changes of gradient, boundary zones, and places where the sanctuary or surrounding terrain came newly into view. Whether formally prescribed or generated by the demands of the route, such pauses could reorganize attention, allowing the sensory impact of the landscape — the change in wind, the smell of resin, the panoramic view of the valley below — to re-enter the consciousness of the participants.

In a culture without mass printing or digital media, complex cultural memory was anchored in the muscles, joint receptors, and spatial maps of the human body.

For a participant who walked such routes repeatedly from youth, sacred geography could be learned not only as doctrine but through gradients, temperature changes, exertion, and recurring visual sequences.

The landscape functioned as a living mnemonic framework. Rocks, springs, ravines, and mountain cols were linked to ritual moments, mythic narratives, and civic obligations. Cultural identity was inscribed into the earth and re-read through movement along sacred paths.

Thresholds, Sacred Paths, and the Gates of Lagina                                                    Such a landscape did not mechanically produce threshold deities. It did, however, provide unusually durable experiential structures through which boundaries, passages, hidden water, orientation, and safe movement could acquire deep religious significance.

Carian religion accommodated many divine powers. The granite and gneiss heights of Labranda belonged to Zeus Labraundos, whose double-axe, the labrys, and mountain sanctuary spoke to storm, authority, and ancestral sovereignty. Apollo appeared in several locally differentiated Carian cults, sometimes in relation to sacred landscapes, springs, or oracular practices.

But this landscape also gave unusual experiential force to another religious vocabulary: passage, orientation, guarded boundaries, hidden depths, and movement between differentiated worlds. Within that vocabulary, Hecate becomes especially revealing.

At Lagina stood the monumental sanctuary of a goddess whose cult placed exceptional emphasis on guardianship, passage, civic protection, and the ceremonial movement of the sacred key (kleidophoria). Elsewhere in the Greek world, Hecate would also be associated with torches, roads, doorways, and crossroads.

In later Greek and Roman traditions, Hecate’s nocturnal and chthonic dimensions would increasingly dominate her literary image. At Lagina, however, she stood within civic life: guardian, key-bearer, protector, and the focus of a ritual network connecting sanctuary, city, road, and region.

If Caria teaches us that landscapes can organize attention, Hekate poses the next question: what kind of deity becomes central to a culture that repeatedly learns, through movement, to inhabit thresholds?

To be continued –

All of the images are accredited to Timea Kutlu 

Selected References

  • Bender, Barbara (ed.). Landscape: Politics and Perspectives. Berg, 1993.
  • The Histories.
  • Herring, Amanda. Hekate of Lagina: A Goddess Performing Her Civic Duty. Anatolian Studies 72, 2022.
  • Ingold, Tim. The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. Routledge, 2000.
  • Malafouris, Lambros. How Things Shape the Mind: A Theory of Material Engagement. MIT Press, 2013.
  • Tilley, Christopher. A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments. Berg, 1994.
  • Varela, Francisco J., Evan Thompson, and Eleanor Rosch. The Embodied Mind: Cognitive Science and Human Experience. MIT Press, 1991.
  • Williamson, Christina G. City and Sanctuary in Hellenistic Asia Minor: Constructing Civic Identity in the Sacred Landscapes of Mylasa and Stratonikeia in Karia. University of Groningen, 2012.

 

 

 

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Part One of Coven Life

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Tim Ozpagan

Entering the Witch Circle — When Strangers Become a Magical Group

This is the first in a seven-part series exploring the lived reality of coven-based Witchcraft: what seekers imagine a coven to be, what participation actually asks of us, and how a gathering of individual practitioners may gradually become a living magical group.

The series grows from material I am developing for my next book, Into the Witch Circle, itself an expansion of my long-running workshop, Casting the Witch’s Circle. Although these essays are concerned with coven life, they are not intended only for Witches who belong to covens. Solitary practitioners also work within inherited ritual forms, learn through relationships and participate in a tradition extending beyond the individual self.

Across the series, I will consider the Circle as a living container; learning through ritual and participation; trust and intimacy within the magical group; authority and responsibility in coven leadership; conflict, departure and the broken Circle; and the ways covens preserve, adapt and transmit a living tradition.

We begin, however, with the threshold itself: the moment when Witchcraft ceases to be something we have only read about and becomes something we must enter.

The First Circle

In the centre of the room stood my circular 1920’s Tasmanian oak peg-leg table. I had laid out a grazing platter of dips, olives and cheeses, with wine glasses beside a couple of bottles of red, and juice for anyone who did not drink. I must admit that the wine was partly for my benefit. It helped to settle my nerves.

It is a strange thing that, even after years of teaching people how to cast a Witch Circle, I still feel nervous before a workshop begins. Perhaps that is appropriate. Ritual should never become so familiar that we cease to care about what may happen inside it.

This group presented a particular uncertainty. They were complete strangers to me and, apart from a little emailing back and forth, strangers to one another.

It is not until people enter the room that you begin to sense whether they may be capable of working together. You notice how they listen, whether they interrupt, how much they have read and, more importantly, whether they can set aside what they think they know long enough to experience something directly.

I also wonder how they will respond to my stories of coven life and Witchcraft practice, including the psychic experiences that accompany them. Will they dismiss such things before considering them? Will they accept them too readily and attempt to imitate what cannot be manufactured? Or will they become careful researchers of their own experience?

My motivation has always been an irrepressible enthusiasm for the Craft. Once I begin speaking, I usually forget myself. The nervousness falls away as we work through the theory, but the teaching is only preparatory. The real work begins when we leave the ordinary room and enter the temple.

I watched the participants’ faces as they crossed its threshold. The walls were painted a deep russet, and the room held ritual objects gathered across many years: masks, a large painted pantacle, a convex moon mirror and a collection of Arabic lamps brought home from Egypt. I lit aromatic frankincense and the candle lanterns. One shaded lantern rested in the deep belly of the Witches’ cauldron, which stood at the centre of a rich red circular mat painted with a black pentagram.

The six ritual newcomers sat rather sheepishly around the Circle. Most had read something about Witchcraft, but few had participated in a formal working, let alone entered a purpose-built temple room. There is always a moment when theory must be abandoned. I plunged them into the Circle-casting rite, teaching each part as we went.

We began with the ritual sword, an object much heavier than it appears. There is usually a small look of surprise when I pass it to the first student seated beside me and they feel its actual weight in their hands.

I held the sword towards the centre, declared our intention for the night and began the casting:                                                                                                                                                 “The sword cuts the Circle round about.”                                                                                             As I passed it onwards, I prompted the response:                                                                          “Power stay in, world stay out.”                                                                                                       

The sword travelled from hand to hand. Each person repeated the words before passing it to the next, and the group began to find its first shared rhythm.

I had already entrusted the elemental tools to different participants: the Earth pantacle, the chalice of Water, the censer of incense and the burning brazier of Fire. The brazier contained a small flame of methylated spirit and was passed slowly, carefully and under close direction. Even after years of using it, that moment makes me attentive. Fire brings the rite alive, but it demands respect.

As each elemental vessel moved around the Circle, the students resonated the Enochian names: Nanta for Earth, Hcoma for Water, Exarp for Air and Bitom for Fire.

At first their voices were tentative. Then something shifted. The names became fuller and more sonorous, emerging from parts of their bodies they may not have known how to use before that night.

Finally, we brought the grail of wine into the centre. Everyone reached towards it, joining through touch as I spoke words they were hearing together for the first time:

“Drink from the cup of Witches’ wine
 and remember ancient rites forgotten by time.
 Sup from the crimson chalice 
and be free of those who wish you malice.”

We drank several rounds from the grail, passing the chalice with the customary greeting, “Blessed be”, and a kiss upon the cheek.

By then, the six strangers who had arrived separately were no longer simply six individuals seated in a room. A Circle had begun to form between them. Only then were we ready to undertake the deeper work of the night.

From Information to Participation

By the end of the evening, people who had previously known ritual mainly through books were speaking with the astonishment of direct experience. The difference mattered. They had not merely learned what a Witch Circle was supposed to be. They had handled its tools, spoken its words, carried its elemental powers and felt themselves becoming part of its living structure.

One participant, Lannie, later wrote:                                                                                             “My first ever ritual—what an experience! I loved how welcoming everyone was and have made many friendships from this.”

Another participant, Clare, described something altogether more intense:                        “The ritual was a truly transformational and healing experience. I experienced energy so powerful that it rocked my body back and forth like a serpent. Drum rhythms I’ve never played before — and then I turned into a cat! I feel like I’ve been to voodoo land and back!”

Such accounts should not be treated as standards against which every ritual is measured. Not everyone experiences dramatic trance, bodily movement or vivid psychic imagery. Quietness may be as significant as intensity. A change may emerge days later in a dream, a decision or a subtle alteration of perception. Powerful experience is not, by itself, proof of wisdom.

What matters is that the participants had crossed from information into participation. They had allowed the ritual to act upon them, and they now had something of their own to observe, question and integrate.

As the Circle drew to its close, everyone wanted to talk. They shared impressions, bodily sensations, images and encounters with what I call psychic reality. I knew from experience that the immersion in ritual, dance and trance would probably continue into their dreams that night. The rite had ended, but its movement through the psyche had not.

Later, as I stood at the doorway waving goodbye to the last participant, I recognised an enthusiasm I have never tired of witnessing. They would return the following week for the second part of the workshop. They had crossed the first threshold, and the work had begun.

What Actually Entered the Circle?

A Witch Circle is easy enough to describe.

People join hands. Ritual tools are used to establish the boundary. Candlelight and incense help mark the transition from ordinary awareness into sacred space. Names are chanted, bodies move, power is raised and the participants may enter trance. At the end, the powers are thanked, the boundary is released and the room returns — apparently — to what it was before.

That is the visible form. What cannot be so easily described is what happens to the people who enter it. A Circle may be drawn in a few minutes, but learning to inhabit it can take years. The body must learn when to move and when to become still. The voice must learn to speak with conviction without becoming theatrical. The imagination must become disciplined enough to give form to what cannot be seen. The Witch must learn how to raise power without becoming overwhelmed by it and how to receive an experience without immediately inflating it into revelation.

When other people enter the Circle, the apprenticeship deepens. The Witch must learn to listen, coordinate, participate and contribute. Personal preference encounters shared purpose. Individual experience enters relationship with the experiences of others. Trust must be developed, responsibility accepted and difference negotiated.

The Circle becomes more than a ritual boundary. It becomes a living container formed through the attention, conduct and commitment of everyone present.

The Ritual Circle

The first Circle is the one most Witches recognise: the sacred boundary established for ritual and magick. Within it, ordinary activity is interrupted. The elements are called, the altar arranged, ritual tools placed into service and attention directed towards the work. The Circle contains power and gives visible form to an invisible structure.

Learning to cast this Circle teaches preparation, concentration, imagination and closure. It provides a repeatable form through which spellcraft, devotion, invocation, trance, divination and transformation may be approached.

Yet correct technique does not automatically create a living rite. A ceremony may be technically flawless and still remain empty. The words may be accurate, the tools beautiful and every movement performed according to tradition, yet the deeper current never arrives.

Conversely, a modest gathering with imperfect choreography may become powerful because the people are attentive, trustworthy and willing to participate fully.

Technique matters, but technique is not the whole mystery.

The Human Circle

The second Circle is made of people.

A coven is not simply a gathering of solitary Witches performing their separate practices in the same room. It develops rhythms, expectations, relationships and memories of its own. Over time, it may begin to function as a distinct magical presence: not a mindless collective, but a field of shared attention in which individual capacities are strengthened through participation.

This cannot be created by declaration. Calling a group a coven does not make it one. Robes, degrees, titles and claims of lineage do not automatically produce depth. A living magical group is made through repeated acts of presence: arriving when one has promised to arrive, preparing the work, learning the material, carrying one’s share, respecting confidence, accepting guidance and becoming capable of supporting others.

The ordinary acts are not separate from the magick.

Someone prepares the room. Someone brings food. Another remembers the words when the ritual leader loses their place. A more experienced person helps a newcomer without humiliating them. Someone notices that another participant is distressed and quietly checks on them after the rite. The altar is cleared, the floor swept and the cups washed.

These acts may appear mundane beside invocation and trance, but they create the reliability within which people can safely risk entering deeper states of consciousness. The human Circle therefore asks more of us than enthusiasm. It asks for participation.

The Circle of Tradition

A third Circle extends beyond those presently gathered.

Every established practice carries the presence of teachers, ritualists, writers and covens whose work shaped what we have received. Some are known to us by name. Others have disappeared into the stream of transmission, while their gestures, phrases, discoveries and mistakes remain embedded in the rituals we inherit.

Tradition is not simply old material preserved without change. Neither is it whatever an individual chooses to improvise in the moment. A living tradition is a conversation between inheritance and experience. It preserves what continues to work, adapts where circumstances require it, and allows new forms to emerge through sustained practice rather than novelty alone.

The Witch entering a Circle therefore enters something already in motion.

At first, we receive. We learn words, tools, symbols and rhythms developed by others. We repeat them long enough to discover what they do. Experience gradually teaches us which elements are essential, which are local customs and which may need to change. Eventually, some practitioners accept responsibility for teaching, adapting and carrying the work forward.

What This Means for the Solitary Witch

Not every reader will seek membership in a coven. Solitary Witchcraft is a complete and legitimate path, and periods of solitude remain necessary even for those of us with decades of group experience.

The solitary Circle develops self-reliance, inner listening and a direct relationship with the powers of the Craft. Yet solitary practice is rarely created in total isolation. We learn through books, teachers, conversations, friendships and rituals preserved by other practitioners. We inherit language and techniques that travelled through human relationships before reaching us.

A solitary Witch therefore also participates in a larger Circle of influence and transmission.

The important question is not only whether we practise alone or with others. It is whether we recognise what has made our practice possible, whether we examine what we receive, and whether our work makes us more capable of relationship, discernment and responsibility.

The inner work of Witchcraft is not proved by withdrawal from others. Nor is it proved by belonging to a group. It is revealed through what our practice gradually enables us to hold: experience without inflation, difference without immediate rejection, mystery without credulity and relationship without loss of self.

Crossing the Threshold

Coven life is often approached through fantasy. Some seekers imagine immediate belonging, secret knowledge, dramatic initiation and the discovery of spiritual family. Others expect authoritarian leadership, rigid hierarchy, emotional entanglement or the loss of personal freedom.

Both images contain fragments of truth, but neither describes the whole.

A coven may become a place of friendship, powerful ritual and profound transformation. It may also become confused, dependent or harmful. It can pass through periods of vitality and exhaustion. People may grow together and later move apart. A group can carry tradition beautifully while still needing to reconsider its understanding of authority, consent and responsibility.

The first threshold is therefore not crossed when someone calls themselves a Witch, buys ritual tools or gains entry to a coven. It is crossed when the practitioner becomes willing to move from imagination into experience — and then to reflect honestly upon what the experience asks of them.

The Circle begins as something we cast. In time, it becomes something we help to hold. Eventually, it may become something we are trusted to carry forward.

Tim Ozpagan:                                                                                                                          Entering the Witch Circle — When Strangers Become a Magical Group.

This essay is adapted from material being developed for Tim Ozpagan Hartridge’s next book, Into the Witch Circle. The next article in the Coven Life series will explore The Circle as a Living Container — why a coven is more than a gathering of solitary practitioners.

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Introduction to the ‘Coven Life’ Series

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Tim Ozpagan

 About the Coven Life Series

This essay is the first in a seven-part series exploring the lived reality of coven-based Witchcraft. The series grows from material being developed for my next book, Into the Witch Circle, an expanded exploration of my long-running workshop, Casting the Witch’s Circle. Although the focus is coven life, the deeper questions belong equally to solitary Witches: how practice becomes embodied, how trust and responsibility shape magical work, and how each of us participates in a tradition larger than ourselves.

  1. Entering the Witch Circle

What seekers imagine a coven to be — and what coven life actually asks of them. We begin at the threshold, examining the hopes, fantasies and uncertainties that people carry into their first experience of group ritual. The article considers the movement from reading about Witchcraft to participating in it, and why belonging to a magical group requires more than enthusiasm or spiritual identification.

  1. The Circle as a Living Container

Why a coven is more than a gathering of solitary practitioners. A ritual boundary may be cast in minutes, but a living Circle is formed through repeated attention, trust and shared responsibility. This article explores the coven as both a magical vessel and a human container — one capable of holding ritual power, psychic experience and the relationships through which deeper work becomes possible.

  1. Learning Through Participation

How ritual, observation and shared experience become the real teachers. Witchcraft has always been learned through doing. Here we consider the apprenticeship that takes place through watching, carrying tools, speaking responses, making mistakes, accepting guidance and gradually taking responsibility for parts of the rite. The true lesson is not simply knowing the ritual, but becoming capable of helping to create it.

  1. Trust, Intimacy and the Magical Group

The relationships that allow deeper magical work to unfold. Trust in a coven is not produced by declaring “Perfect Love and Perfect Trust”. It develops through confidentiality, consistency, consent, ordinary kindness and the willingness to be seen without being exploited. This article explores how intimacy strengthens magical work and why vulnerability must be held within sound boundaries.

  1. Authority, Responsibility and the Coven Leader

Leadership, service and the realities behind the robes. Coven leadership is often misunderstood as status, control or unquestioned spiritual authority. This article examines leadership as service: creating structure, teaching skills, making difficult decisions and helping others grow into responsibility. A capable leader does not create dependence but develops a Circle that can increasingly carry its own work.

  1. Conflict, Departure and the Broken Circle

Why endings and transitions belong to coven life as surely as beginnings.          Not every disagreement means a coven has failed, and not every departure is a betrayal. Groups change, relationships reach their limits, and sometimes the form of the Circle can no longer hold what is emerging within it. This article considers conflict, repair, grief, departure and the difficult art of ending well.

  1. The Coven as a Vessel of Tradition

How groups preserve, adapt and transmit living Witchcraft. The final article turns towards inheritance and transmission. What does a coven actually preserve? What may be adapted, and what can only be understood through repeated practice? We will consider how tradition remains alive through the interplay of memory, experience, innovation and the willingness of each generation to carry the Craft forward.

Taken together, these essays follow the life of the Circle from first entry to eventual transmission. They are not intended to idealise coven life or present it as the only legitimate form of Witchcraft. Rather, they explore what becomes possible when people gather with sufficient discipline, imagination and care to create something that none of them could sustain alone.

Tim Ozpagan talking:  About the Coven Life Series

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Tales of the Mediterranean – The Enigma of Sardinia – Nuragic Civilization – Part 3

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Morgana
  • To continue – in my first article I explored the Neolithic sanctuaries and figurines and in the second I examined the living traditions of the Mamuthones and Issohadores. The Nuraghi provide the ideal bridge between Sardinia’s prehistoric spirituality and its enduring cultural identity. We are invited to consider how spiritual, social, and political life may have developed. The mystery surrounding the Nuraghi  and the Nuragic civilisation is also part of this fascination.

The Nuraghi – Stone Towers of Mystery.

Definition: A nuraghi (plural: nuraghe) is an ancient, cone-shaped stone tower built by the Nuragic civilization between 1900 and 730 BC. Found exclusively on the Italian island of Sardinia, these megalithic structures feature thick dry-stone walls and hollow, dome-shaped inner rooms.

From this perspective the island of Sardinia is often described as an open-air museum. Nowhere is this more evident than in the thousands of Nuraghi that still rise above its hills, valleys, and plains. Built more than three and a half thousand years ago, these remarkable stone towers remain one of the Mediterranean’s greatest archaeological enigmas.

In my previous articles, we explored the sacred landscapes of the Neolithic peoples and the enduring traditions of the Mamuthones and Issohadores, whose mysterious rituals continue to animate Sardinia’s cultural life. We now journey further into the island’s distant past, to the monumental legacy of the Nuragic civilisation.

Who were the people who built these extraordinary towers? Were they warriors, astronomers, traders, or priests? Were the Nuraghi fortresses, places of worship, symbols of power — or perhaps all of these at different times? Despite more than two centuries of archaeological investigation, many questions remain unanswered.

What is beyond dispute is that the Nuragic people created one of Europe’s most remarkable Bronze Age civilisations. Their achievements in engineering, architecture, metallurgy, and maritime trade reveal a sophisticated society that was deeply connected to the wider Mediterranean world while retaining a distinctive identity all its own.

Although their language has vanished and their beliefs remain largely unknown, the Nuraghi continue to speak through their enduring presence. They remind us that history is not only written in books but also preserved in stone, in landscape, and in memory.

Perhaps that is the greatest mystery of Sardinia. The island never truly reveals all its secrets. Instead, it invites us to listen — to the whisper of the wind across basalt walls, to the silence of the sacred wells, and to the timeless dialogue between people and the land they have called home for millennia.

A Nuraghe Tower – Nat. Archaelogical Museum of Cagliari

The Nuraghi are among the greatest archaeological mysteries of the Mediterranean. They are the enduring monuments of a civilisation that flourished more than 3,500 years ago. They are uniquely Sardinian: nowhere else in the world do we find these extraordinary stone towers in such numbers or with such variety.

The Nuragic civilisation developed between approximately 1800 BCE and 238 BCE, spanning the Bronze Age and early Iron Age. It takes its name from the Nuraghi (singular: nuraghe), the monumental stone towers that dominate the Sardinian landscape.

More than 7,000 Nuraghi still survive today, although archaeologists estimate that between 10,000 and 20,000 may once have existed across the island. This remarkable density suggests a sophisticated and highly organised society.

Unlike many contemporary Mediterranean peoples, the Nuragic people left no written records. Everything we know comes from archaeology. Why they were built remains one of archaeology’s great debates. The traditional interpretation was that they served as fortresses or defensive towers. Certainly, many occupy commanding positions overlooking valleys, plains, and coastlines.

However, modern research suggests they fulfilled multiple roles. A nuraghe could simultaneously function as a residence for local leaders or as a communal gathering place, or a religious sanctuary. It was always a symbol of prestige and authority. As watchtowers controlling trade routes, they were also a refuge during times of danger. Many scholars now view them as the political and ceremonial centres of small territorial communities.

One of the most astonishing aspects of the Nuraghi is their construction. They were built without mortar. Enormous basalt, granite, or limestone blocks — some weighing several tonnes — were carefully shaped and stacked using cyclopean masonry. The inward-leaning walls create a corbelled dome that has survived earthquakes, weather, and more than three millennia. The tallest surviving examples originally reached around 20 metres (65 feet). Their builders possessed remarkable engineering knowledge despite having only Bronze Age tools.

Most Nuraghi did not stand alone. Around them grew villages consisting of circular stone houses with paved streets, wells, workshops, granaries, and meeting places. The best example is Su Nuraxi, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, where over fifty huts surrounded a massive central fortress. This reveals communities that were organised, prosperous, and capable of large cooperative building projects.

For many years the Nuragic people were portrayed as isolated shepherds. Today that picture has changed dramatically. Excavations have uncovered Mycenaean pottery from Greece, Cypriot copper, Levantine luxury goods, Etruscan artefacts and Phoenician imports. These discoveries demonstrate that Sardinia formed an active part of Mediterranean trade networks. Copper, lead, silver, and possibly tin made the island an important centre during the Bronze Age.

One of the things that struck me about the design of the nuraghe was the corbelling. This is a building technique that stacks flat stones or bricks in steps. Each layer sticks out slightly farther than the one below it. This allows the walls to meet at the top to create a roof or an arch without using cement. I remember seeing the very same technique used at the temples and the uncemented walls in Hattusha.

Compare:

(“Site nuragique de Barumini Su Nuraxi en Sardaigne, Italie -030.JPG” by Domimf is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.)

 

And this:

(Hattusha: Entrance to one of the posterns (= tunnels) in the Postern Wall)

 

There is no direct political or cultural alliance between the Hittite Empire of Anatolia and the Nuragic people of Sardinia. They lived on opposite sides of the Mediterranean Sea and spoke completely unrelated languages. However, they do share a fascinating, indirect connection through the Late Bronze Age Collapse (c. 1200 BCE) and a mysterious group of seafarers known as the “Sea Peoples”, or Shardana.

Egyptian records describe the Sea Peoples as a loose confederation of raiders who destabilized the Eastern Mediterranean. These raids culminated in the destruction of the Hittite Empire. One of the most prominent groups among these raiders was the Sherden (or Shardana). Many prominent archaeologists believe the Sherden were the Nuragic people of Sardinia.

Before the Hittite Empire collapsed, they fought the Egyptians under Ramesses II at the famous Battle of Kadesh (c. 1274 BCE). During this battle, Ramesses II used Egyptian temple reliefs show these Sherden guards — carrying round shields and wearing distinct horned helmets — fighting directly against the Hittites.

The link between the Sherden and the Nuragic civilization relies heavily on Bronze Age archaeology. Nuragic pottery from the 13th century BCE has also been found in Cyprus and the Levant. This seems to prove that Sardinian mariners were actively sailing the Eastern Mediterranean trade routes right alongside the Hittites.

A minority of scholars however argue the reverse migration path. They suggest the Sherden originated near western Anatolia (close to the Hittite sphere of influence). In this theory, the Sherden attacked Egypt, failed, and eventually fled west to settle on the island, giving their name of Shardana /Sea Peoples  to Sardinia

In part 1 I mentioned Sabina Magliocco a folklorist and anthropologist whose expertise lies in Sardinian festivals, folklore, ritual, vernacular religion, and contemporary Paganism. Consequently, she does not attempt to write a comprehensive history of the Nuragic civilisation in the way that scholars such as Giovanni Lilliu, Gary Webster, or Fulvia Lo Schiavo do. Instead, she is interested in how modern Sardinians imagine, reinterpret, and use the Nuragic past.

One of her most relevant discussions appears in Coordinates of Power and Performance: Festivals as Sites of (Re)Presentation and Reclamation in Sardinia.

She observes that the Nuraghi have become powerful symbols of Sardinian cultural identity. She notes that they are far more than archaeological monuments; they are woven into the island’s sense of itself. Modern Sardinians invoke the Nuragic civilisation as evidence of an ancient, sophisticated, and independent culture that predates Roman rule and distinguishes Sardinia from mainland Italy. This is particularly important in the context of regional autonomy and cultural revival.

Magliocco also discusses a fascinating phenomenon from the 1990s: organisers of solstice celebrations at Nuragic sites promoted the towers as ancient astronomical temples and centres of solar and lunar worship. Advertising claimed that the mysteries of the Nuraghi had finally been solved and invited visitors to experience “the revival of the ancient traditions of the great Nuragic civilizations.”

She approaches these claims critically. She notes that while such events are culturally significant as examples of heritage-making, the archaeological evidence does not support many of the grander assertions. As she essentially argues that archaeology becomes mixed with imagination; tourism merges with spirituality and history is transformed into cultural performance.

She does not dismiss contemporary spiritual engagement with the Nuraghi. Rather, she suggests that people continually reinterpret the past to meet present needs. Ancient monuments become places where identity, spirituality, memory, and heritage intersect.

As a folklorist, she asks questions such as; why are people drawn to these places today? How do stories about the Nuraghi shape Sardinian identity? Why do ancient monuments continue to inspire spiritual experiences? These are different questions from those asked by archaeologists.

In my first article I cited Magliocco’s essay Aradia in Sardinia: The Archaeology of a Folk Character. There she explores survivals and transformations in Sardinian folk belief but is careful not to claim an unbroken line from the Nuragic civilisation to modern Paganism. Instead, she traces layers of influence – from prehistoric traditions to Roman, medieval, and Christian practices — showing how folklore evolves over time rather than remaining unchanged.

In any event, one of the most fascinating discoveries is the collection of Bronzetti — small bronze statues created between about 1200 and 700 BCE. These figures depict warriors wearing the exact same horned helmets, round buckler shields, and long straight swords seen on the Sherden in Egyptian carvings.

 

Bronzetti figurines – Nat. Archaelogical Museum Cagliari

The Bronzetti are, in my opinion, one of the most captivating artistic achievements of the Nuragic civilisation. Unlike the monumental Nuraghi, which impress through their scale, the Bronzetti reveal the human face of Bronze Age Sardinia. Through these small figures, we glimpse the people themselves — their appearance, occupations, beliefs, and aspirations.

The small bronze figurines were cast between approximately 1200 and 700 BCE using the sophisticated lost-wax technique. Ranging from only a few centimetres to around 35 centimetres in height, these remarkable sculptures are masterpieces of Bronze Age craftsmanship. Unlike the imposing Nuraghi, the Bronzetti bring us face to face with the people who inhabited them. They portray warriors proudly carrying shields, swords and bows; chieftains wearing elaborate cloaks; hunters, shepherds, musicians and craftsmen; mothers carrying children; priests and women making ritual offerings; as well as animals and beautifully detailed model ships. Together they form a miniature portrait gallery of Nuragic society.

The figures are immediately recognisable by their distinctive artistic style. Their large almond-shaped eyes, prominent noses, elongated limbs and carefully rendered clothing create a balance between realism and symbolism. Every detail — the intricate helmets, finely worked jewellery, ceremonial staffs and woven garments — reflects the extraordinary skill of Nuragic metalworkers.

Most Bronzetti were not decorative objects but votive offerings. They were dedicated at sacred wells, temples and sanctuaries, perhaps in gratitude for healing, successful harvests, safe journeys or victory in battle. Each figure may have represented the individual making the offering or embodied a prayer entrusted to the divine.

To modern eyes, the Bronzetti seem surprisingly alive. Although over three thousand years old, they convey movement, personality and emotion. A warrior stands alert, an archer prepares to draw his bow, a woman raises her hand in blessing, a mother cradles her child. They remind us that the Nuragic people were not anonymous builders of stone towers but men, women and children whose hopes, beliefs and daily lives were not so different from our own.

One fascinating point, I think, is that the Bronzetti were almost certainly not portraits of specific individuals. Rather, they represent social roles within Nuragic society — warriors, chiefs, priests, musicians, sailors, mothers, hunters, and devotees. In that sense, they function much like a visual catalogue of the civilisation itself.

The Bronzetti can be seen as expressing the values and identity of the community: who held authority, who protected society, who nurtured families, and who mediated the relationship between people and the sacred. They are not merely works of art but windows into how the Nuragic people understood themselves and wished to be remembered.

My favourite is the “The Sacerdotessa (“Priestess”)” – see the photo below of the replica I found in Cagliari. While warriors and archers dominate the Nuragic bronze repertoire, a small number of female ritual figures suggest that women also held important ceremonial roles.

From an online shop selling the statuette (see more information under ‘References’)

“The Sardinian bronzes from the Nuragic era representing priestesses are witnesses to the very strong religiosity of the Nuragic populations, closely linked to nature, water, woods, the sun and the moon, in which they acted as mediators between the people and the gods or between the living and the dead.

The Nuragic priestess is an elegant Sardinian bronze statuette. She wears a robe consisting of a large cloak, very similar to that of the tribal chief bronzes, representing a symbol of power and aristocracy. Her open arms symbolize a gesture of welcome, availability, and protection towards the Nuragic people. Her distinctive hat, with a wide brim and a conical tip, revealing her long hair falling to her shoulders, also serves to confer power and charisma to her personality.”

Sardinia’s Nuragic Priestess Wrought Iron Bronzes, a creation of ‘La Nuova Fucina’

 

One of the best-known examples is the Bronzetto di sacerdotessa orante (“Bronze figurine of the praying priestess”), discovered at the Nuragic complex of Albucciu near Arzachena and now housed in the Museo Nazionale “G. A. Sanna” in Sassari. It stands about 13 cm high and was cast using the lost-wax technique. This figurine is also similar to the one I mentioned above.

The figure wears a long cloak or mantle draped over the shoulders, with a short tunic beneath and a distinctive tall conical headdress. There is a tubular collar covering the neck and one arm raised in what appears to be a gesture of prayer or blessing. With the other hand she is holding a shallow bowl or offering vessel. The large eyes, aquiline nose, and stylised features are characteristic of Nuragic bronze sculpture.

Although we cannot reconstruct Nuragic religion in detail, the Sacerdotessa suggests several things. First, women clearly occupied visible positions within Nuragic society. The Bronzetti depict not only warriors and chiefs but also women engaged in what appear to be ceremonial acts. Secondly, the bowl almost certainly represents an offering — perhaps grain, wine, milk, water, or incense. Similar offering vessels occur throughout Bronze Age Mediterranean religions. Thirdly, the raised hand resembles the ancient Mediterranean gesture of prayer or invocation, found in Minoan, Mycenaean, Etruscan, and later Roman religious art. Whether this reflects a shared symbolic language or parallel development is still debated.

Sardinia contains over a hundred sacred wells and springs associated with the Nuragic civilisation. Many archaeologists believe that bronze figurines such as the Sacerdotessa were deposited at these sanctuaries as votive offerings. The Bronzetti were probably dedicated in thanks, in hope of healing, or in fulfilment of vows. Sacred wells such as Santa Cristina Sacred Well and the sanctuary at Santa Vittoria have yielded evidence of ritual activity consistent with this interpretation.

The little bronze figure known as the Sacerdotessa reaches across three millennia with a gesture that still feels familiar. Whether she was truly a priestess, a noblewoman, or a devotee presenting an offering, we cannot know. Yet her raised hand and offering bowl speak a universal language of reverence. She reminds us that long before temples of marble or written liturgies, people gathered in sacred places to honour the powers they believed sustained life. Across the centuries, her silent gesture continues to evoke humanity’s enduring search for relationship with the sacred.

(Information about the Bronzetti figurines – Nat. Arch. Museum Cagliari)

In conclusion, they provide a vivid glimpse into Nuragic society and suggest a culture that celebrated warriors, spirituality, craftsmanship, and seafaring.

The Giants of Mont’e Prama

One of the most exciting archaeological discoveries came in 1974 with the unearthing of the colossal limestone statues at Mont’e Prama. They are monumental limestone statues created by the Nuragic civilisation of Sardinia between approximately the 11th and 8th centuries BC. They are also the oldest known life-sized stone statues in the western Mediterranean, predating the great Classical Greek sculptures by several centuries.

(Giants of Mont’e Prama – Nat. Arch Museum Cagliari)

These towering figures represent warriors, archers, and boxers, standing over two metres tall. They are among the earliest monumental sculptures in the western Mediterranean and challenge previous assumptions about the artistic achievements of the Nuragic civilisation.

The statues portray three principal types of figures:

Boxers – perhaps ritual champions, carrying an elongated shield over the head and wearing a distinctive armed glove                                                                                                 Archers – equipped with bows, horned helmets, chest armour and greaves and thirdly Warriors – carrying round shields and swords, representing the military elite.

In addition to the human figures, archaeologists found stone models of the iconic Nuragic towers and sacred baetyl stones, suggesting the site held profound ceremonial significance.

The Giants have an unforgettable style standing 2 and 2.5 metres tall.  Their faces are highly stylised and the eyes consist of two perfectly concentric circles, giving them an almost supernatural gaze. The strong geometric forms, prominent noses and simplified mouths create a powerful, timeless expression. Many people have remarked that they appear almost modern in design despite being nearly three thousand years old. It is still a mystery as to why they were made.

The prevailing theories include; a hero cult honouring legendary ancestors or founding heroes of an aristocratic lineage. Or perhaps they were guardians of a necropolis, as they stood watch over an elite cemetery, protecting the dead. They may have formed part of a sacred ceremonial landscape celebrating the relationship between ancestors, warriors and the divine.

Religion was central to Nuragic life. Across Sardinia archaeologists have identified sacred wells and springs built with astonishing precision. Sites such as Santa Cristina Sacred Well display extraordinary architectural skill, with carefully cut stone stairways descending to underground water chambers. Many researchers believe these were centres of water worship and seasonal ceremonies, reflecting the island’s deep reverence for springs and the life-giving power of water.

The Nuragic civilisation did not disappear overnight. Beginning around the 9th century BCE, Phoenician traders established coastal settlements, followed by Carthaginian expansion and eventually Roman conquest in 238 BCE. Rather than being destroyed, the Nuragic people gradually became part of these new political and cultural worlds while preserving many aspects of their own traditions.

Standing within a Nuraghe however, one senses more than remarkable engineering. These ancient towers seem to hold the memory of a people who understood the land, honoured the ancestors, watched the stars, and lived in relationship with the cycles of nature. Though their language has fallen silent, the stones continue to speak — not in words, but in endurance, mystery, and presence. Like the sacred wells and the timeless mountains of Sardinia, the Nuraghi remind us that some truths are carried not by books, but by landscapes themselves. Today we experience a profound sense of sacredness.

Whether this reflects the intentions of its Bronze Age builders is something archaeology cannot yet determine. As anthropologist Sabina Magliocco reminds us, the meanings attached to these ancient monuments continue to evolve. The Nuragic finds and particularly the Bronzetti are not only relics of a remarkable civilisation; they have also become powerful symbols through which modern Sardinians — and many visitors — explore questions of identity, heritage, and spirituality.

REFERENCES:

Tales of Anatolia – from Ankara to Hattuşa and the Hittites – part 2

Hattusha photo: Morgana June 2014, see: /https://wiccanrede.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/20140608_111747.jpg

Photos of the Bronzetti figurines – Nat. Archaelogical Museum Cagliari – Morgana 2025

Sardegna Nuragica ‘Sacerdotessa’ Bronzetti Ferro Battuto una realizzazione ‘La Nuova Fucina’/Sardinia’s Nuragic Priestess Wrought Iron Bronzes, a creation of ‘La Nuova Fucina’ photo Morgana 2025

Photo of the Giants of Mont’e Prama – Nat. Archaelogical Museum Cagliari – Morgana 2025

Nuragic bronze statuette depicting the Priestess. Colour: Copper Green, Total height with wooden base: 12 cm https://www.sardegnacommercioelettronico.it/shop/bronzetti-nuragici/prodotto/1552-bronzetto-nuragico-sacerdotessa-verde-rame.html

virtualarchaeology.sardegnacultura.it)

https://historica.fandom.com/wiki/Nuragic_tribes

Sabine Magliocci ‘Festivals as Sites of (Re)Presentation and Reclamation in Sardinia’;

https://www.erudit.org/en/journals/ethno/2001-v23-n1-ethno06889/1087921ar.pdf?

https://www.sardegnacultura.it/articolo/bronzetti?

NB For the archaeological & academic perspective, see the works & papers by  Giovanni Lilliu, Gary Webster, and Fulvia Lo Schiavo.

See also, “The bronze statuettes and the identity of Nuragic people”:

And this YouTube clip from ‘Dan Davis History’, The Nuragic Civilisation of Bronze Age Sardinia.

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Remembering Peter J. Carroll – by Julian Vayne

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Julian Vayne

“The only clear view is from atop the mountain of your dead selves.” PJC (1953 – 2026)

When Liber Null was first published in 1978, Peter J. Carroll was only twenty-five. It is difficult now, in an occulture where chaos magic has been absorbed, diluted, declared dead, memed, and endlessly repackaged, to fully appreciate how stark and strange that text felt on first encounter. It did not read like a grimoire in any traditional sense, nor did it resemble the more baroque occult literature circulating at the time. It was lean, austere, it was a manual not a mythos.

Its authority did not derive from appeals to some imagined Natural Law, ancient tradition or ministering Angel. Instead, it opened audaciously with a diagram: a flowchart of global magical traditions converging into a single box marked with the gnomic inscription IOT. Those who read further discovered this stood for the Illuminates of Thanateros, a shadowy magical order that seemed to exist somewhere between fiction and recruitment pitch. This approach, where the assumed authority to do magic was disposed of in a single chart, stands in stark contrast to Doreen Valiente’s Witchcraft for Tomorrow, also published in 1978. In that book Valiente spends hundreds of pages detailing a witch cult hypothesis mash-up before finally presenting a Book of Shadows, including a rite of self-initiation for would-be witches, at the end of the text. While I like Doreen’s work, and am myself an initiated Wiccan, the point here is that while Carroll’s approach recognised his magical inheritance, his attention, like that of ‘scientific progress’ was firmly on the future.

There was a brash, Machiavellian, science-fiction vibe in Liber Null, one that would persist throughout the voluminous writings that Pete would produce over the next five decades of his life.

I didn’t encounter Carroll’s writing until some years after Liber Null’s first appearance. My route towards this radical current was through the Leeds occult scene, via The Sorcerer’s Apprentice esoteric supply store run by the idiosyncratic Chris Bray, and through my connection with Phil Hine, who was then part of the experimental magical group that Catherine Summers and I ran in the mid-1980s. I had already been involved in magical work for some time. I’d started young, sixteen, when I first entered that world and I thought I had a reasonable sense of the terrain.

But Liber Null felt different.

(Liber Null second edition 1981. Note the ‘space age’ font.)

 

It had an edgy, iconoclastic quality, a refusal to ornament esotericism with the usual layers of obscure theology. It stripped magic back to something functional, almost procedural. Then there were the diagrams in Psychonaut (first published 1982) strange, quasi-scientific schematics drawing loosely on catastrophe theory. While the term ‘chaos magic’ itself would not appear until later (Carroll would use it explicitly in Liber Kaos, 1992), the sensibility was already present: non-linear dynamics, fractal thinking, an emphasis on experiment and results, a postmodern willingness to dismantle inherited systems and reassemble them in new ways.

Chris Bray, especially in the pages of the ‘zine The Lamp of Thoth, of which he was the editor, was an enthusiastic advocate for this emerging current with its distinctive, edgy, dark, intellectually provocative vibe. There was something of the goth about it, certainly, but also something we would now recognise as proto-cyberpunk, a fascination with systems, with hacking reality, with reprogramming belief. This all seemed great but it also, if I’m honest, sounded a bit macho; all runes and blokes shouting at sigils, and perhaps it was for that reason that I didn’t get in touch with Carroll et al. I stayed closer, at that time, to the unfolding story of Paganism. It would be many years before I met Peter J Carroll, and years after that before I joined the IOT.

It has been said many times but bears repeating; the core of Carroll’s contribution was the idea, expressed clearly in Liber Null, that belief is not a truth to be defended, but a tool to be used. Magic operates within paradigms, systems of belief, and the magician’s task is not to find the ‘correct’ one, but to become adept at shifting between them. (It should of course be noted that none of this sprang fully formed like Athena from Carroll’s head. Rather he was the writer who articulated ideas being developed by a community of practitioners.)

The concept of paradigm shifting stood in stark contrast to the staid Christian inheritance of ceremonial magic, the folkish duo-theology of Wicca, or the prophetic religiosity of Crowley and Thelema. Chaos magic, in its early articulation, treated magic as a method, a technology, something that could be practised without requiring adherence to any overarching metaphysical doctrine or ethical position.

You didn’t need lineage. You didn’t need permission. You didn’t need to wait for your Holy Guardian Angel to make contact. What mattered was doing the work, or to use a more modern idiom; fuck about and find out.

The youthful energy of Carroll’s writing is palpable throughout Liber Null, along with the kind of confident, occasionally swaggering pronouncements about what an adept should or should not do that perhaps only comes naturally at twenty-five. Even his examples of sigil work carry that tone. The desires given as examples; to obtain a copy of the Necronomicon, to restrain an adversary and to encounter a succubus in a dream, tell us much of what might need to know about this irascible young sorcerer.

Alongside paradigm shifting was his emphasis on ‘gnosis’, a somewhat idiosyncratic use of the term, to mean the altered state in which the usual mental chatter falls away. Whether reached through stillness, intensity, exhaustion, or ecstasy, gnosis allows intention to bypass the filters of the everyday self. For Pete, this was the fuel of magic. Everything else ritual, symbolism, belief was a means of containing and engineering that state.

Looking back, it’s clear how influential that combination of concepts was. It offered both a method and a meta-method: not only how to do magic, but how to change the framework within which magic itself is understood.

By the early 1990s, Catherine Summers and I were producing a monthly pagan zine, Pagan Voice, which in its heyday had a print run of 1000 copies a month. I remember running a short piece noting that Pete had stepped back from leadership of the IOT “to spend more time with his familiars”. It was a line that made me smile, lightly irreverent, slightly absurd, and entirely in keeping with the tone of chaos magic, which always seemed to oscillate between the serious and the playful. Pete has told me that he was leaving the IOT (of which I was not yet a member) soon after we met following my move to Bristol.

At that time he was running Amphora Aromatics. Initially a small store in the centre of Bristol which, over time, would change premises as it expanded and moved uptown. This wonderful smelling apothecary existed when such things were not yet ubiquitous in culture. It was filled with oils, incense, resins, and all manner of exotic materia magica.

We would hang out in the shop and talk. Pete had a way of moving easily between the technical and the speculative. One moment he might be discussing an incense ingredient, the next outlining some theoretical extension of magical practice. He would sometimes press things into my hands; substances, ideas, fragments of whatever he was currently exploring. I remember him once giving me a bottle of caprylic acid, describing it, with evident satisfaction, as “pure essence of goat”.

Around 1995, I found myself in a somewhat liminal phase of life, renting out the flat I owned on the outskirts of Bristol while spending time in the centre of the city with a new partner, saving for a round-the-world journey. Pete and his wife had done something similar years earlier, and his travels in India had clearly left their mark. He spoke of it as both fascinating and, memorably, “the most venal country” he had ever visited.

At that time, I was living in a shared house with artists and musicians at one end of a street; Pete lived at the other. One spring day, I ran into him outside. He was in an avuncular mood. After a brief exchange, he said, “I’ll show you my wizard’s lair”, and ushered me into his house and down into a large, darkened cellar.

There were, as one might expect, all manner of occult objects ritual implements, symbolic artefacts, curious pieces whose provenance I didn’t fully grasp. But what caught my attention most was something else entirely.

Rows of meticulously painted gaming miniatures.

They were arranged with extraordinary care figures, units, formations the kind of thing I had briefly obsessed over as a youth during my own flirtations with table-top and imaginal games like Warhammer and Dungeons & Dragons. Seeing them there, in that context, was unexpectedly revealing. Because to understand Pete, I think, you have to understand his relationship to games.

Pete did not approach games casually. For him, they were systems structured environments in which forces are balanced, rules are tested, and outcomes emerge through interaction. Strategy, modelling, world-building: these were not hobbies so much as extensions of his thinking.

Those miniatures in the cellar were not just nostalgic artefacts. They were clues to the nature of this wizard.

His father had fought in the Second World War, and Pete carried with him a fascination with militarism not necessarily in any straightforward political sense, but as a language of organisation, hierarchy, and the deployment of power. He once suggested that human conflict might be traced, in part, to the evolutionary consequences of opposable thumbs (see Liber Kaos, War Magic) a remark both absurd and oddly characteristic. One is tempted to point out that lemurs and koalas manage similar dexterity without global warfare, but such was Pete’s style: provocative, speculative, not always concerned with empirical neatness or the wider philosophical context.

You can see this fascination reflected in the structure of the IOT itself; where semi-autonomous ‘Sections’ (a military term) form its distributed but coordinated network. It was apparent in his online magical school ‘Arcanorium College’ (the website for which one could have been forgiven for thinking was some kind of Lord of the Rings style game). In that space developed ideas including ‘The Knights of Chaos’ and the ‘Chaos Jihad’, attempts to mobilise magical practice to address global issues including climate change. You can see Pete’s love of war-games in his later writing too, which often drifted into speculative designs: imagined spacecraft, political systems, theoretical models. The same impulse runs throughout to construct a system and observe how it behaves.

Seen in that light, Liber Null begins to look less like a mystical text and more a way to gamify reality.

Pete’s intellectual reach was considerable. He ranged across cosmology, speculative physics, and what some might call para-physics, always with a sense that there might be an underlying mechanism to uncover. His background in chemistry informed this, even as he expressed a certain disdain for the discipline.

“Biologists study life, physicists the nature of the universe”, he once quipped. “Chemistry is just cookery! Bombs and drugs are the only interesting part of it.”

It is a characteristic statement: irreverent, both literarily and literally incendiary, but not entirely unserious. It also captures something of his sensibility.

He cut a distinctive figure: tall, long-haired, bearded, often in a leather jacket, a kind of biker-mage look, though, as far as I know, without ever passing any kind of driving test. There was a theatricality to him, certainly, but it was grounded in genuine curiosity and creative drive.

He had a gift for epigram. “Enchant long, divine short”, he advised. “Laughter is the only tenable attitude in a universe which is a joke played on itself.” And that again, with explosive metaphor, that having children was a great way to “throw bombs at the future”.

For some sixteen years until his death in April of this year, Pete was involved with the Order of Bards Ovates and Druids, and the creative dimension of Druidry suited him. He was a maker not just of ideas and magical orders, but of objects. A look through his blog turns up several miniature model spacecraft from imagined worlds, crafted using a range of both bought and found materials.

The Epoch or Portals of Chaos deck (2014) is a good example of his creative ambition realised in collaboration with the artist Matt Kaybryn. Oversized, elaborate, unmistakably his, another game-like, not-tarot card system. The deck depicts deities derived from multiple mythologies, ordered according to their planetary resonance, with a side helping of H.P Lovecraft’s Elder Gods. I’m proud to appear in the deck as the model for Mercury. Pete, who managed to avoid having clear photographs of himself widely circulated during his lifetime, can be found in the deck as a deity at his forge. (At the launch of The Book of Baphomet in Glastonbury in 2012 at which Pete spoke, I even found myself asking the audience not to photograph him, explaining with only slight exaggeration, that he was terribly shy. I suspect he enjoyed his visual anonymity.)

Pete was deeply influenced by the work of Terry Pratchett, whose Discworld novels combined humour, satire, and a sophisticated engagement with magic. Carroll’s system of eight colours of magic, developed in Liber Kaos, includes Pratchett’s invention of ‘octarine’, the indescribable colour of magic itself.

Pratchett’s own relationship with occultism ran deeper than his public statements suggested. Pete, I suspect, wasn’t aware of this. But my oaths of initiation, and a general sense of discretion, prevent me from saying more.

The same applies to some of the more outlandish stories about Pete. Those who are curious might consult The Book of Baphomet for one of two of them. Others, including the cautionary tale of the belladonna jam, will have to wait.

Pete was, like many significant figures, a bundle of contradictions, a curious conspiracy of selves. Politically, he leaned conservative free-market libertarian and supported Brexit, yet he also maintained a commitment to ecological thinking and recognised the reality of anthropogenic climate change.

On a personal level, there were tensions too, questions of identity, of control, of the ability to let go. There was a certain bombast to him, certainly, and at times that could harden into something more rigid. He wasn’t at home with that whole kinky, queer, psychedelic side of occulture. This is perhaps unsurprising in someone whose favourite means of gnosis was summoning feelings of rage and anger. The culture which developed within the IOT and chaos magical generally did not always suit its founder. Like many who create something powerful, Pete eventually found himself at a distance from his creation

I was once browsing in a store and saw an image of Baphomet on a skateboard deck, that iconic figure of Éliphas Lévi’s which Pete wove so closely into the chaos current. Instead of solve et coagula, the arms bore the words Carroll and Crowley. This felt entirely appropriate: the magical lineage of the 20th century acknowledged and reworked with a certain irreverent flair presented as a hip youth product.

Pete Carroll was not a conventional occultist. He was not a traditionalist, nor a rigid system-builder. He was something more dynamic, he was a disruptor, a designer of frameworks. Cantankerous, occasionally irritating, often very funny, sometimes unexpectedly warm, and always creative.

Like all of us, he was imperfect. But he was also one of the most significant magicians of the late twentieth century, an iconoclastic irritant within the oyster of the Western Esoteric Tradition, around whom the spiky black pearl of chaos magic formed.

He leaves behind not a doctrine, but a set of tools. Not a fixed system, but an invitation to practice and to pursue The Great Work of Magic.

He will be missed.

Julian Vayne, May 2026

(Published with permission by Julian Vayne, July 2026)

Thanks Julian!

For more news about Julian please go to: (Interesting addresses- Julian Vayne )

 

 

 

Originally published here, 9th May 2026:

Remembering Peter J. Carroll

 

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Obituary Peter J. Carroll (1953-2026)

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Morgana

April 26, 2026: The Wizard has gone.

Mogg Morgan wrote “With great sadness, we have to inform you that the celebrated occultural author, teacher and innovator Peter J Carroll passed away unexpectedly in the early hours of Wednesday, 22nd April 2026. He was a star whose books and ideas changed the lives of millions. He was instrumental in the birth of Chaos Magick, one of the most significant new magical/philosophical streams of thought of our times. He is survived by a wife and two daughters.”

Remembering Pete, “If there isn’t a photo, it didn’t happen.”

That was one of Pete’s favourite sayings. He would often deliver it with that unmistakable twinkle in his eye and the dry humour that so perfectly reflected his character. It was classic Pete — playful, irreverent, sceptical and just provocative enough to make you stop and think.

And yet there is a delightful irony in those words. For someone who transformed the landscape of modern magic, there are remarkably few photographs of Pete in the public domain. It is almost as though he quietly stepped aside and allowed his ideas to take centre stage instead. Perhaps that was entirely fitting. Pete never sought celebrity; he sought understanding.

I first met Pete in 2008 at the Colours of Chaos conference, in London. Like many others there, I was looking forward to meeting the man whose writings had challenged so many assumptions about magic. His books had already inspired a generation of practitioners to think independently, to experiment fearlessly and to question accepted truths.

Meeting him was an absolute pleasure. Despite his reputation as one of the foremost magical thinkers of our age, Pete was approachable, generous and wonderfully unpretentious. Conversation flowed easily, punctuated by his sharp wit and infectious sense of humour.

When I asked whether he would be willing to give an interview for Wiccan Rede, he agreed immediately. The resulting conversation was published in two parts in the Beltane and Lammas 2009 editions of this magazine. Looking back now, I realise what a privilege that was. It gave me the opportunity to meet not simply the author of Liber Null and Psychonaut, but a man of enormous curiosity whose mind never seemed content to rest.

Pete is rightly recognised as one of the principal architects of Chaos Magic and as one of the pioneers of the Illuminates of Thanateros (IOT). Through works such as Liber Null, Psychonaut, Liber Kaos, The Octavo and The Apophenion, he fundamentally changed the way many people approached magical practice. Rather than offering another fixed system of belief, he encouraged us to treat magic as an experiment — to observe, to question and to discover through direct experience.

Although our magical paths were different, we shared something essential. Whether Wiccan, Druid, Heathen, ceremonial magician or practitioner of Chaos Magic, we are all explorers of mystery. Pete reminded us that genuine magic begins with curiosity. He invited us not to believe blindly, but to investigate, to challenge and, when necessary, to rethink everything we thought we knew.

What impressed me most during our interview was that he never pretended to have all the answers. Even after decades of writing and teaching, his interests continued to evolve. Mathematics, cosmology, consciousness, philosophy and the nature of reality itself all became part of his continuing exploration. He remained, until the end, a seeker.

As Co-Editor of Wiccan Rede Online, I am grateful that our magazine was able to preserve a small part of Pete’s voice through those interviews. More personally, I am grateful to have met the man behind the books. His kindness, generosity and quiet humour left as much of an impression on me as his formidable intellect.

Pete’s influence reaches far beyond the tradition he helped to create. His ideas continue to inspire magicians of every path who value independent thought over dogma and experience over unquestioned belief. His books will undoubtedly continue to provoke, challenge and inspire future generations.

Pete once joked, “If there isn’t a photo, it didn’t happen.” Perhaps he was only half serious. His legacy is preserved not by photographs, but by the ideas that continue to spark curiosity in others. It is found in the minds that have been opened, the conversations that have been shared, the questions that continue to be asked, and the lives that have been changed. By that measure, Pete’s life happened in abundance.

Farewell, Pete, may your journey continue into the mysteries you spent a lifetime exploring. See you in the Multiverse.

REFERENCES

Peter J Carroll (1953-2026)

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Maansverduisteringen in wicca – een symbolische interpretatie

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Sven

Maaneclips te Mosul. Prent van Jan Luyken, 1689. Collectie Rijksmuseum

Maansverduisteringen komen zo’n twee keer per jaar voor, maar binnen de wiccatraditie krijgen ze vaak weinig aandacht, en dat terwijl de volle maan al eeuwenlang wordt gevierd en in wicca geldt als een krachtig moment voor viering en magisch werk. Een verduistering biedt een unieke gelegenheid om de ‘schaduw’ van ons innerlijke zelf te verkennen. In deze tekst verbind ik astrologische inzichten, Jungiaanse psychologie en de specifieke ‘Lankestriaanse’ maankalender om een symbolisch‑psychologische interpretatie van maansverduisteringen te bieden. Het resultaat is een praktisch kader dat zowel ritueel als innerlijk werk ondersteunt.

De rol van de maan in wicca

In wicca speelt de maan een belangrijke rol. Heksen vieren doorgaans de volle manen tijdens vieringen die esbats genoemd worden. Traditioneel geldt de esbat als een werkbijeenkomst. Het belang van de volle maan blijkt uit de Charge:

“Whenever ye have need of anything, once in a month, and better it be when the Moon be full, then ye shall assemble in some secret place and adore the spirit of me, who am Queen of all Witcheries. There shall ye assemble, ye who are fain to learn all sorcery, yet have not yet won its deepest secrets: to these will I teach things that are yet unknown.”

Enerzijds is het dus een moment om te aanbidden, anderzijds een moment om kennis op te doen. Vooral uit de laatste zin blijkt de volle maan als werkbijeenkomst.

Christina Oakley-Harrington geeft in een interessante podcast* haar kijk op de vieringen: de Goden zijn niet almachtig en hebben onze aanbidding of energie nodig. Maar eens per maand groeit hun kracht, en op het hoogtepunt, met volle maan, geven de goden terug. Daarom is de volle maan een geschikt moment voor magisch werk. Een andere kijk op magisch werk is de gewoonte om het doel van het werk af te stemmen op de maanfase: met wassende maan trek je zaken aan, en met afnemende maan bedrijf je magie om dingen kwijt te raken. Nieuwe en volle maan zijn in deze context juist minder geschikt voor magisch werk, omdat het momenten van stilstand zijn. De inzichten en opvattingen verschillen per stroming, coven of zelfs heks.

De Lankestriaanse maankalender

In de Gardneriaans-Lankestriaanse lijn (de lijn vanuit Joke en Ko Lankester) hebben alle manen van het jaar een eigen thema en betekenis gekregen. Ko heeft zich hiervoor gebaseerd op de maankalender van Merlin (Silver Circle), maar heeft een en ander aangepast. Zie hiervoor De Keltische maankalender in het zonnejaar van Joke en Ko Lankester. Ko heeft niet alleen iedere maan van een thema voorzien, onder andere door deze te koppelen aan een boom en een Ogham-teken, maar ook van een ritueel. Het is in deze inwijdingslijn gebruikelijk deze vaste rituelen op de daarvoor aangewezen momenten (manen) uit te voeren.

Astrologische perspectieven op verduisteringen

Een punt van interesse voor mij, onder andere vanwege mijn interesse in astrologie, zijn verduisteringen. Als we veronderstellen dat zon en maan in wicca zo belangrijk zijn, hoe kan het dan dat er nauwelijks aandacht is voor verduisteringen? Ik ging op zoek naar een manier om deze gebeurtenissen, die sinds mensenheugenis doorgaans veel indruk maken op ons, te duiden en in te bedden in mijn wiccapraktijk. ‘Voelen’ wat voor energie dat moment met zich meebrengt, is voor mij geen heilzame weg gebleken. Op dezelfde manier waarop een volle maan soms heel erg invloed lijkt te hebben op het leven in een dag (slecht slapen, spanning, bepaalde emoties), en soms weer totaal niet, was er voor mij ook op de verduisteringen geen peil te trekken.

Vanuit de astrologie bekeken zou je dan kunnen nagaan waar in je geboortehoroscoop de verduistering precies valt, om dan te onderzoeken of dat punt contact maakt met andere belangrijke punten of planeten in je horoscoop. Als dat het geval is, dan is, kort gezegd, de verduistering voor jou relevant; zo niet, dan niet of minder. Daarnaast zal de astroloog kijken in welk ‘huis’ (levensgebied) de verduistering valt. In dat huis mag je dan tot aan de volgende eclips ‘verduistering’ verwachten. Maar daarmee blijft het effect van de verduistering uiterst persoonlijk (in tegenstelling tot het algemenere thema van de maan), en het laat een eclips die in je horoscoop geen belangrijke punten raakt helemaal buiten beschouwing, waarmee die betekenisloos zou zijn. Maar is iets dat zo tot de verbeelding spreekt en op de psyche inwerkt niet altijd relevant? Al met al gaf het me weinig houvast.

In mijn opvatting zijn er vier manieren om iets te onderzoeken, gesymboliseerd door de vier elementen. Weg bewegend van de route van de Weg van de Aarde (observeren wat het doet), de Weg van het Water (voelen wat het doet) en de Weg van de Lucht (beredeneren wat het doet) bleef de Weg van het Vuur over. Het element vuur draait om intuïtie: zien hoe dingen zich zouden kunnen ontwikkelen, zien van mogelijkheden, en vooral: het zien van verbanden en patronen in symbolen. De Weg van het Vuur bracht mij tot een symbolisch-psychologische interpretatie van een verduistering.

Om dat te begrijpen is het nodig eerst te begrijpen wat een eclips is, en om te begrijpen dat een zonsverduistering iets anders is dan een maansverduistering. Bij een zonsverduistering schuift de maan tussen de aarde en de zon, daarbij de zon verduisterend. Dit gebeurt daarom per definitie altijd met nieuwe maan. Een maansverduistering werkt net iets anders: deze vindt altijd plaats bij volle maan. Hier is het de aarde die tussen maan en zon in staat. De aarde blokkeert dan het licht van de zon. Maar doordat het licht in de dampkring van de aarde wordt afgebogen, valt er nog wel wat licht op de maan, en door die buiging gaat het vooral om licht aan de rode kant van het kleurenspectrum. Bij een (volledige) maansverduistering verdwijnt de maan dus niet (zoals bij een zonsverduistering de zon ‘verdwijnt’), maar kleurt ze rood. Ze rijst als het ware op uit de schaduw en laat een andere kant, een ander aspect, haar ‘schaduwkant’, zien.

Maansverduistering: de zon (rechtsboven) schijnt op de aarde (midden) die daardoor een schaduw werpt op de maan (linksonder). Prent van Vincent Laurensz. van der Vinne (II), 1696 – 1742. Collectie Rijksmuseum

Jungiaanse schaduw en de maan

In de Lankestriaanse lijn vanaf de Sub Rosa-coven speelt het Jungiaans denken een grote rol. Het begrip schaduw is dan ook heel belangrijk. Jungiaans gesproken staat ‘schaduw’ voor al die onderdelen van de persoonlijkheid die vergeten, verdrongen of nog niet ontdekt zijn en die verstopt zijn in het onbewuste. Eigenschappen dus die bij je horen, maar die je (nog) niet kent, of niet wil kennen. Aan ons als stervelingen de schone taak deze schaduw te leren kennen en te integreren (Ken Uzelve). Een niet-gekende schaduw zal zich namelijk aan het bewustzijn op blijven dringen in de vorm van projectie in de buitenwereld: je loopt steeds tegen dezelfde vervelende situaties aan, komt steeds weer die nare arrogante mensen tegen, et cetera. Zolang je niet beseft, en integreert, dat deze nare omstandigheden juist over jou gaan, blijven ze zich openbaren aan je via je omgeving, en controle uitoefenen over je, niet zelden in de vorm van ‘noodlot’. Uitingen van het onbewuste kunnen gekenmerkt worden door een soort alles-of-niets houding, of ontregeling of ongemak. Een belangrijk punt hierin is overigens het idee dat de schaduw nooit totaal geïntegreerd kan worden, al was het maar omdat de schaduw maar een deel van het onbewuste is. Er zal altijd een deel voor onszelf verborgen, onbewust, moeten blijven. Net zoals dag en nacht elkaar in stand houden, is het de dynamiek tussen het bewuste en het onbewuste die leven brengt.

Als we deze interpretatie van de schaduw combineren met de beschaduwde volle manen, die in de kalender van Ko allemaal een eigen thema hebben, zou een symbolische duiding van een maansverduistering kunnen zijn dat het een moment is dat de schaduw van het thema van die maan ‘belicht’ wordt. Dus: wat is de verborgen, of donkere, of minder prettige kant van dit thema? Wat als dit thema er teveel of te weinig is? Wat, aangaande dit thema, zie je niet? Hoe komt dit thema steeds weer op je pad? Je zou de verduistering kunnen zien als een aanmoediging om wat dieper te graven en op zoek te gaan naar die zaken rondom het thema van de maan die je misschien nog niet bedacht hebt. Of heb je iets laten liggen? Is het misschien zelfs een waarschuwing? Het is mijns inziens niet een kwestie van een kant en klare duiding, zoals je bijvoorbeeld in sommige tarotboeken een duiding van een gekeerde kaart hebt. Net zoals het thema ‘reiniging’ voor iedereen iets anders betekent in het leven, doet de schaduw daarvan dat ook.

Overigens zie ik een eclips als iets wezenlijks anders dan de ‘donkere maan’, die ik persoonlijk los zie van het thema van de maan. De donkere maan (die we astronomisch gezien nieuwe maan noemen, een term die ik zelf dan weer hanteer voor dat moment dat de maan voor het eerst weer zichtbaar is) beschouw ik als een liminaal punt. Als de rust tussen twee ademhalingen. Niet meer een onderdeel van de vorige maan, en nog geen onderdeel van de volgende.

De Sneeuwmaan

Ik schrijf dit stuk op 3 maart 2026. Vanmiddag rond half 1 was de maan vol, en het was een verduistering (die zijn er overigens gemiddeld twee keer per jaar, de vorige was op 7 september 2025). In de maankalender van Ko is dit de volle Sneeuwmaan. Het thema dat aan deze maan verbonden wordt, is ‘kiemkracht’: in deze tijd van het jaar moet blijken welke zaadjes (en welke projecten en ideeën) levensvatbaar blijken te zijn, en welke niet. Niet alles wat gezaaid wordt, komt uit. Daarop doordenkend gaat deze maan over schiften, keuzes maken, loslaten wat niet werkzaam blijkt en koesteren en verzorgen van wat dat wel is. We doen magisch werk om bepaalde oude patronen los te laten, en nieuwe ideeën kracht mee te geven. Maar de eclips bevraagt ons hierop.

Wat is de mogelijke schaduw van kiemkracht? In de voorbereiding op het ritueel praten we hierover: hebben we misschien teveel ideeën? Of juist te weinig? Maken we wel keuzes? Geven we energie aan zaken waarvan we weten dat ze niet levensvatbaar zijn? Graven we de zaadjes steeds op om te kijken of ze al uitkomen? Nemen we misschien te snel afstand van het oude, en gaan we te snel door naar het volgende? Mijn hogepriesteres Marloes en ik bevragen elkaar hierover. We zijn net een coven begonnen en we willen door! De start is gemaakt, die laten we achter ons, nu is het tijd om te groeien en nieuwe mensen aan te trekken. Door dit gesprek beseffen we dat de start misschien nog helemaal niet achter ons ligt, maar dat we er nog midden in zitten. Misschien gaan we te snel. Misschien is de basis nog helemaal niet zo solide: als we te snel groeien zonder aan de wortels te blijven denken, waaien we bij de eerste voorjaarsstorm om.

We kiezen voor een twee-sporenbeleid: de tijd is daar om te denken aan groei, en om daar werk voor te doen, maar intussen blijven we werken aan de solide basis: hoe gaan we het doen? Hoe denken we over belangrijke zaken? Wat moet er in de opleiding? Hoe voelt het überhaupt om los te komen van onze moedercoven? Heeft dat al wel een plek gekregen? We gaan door met de blik vooruit, maar iets behoedzamer en met aandacht voor waar we nog middenin zitten. Sommige zaadjes hebben extra aandacht nodig.

De Maan van het Weerlicht

Een ander voorbeeld. De volgende maansverduistering is op 28 augustus. Dit wordt een gedeeltelijke maansverduistering, geen totale, maar voor mijn symbolische interpretatie maakt dat niet uit. In de kalender van Joke en Ko is dat de Maan van het Weerlicht. Het thema is wijsheid, (spirituele) oogst, dankbaarheid. Deze maan nodigt ons uit om na te denken over de schaduw van dat thema. Die staat niet vast. Het zou een misstap zijn te proberen algemene schaduwinterpretaties van dat thema te geven: wat ik in deze benadering voorstel, is te reflecteren op het thema van de maan in jouw persoonlijke context, en dáár de schaduwzijde van te onderzoeken.

Vanuit mezelf bekeken zou ik bijvoorbeeld aan de slag kunnen gaan met de vraag welke waanzin ik vermom als wijsheid (waar loop ik van weg of laat ik over mijn grenzen gaan om de lieve vrede te bewaren?). Of met de vraag wat ik eigenlijk doe met al die verzamelde wijsheid – wat heb ik aan het verzamelen van kennis en kunde, als ik vervolgens als een gatekeeper op die rijkdom ga zitten? In welke levensgebieden ben ik helemaal niet wijs? Waar ben ik dankbaar voor? Beschouw ik bepaald noodlot soms als ‘cadeautje’ omdat ik nu ‘mag’ ervaren ‘wat voor mij belangrijk is’ terwijl ik eigenlijk gewoon tekort ben gedaan en gerechtigheid zoek?

Integratie

De maan komt weer tevoorschijn uit de schaduw, 27 juli 2018. Foto © Medeia

Deze voorbeelden schetsen een mogelijkheid van hoe de maansverduistering symbolisch en psychologisch geïnterpreteerd kan worden. Bij de Sneeuwmaan kreeg het de vorm van een gesprek, en bij de Maan van het Weerlicht in een persoonlijke reflectie, over de ‘schaduwzijde’ van het thema van de maan, maar er zijn meer vormen denkbaar. Misschien is een eclips een goed moment voor ‘innerlijk werk’; meditatie, visualisatie, magie of ritueel om aan de slag te gaan met dit schaduwdeel in jezelf.

De eclipsen symbolisch duiden geeft nog enkele andere handvatten: een zonsverduistering zou een mooi moment kunnen zijn voor een derdegraads inwijding, aangezien Zon en Maan samenvallen (als in een hieros gamos). Voor wie een apocalyptischer gevoel van een eclips heeft, is dit misschien geen heilzame route, maar de symboliek spreekt voor zich. Een maansverduistering is wellicht een goed symbolisch moment voor een tweedegraads inwijding, vanwege de nadruk op de schaduw in de tweede graad. Een laatste suggestie zou zijn om eerstegraads heksen nog niet te laten werken met de schaduw van de manen. Leer eerst maar eens de basis kennen. Vanaf de tweede graad kan het perspectief van een schaduwmaan of eclips concrete handvatten bieden voor schaduwwerk.

Conclusie – de maansverduistering als poort naar transformatie

In dit stuk heb ik een begin gemaakt met het verkennen van een mogelijke interpretatie van maansverduisteringen. Een maansverduistering is meer dan een astronomisch fenomeen; ze fungeert binnen de Wicca‑praktijk mogelijk als een spiegel die de verborgen, ‘schaduw’-kant van het maanthema onthult. Door de combinatie van astrologische positionering, Jungiaanse psychologie en de Lankestriaanse maankalender ontstaat een rijk symbolisch landschap waarin de verduisterde maan ons uitnodigt om de onbewuste aspecten van onszelf – die vaak in de schaduw blijven – in het licht te brengen.

Wanneer de volle maan wordt verduisterd, vraagt het leven ons om stil te staan bij de ‘schaduw’ van het bijbehorende thema. Door de verduistering bewust in ritueel en schaduwwerk te integreren kunnen we de tijdelijke duisternis omzetten in een katalysator voor nieuwe inzichten en persoonlijke transformatie. Zo wordt de maansverduistering niet slechts een hemelverschijnsel, maar een herhaaldelijk aangeboden poort naar diepere zelfkennis, heldere intentie en duurzame spirituele groei.

Marloes en Sven. Foto © Ser, Coven Sub Rosa

* “What Magic Is This?”

Veel van de boeken van Joke en Ko Lankester zijn vrij verkrijgbaar. ‘Het vieren van de maanfeesten’ waar dit artikel aan refereert, is onder andere hier te vinden: https://druiderij.nl/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/Vieren-vd-Maanfeesten.pdf

Sven is derdegraads gardneriaans priester uit de lijn van Joke en Ko Lankester. Hij is onlangs met Marloes coven ‘De Wilde Jacht’ gestart in Elim, Drenthe. Samen met Ser maakt Sven de podcast ‘De Wilde Rozen‘, die gaat over hun perspectief op wicca en aanverwante zaken. Hij is te bereiken via sven@dewildejacht.nl

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Lammas; een oogstfeest

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Serotia

De periode van Litha, Midzomer, Zomerzonnewende ligt alweer achter ons. Voor mij is de laatste benaming eigenlijk de beste, omdat het een tijdsaanduiding is. De langste dag (meeste uren licht) en markeert het begin van de astronomische zomer. Het begin, niet het midden dus.

Buiten is het momenteel (13 juli als ik dit schrijf) een beetje triest, door alle hitte en droogte van de afgelopen weken hangen de bomen en planten er zielig bij. Ik sproei zoveel mogelijk water, en zet heel veel waterbakken neer voor de vogels en bakken met steentjes en water voor de insecten. Ik zie de vogels overdag wat badderen hierin, alles heeft het een beetje moeilijk nu.
We hebben ’s nachts een egeltje in de tuin waar een gevulde waterbak voor staat en kattenbrokjes als ik naar bed ga.
Het graan mag het dan inmiddels gered hebben, de maïs staat nog op de velden, en de fruitbomen moeten nog komen met hun oogst straks bij het tweede oogstfeest; de herfst-equinox. Maar dan hebben ze wel water nodig, anders wordt het een schamele oogst van verschrompelde appels, pruimen en peren. Dan is er straks weinig te danken en weinig overvloed en dat is toch waar dat jaarfeest voor mij om gaat.

Maar nu eerst vieren we alweer Lammas, of Lughnasadh – het feest van de zonnegod Lugh. Het eerste oogstfeest, we vieren de graanoogst, en ook dankbaarheid en overvloed. Ikzelf gebruik de benaming Lammas, wat ‘broodmis’ betekent. Juist omdat bij dit feest de nadruk op het oogsten van het graan ligt. En mooi als tegenhanger op het jaarwiel van Candlemas oftewel Imbolc.
Bij het ene feest wordt het Licht geboren, en bij het andere feest sterft het Licht.
Of zoals wij heksen symbolisch zeggen, de God sterft, Vader Zon …

Lughnasadh Invocatie
door Orewoed | EarthCraft Wicca

Tot het Zuidwesten wenden wij
Met de rijkelijke graanoogst aan onze zij
Gezegend de heilzame broden die voeden
Na al die arbeid en al dat zwoegen
Gezegend de Hoorn die copieus is gevuld
Opdat we met levensenergie worden vervuld
Gezegend de Zon, de stralende Lugh
De krijgsgod der kunsten lacht ons toe
Vier het leven en de vruchtbare Aarde
Om ons werk te schatten op de juiste waarde
Behendig als de Zonnegod zijn wij
De vruchten van ambacht maken ons vrij
Ontsteek de vuren, dans en lach tezamen
Offer de graanpop als dank aan de Aarde
Verricht het offer om terug te geven
Geef het offer om te leven
Alles dat valt en moet vergaan
Zal herboren worden in een nieuw bestaan
De graangod zal moeten sterven, geheid
Hernieuwde levenskracht is dan een zekerheid
Vergaar je opbrengst en deel in overvloed
De weelderige verdiensten van de Zonnegloed
De eerste oogst is erkentelijk ontvangen
Naar sappige vruchten gaan we gaandeweg verlangen
Want de oogsttijd zal nog even duren
Voor overvloed, ook in donkere uren
Blijken zal uit de reflectie die komen gaat
De gedane arbeid was het meer dan waard!
Zo zal het zijn!

Wij vieren dat traditioneel met het maken van een graanpop. We gaan weken ervoor al op zoek naar een veld met wat gerst of tarwe, en halen daar wat aren van het land.
Vroeger lieten de boeren een korfje graan staan na het oogsten, en staken dat naderhand in de fik om de vruchtbaarheid van het land voor komend jaar weer af te dwingen.
Wij maken dus die graanpop en zegenen deze tijdens het ritueel met de elementen. Om deze vervolgens met Imbolc te gebruiken om de aarde wakker te schudden, en daarna in het vuur te gooien voor vruchtbaarheid voor dat jaar. Mits de muizen het niet opgegeten hebben tijdens de winter.

Wat wij ook al jaren doen met de cakes and wine, is een brood maken in de vorm van een penis. Dit om symbolisch de God te oogsten … wel met een scherp mes in dit geval. We leggen het ook op de schoot van degene die de Zonnegod symboliseert in ons ritueel, en snijden dan een stuk van het brood af. Hierbij komt de vulling van kweeperengelei vrij en behoort de Zonnegod enig acteertalent te laten zien en horen … hij wordt tenslotte geoogst en afgesneden van de Aarde. Gelukkig is het van korte duur en worden zijn zaden getransformeerd in de oven van Moeder Aarde tot heerlijk brood. Hij heeft de Grote Moeder omarmd. Zijn geschenk van leven dient tot voeding van allen. Als ‘wine’ mag natuurlijk wit bier niet ontbreken, vanwege het graan wat ook hier in verwerkt is.

Ik eet van het Brood des Levens en weet dat de dood slechts de illusie van de profane wereld is. Wanneer de cirkel rond is, zal de Levensadem hem weer doen ontwaken, zal de Zon hem weer doen ontwaken, zal de regen hem weer doen ontwaken, zal de Aarde zijn bed zijn waarin hij weer zal ontwaken. Blessed Be!

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Volle maan van de speer

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Loes

Het is oncomfortabel heet en benauwd momenteel… en dan lees ik mijn verslag van vorig jaar 🙂 dat was pas heet! Gelukkig werd dat afgewisseld met air-conditioning. Mijn Egypte-reis <3 wat is die al ver weg gezakt! Het ging zo snel en in zo’n top tempo… ik vergelijk het nog steeds met een droom. “Ik zit voor de tv een docu te kijken over Egypte, wat ik graag doe. Ik wordt in mijn nekvel gegrepen en in Caïro neergezet en daar ga ik ‘rennen’… langs alle geweldige sites!! Dan kom ik na 10 dagen weer in Caïro… word in mijn nekvel gegrepen en teruggezet op mijn bank voor de tv”. Nog steeds is dit het gevoel dat ik over heb gehouden aan mijn Egypte reis… een droom.

2025 Volle maan van de Speer

De volle maan van de Speer viel dit jaar op 9 augustus. En laat ik nou precies op 9 augustus de lucht in gaan en wel om 8.00 ‘s ochtends. Die ochtend stond ik om 2.30 op. Dat was een kort nachtje! Voor het eerst in mijn leven heb ik een reis geboekt! Een reis die ik niet eens heb uitgezocht. Een reis waar ik amper naartoe heb geleefd. Een reis waarvan ik niet dacht die ooit te maken.

Het begon in januari van dit jaar. Lekker een dagje sauna met een goede vriendin en manlief. Tijdens het kopje thee vooraf, in de sauna, vertelde de vriendin dat zij naar Egypte ging met Djoser (een reisorganisatie die al 40 jaar actief is in Egypte). Ik zei direct: ”Dan ga ik met je mee!”… en zij zei: ”Dat lijkt me geweldig!”. En zo besloten we, binnen een minuut, om samen dit avontuur aan te gaan. Heel langzaam daalde het besef in dat ik op reis ging. Ik, die een boswandeling al heel fijn vind en niets meer te wensen heb qua reizen. Naast het boeken en betalen kwam er zoveel meer bij kijken!! En daar zag ik nog het meeste tegenop. Maar stapje voor stapje heb ik alles geregeld. Het paspoort aanvragen, de prikken aanvragen (die kwamen ze gelukkig thuis zetten), de creditcard aanvragen, een Apple smartphone overgenomen en daar nog mee om leren gaan, vervangende mantelzorg aanvragen (daar ben je voor verzekerd als je aanvullend verzekerd ben)… alle andere paden liepen dood om mama te verzorgen bij mijn afwezigheid. Gelukkig bleef mijn man thuis, zodat hij de boodschappen en dergelijke voor mama kon blijven doen. Maar ook hij was veel afwezig omdat hij met Greenthingz twee festivals had te bezoeken, waarvan een in het buitenland.

De twee weken vooraf aan mijn vakantie had ik gelukkig ook vrij genomen. Naast Castlefest had ik ook nog twee meiden in te werken voor bij mama. Natuurlijk nog een kappermomentje met mama en dan zijn de dagen zowat op. En ‘ik ga op reis en wat neem ik mee?’, ook zo’n dingetje. Hier had ik gelukkig de afgelopen maanden veel over na kunnen denken. Alleen de schoenen… welke schoenen draag je bij 50 graden of meer? Veel te dure Meindl-sandalen aangeschaft… die bij nader inzien niet comfortabel zitten en dus verdwijnen op Marktplaats. Na beraad met mijn dochter besloten om mijn vertrouwde Asics te dragen, warme voeten krijg je toch… laten ze dan ook niet moe of pijnlijk zijn. Dus kies voor iets dat fijn zit.

Vreemde zaken meegenomen… en gebruikt! Mijn metalen Dopper en dompelaar… perfect voor het zetten van een kopje thee in de hotels waar geen waterkoker stond. De thee meenemen bij de hotels waar die waterkoker wel stond. Een groot en zwaar geweven doek. Dit legde ik over alle bedden waar we sliepen. Zo kon ik met mijn stoffige kleding op bed zitten en schrijven. En op de boot heb ik er onder kunnen slapen. Een zware strandtas (gered van de kledingbult op Greenthingz-weekend) lekker gebruikt aan het strand en voor de snorkeldag! En natuurlijk mijn tube met wasmiddel. Alle kleding heb ik gewassen en sommige kleren meerdere keren, drogen doet het in één nacht… en buiten: binnen het uur! Drie hoedjes, het grootste het meest gedragen en de andere twee eenmaal. De grote was het minst windgevoelig, beste pasvorm! Dus alle zaken gebruikt die ik mee had.

Goed voorbereid ben ik op 9 augustus de lucht in gegaan. Eindelijk eens gevlogen met volle maan! Wel jammer dat het al licht was toen we eindelijk de lucht in gingen. En alle volgende dagen was het te bewolkt om haar te zien. Er was een week lang een hittegolf in Egypte! Ik wist niet beter dan dat het 50 graden of meer zou zijn. Maar dat blijkt helemaal niet gewoon daar. Zo rond de 40 graden is gewoon, deze hitte was ook al meer dan 50 jaar geleden voor hen. Wij hadden natuurlijk het comfort van een airco bus, airco hotel, airco nachttrein (op het koude af!!) en bijna alle winkeltjes hebben airco, zelfs de wachtruimte op het station had airco. Alleen de sites waren warm, echt super warm. Maar als sauna-ganger kan ik tegen de hitte. Het is een kwestie van erin berusten en zweten. En genoeg kleding aantrekken om dat zweet op te vangen. Zeker niet in je blote allesie gaan lopen, zo dom! Laagjes, hoed en sjaal. En ‘s avonds even door het sop halen, weer helemaal schoon.

Ik heb geweldige sites bezocht! Abu Simbel, de piramiden van Gizeh en Sakkara, Kom Ombo, Edfu, Karnak, Valei der Koningen, tempel van Hatsjepsoet en als kersje op de taart… gesnorkeld! Wat is het mooi onder de golven! De Rode Zee is een van de mooiste duiksites ter wereld, wordt gezegd. Ik heb tussen de vissen mogen zwemmen en ze zelfs mogen voeren… wat uit den boze is! Degene die filmpjes maakte drukte me, onder water, iets in de handen. Na een tijdje werd ik toch nieuwsgierig wat hij in mijn handen had geduwd. Toen ik mijn vuist opende (heel voorzichtig) hadden de vlindervissen het snel door 🙂 een heel klein stukje brood en dat was ik zo kwijt aan deze prachtige gele vissen. Maar de foto’s zijn leuk! Zwemmen in een aquarium, zo voelde het. En al dat koraal in soorten en maten. Ik hoop dat het voor altijd zo mooi mag blijven!

De mooiste tempel vond ik die van Edfu. De tempel van Horus en Hathor. De tempel van het heilige huwelijk. Ieder jaar werden hun gouden beelden het dak op gedragen om daar op te laden aan de ochtendzon. En ieder jaar werden hun heilige boten met elkaar verbonden. Op deze manier hoopten de mensen op vruchtbaarheid. Ieder jaar overstroomde de Nijl het land om dat weer vruchtbaar te maken.

In het heilige der heiligen stonden hun beider boten, ieder op hun eigen granieten sokkel. Die van Horus staat er nog, zij het een replica.

Voor de grote tempel van Horus staat de kleinere tempel van Hathor, de godin van het plezier, de muziek, dans en de liefde. Mijn quest op deze reis was om zoveel mogelijk de andere kant van Hathor te vinden… namelijk Sechmet. Hathor is mij ooit als persoonlijke godin toebedeeld door Caroline Groeneveld van Modron, waar ik mijn leergang van de natuurlijke vrouw heb gevolgd, long time ago. Maar Hathor is mij altijd bijgebleven. En dan vooral het dubbele van Hathor: de verzorgende en Sechmet de wraakgodin. En dat kan beide beschermend zijn, voor degene over wie zij waakt. En als moeder voelt dat ook zo, voor mij. Met liefde zorg ik voor mijn kinderen (ook mijn groene kinderen) en wee je gebeente als je hen iets aandoet, dan komt Sechmet om de hoek kijken. Beiden in en vanuit liefde. Mooi om Sechmet ook als hoedster achter Horus te zien staan. Hathor heeft hem gevoed en Sechmet is z’n bodyguard. In bijna iedere tempel heb ik haar aangetroffen, alleen in Karnak niet (misschien is ze er wel, maar Karnak was druk en heet… en groot!!)

Ook in de graven in de Valei der Koningen kwam ze voorbij. Alleen bij Toetanchamon waren er weinig goden. Eén kamer met schilderingen (geen reliëfs!) en twee kale kamers vol met schatten. Een haastklus voor een vroeg gestorven farao. Onze gids had een mooie theorie, waarom Toet zoveel meegekregen had. De andere graven zijn groter en veel mooier, maar hadden geen plaats voor zoveel spullen. Geen opslagruimten voor spullen. Men gaat er altijd vanuit dat bijvoorbeeld Ramses de 2e zoveel meer schatten mee zou hebben gekregen. Maar dan hadden die voor de zeer belangrijke reliëfs gestaan, dat was not done geweest. Toet is naar zijn inzicht beloond door de priesters omdat hij de ‘één-god-periode’ van zijn vader Achnaton achter zich liet en de oude goden weer in ere herstelde… en dus de priesters ook! We zullen het nooit weten. Want waarom hebben ze bij Toet zijn hart nooit terug geplaatst en was zijn mummie grotendeels verbrand door teveel hars bij de mummificering? Dat getuigt van straf in plaats van beloning. Maar hier sprak onze gids niet over. Zijn graf is klein en weinig potsierlijk in vergelijking met graven van farao’s die er hun overwinningen tot in den treure afbeelden en zichzelf verheerlijkten. Van dit alles niets bij Toet. Ik ben er echt op audiëntie geweest om hem eer te bewijzen, de kleine gehandicapte farao die veel te vroeg overleden is. Of hij nu naar de eeuwige jachtvelden is geholpen of door ziekte is geveld; oud is hij niet geworden… 19 jaar. De farao met een gespleten verhemelte, slechte benen en voeten (hij moest met een stok lopen)… waarschijnlijk niet gelijkend op zijn perfecte dodenmasker. Een jongen met een zwaar leven, getrouwd met zijn halfzus, twee dochtertjes die niet levensvatbaar waren (en bij hem in zijn graf lagen). En dan in bekendheid de grote Ramses de tweede overstijgen… BAM! En dat dankzij de grafgiften en zijn verholen grafplek. Zo zie je maar weer, soms is de voorzienigheid anders dan je zelf denkt te kunnen afdwingen 🙂

“Voorzienigheid verwijst naar de continue werking van een Opperwezen op de schepping en wordt gezien als de handeling van God die zorgt dat alles volgens een hogere orde verloopt, met af en toe ook een buitengewoon ingrijpen in het leven van mensen.

Kernaspecten van voorzienigheid:

Goddelijke Leiding: Het idee dat God aanwezig is en invloed uitoefent op de wereld, waarbij niets zonder Zijn medeweten gebeurt.

Onderhouding en Besturing: De voorzienigheid omvat het in stand houden van de natuurlijke orde en het besturen van alle gebeurtenissen, zowel de algemene als de bijzondere.

Hoop en Vertrouwen: Voor gelovigen biedt het begrip voorzienigheid hoop en een fundament van vertrouwen in Gods zorg en liefde, zelfs in moeilijke omstandigheden.

Niet Alles is Toeval: Vanuit het geloof in voorzienigheid is er geen sprake van toeval, maar is alles het resultaat van Gods plan en handelen.”

Ja, zo voelde het wel toen ik bij Toetanchamon stond. De voorzienigheid heeft hem groter gemaakt dan de grote Ramses de tweede. Zijn cartouches zijn weggehakt, hij had vergeten moeten worden. Net als zijn vader Achnaton en koningin/farao Hatsjepsoet. De tempel van Hatsjepsoet is als enige tempel helemaal overnieuw opgetrokken! Alle andere sites zijn oorspronkelijk met duidelijke reconstructies. Maar na de twintigjarige regeerperiode van de vrouwelijk farao werd haar tempel vernietigd, alleen de kleine Hathor-tempel in haar complex was er nog, en de dieper liggende gangen met reliëfs.

Hatsjepsoet betekent “Zij die de vrouwen voorgaat”, zij was de eerste feministe. En door haar tempel weder op te bouwen wordt zij geëerd in deze tijd. De regentes van Toetmoses de derde heeft haar plek in de geschiedenis terug gekregen. Ook haar obelisken in Karnak waren groots. Maar overal hebben de machthebbers na haar, haar willen ausradieren! Maar ook hier is dat niet gelukt, de voorzienigheid oordeelt anders 😉

Al met al een geweldige reis gehad. In 14 dagen Egypte doorgetrapt 🙂 van noord naar zuid en langs de Rode Zee terug… één groot avontuur! En waar ik het meeste van stond te kijken was mijn eigen conditie! Geen last van mijn achillespees, benen (wel compressiekousen gedragen alle dagen, met uitzondering van de snorkeldag) of warmte. En mijn buik en darmen hebben één nacht opgespeeld en daarna niet meer… ja, toen ik één dag thuis was 🙂 ook een nacht. Dit oudje kan nog goed meekomen; de jonkies hadden het er moeilijker mee 😛

Nu nog uitvinden hoe ik de foto’s en video’s van mijn Appeltje op mijn laptop krijg… gedoe!!

Een trotse Loes XX

En dan is het nu alweer een jaar later! Net de Hang-Uut achter de rug, waar wij al jaren crew zijn. Bij aanvang van deze happening was er een ceremonie. Met een draad verbonden we ons met elkaar, de draad liep door onze handen. We werden uitgenodigd een intentie uit te spreken. Mijn intentie was ‘surprise yourself’ (veel Engels-sprekende mensen daar :-p ). Daarna werd de draad doorgeknipt bij een ieder en mocht je het draadje houden. Ik knoopte het om mijn linker pols. En wat heb ik mezelf verrast! Naast de gewoonlijke djembé-cirkel buiten de kerk (waar altijd het concert wordt gegeven) die ik mag ondersteunen met de dundun of doundoun. De drie afrikaanse trommels die het vaste ritme aangeven. Het is mijn lievelingsmuzikaliteit, mijn middle name is ‘metronoom’ 🙂 Ik vind het heerlijk om een grondritme aan te geven en iedereen te laten vertellen en eventueel te laten ontsporen… maar via mijn grondtoon kunnen ze altijd weer de weg terug vinden naar de groep <3 Ik hoef niets te vertellen, mijn verhaal is ‘bedding geven’.

Na deze djembécirkel mocht ik ook als metronoom meedoen met een sextet van harp en handpan. Deze groep wilde graag optreden in de kerk, maar sloeg steeds op hol 🙂 Ik hoorde hen bezig en bood aan om de metronoom te zijn. Met een kleine handpan ben ik dat gaan doen en wat een geweldig stuk hebben we neer kunnen zetten!

En eigenlijk was mijn verrassing de flash mob van mijn Gregoriaanse koor met Jef die ook in Zwolle woont en geweldig handpan speelt. Mijn idee heeft een jaar kunnen rijpen en we waren twee maal samen geweest om te oefenen, mijn koor en Jef. En wat was het een verrassing voor iedereen! Jef op het podium en wij die uit het publiek opstonden en Gregoriaanse liederen zongen. Om hem heen gingen staan en weer gingen zitten… alsof er niets gebeurd was, heerlijk! En zo stond ik dus driemaal in het muzikale programma van de Hang-Uut! En ik vond het zo gaaf. Niks geen zenuwen, gewoon heerlijk bij mezelf blijven en in mijn bubbel 🙂 En achteraf best trots dat ik dat toch maar heb gedaan.

Net als vorig jaar… surprise yourself! Soms moet je gewoon maar dingen doen omdat ze op je pad komen. Dat is ook de uitdaging van deze tijd van het jaar! VUUR, STRALEN en UITDAGINGEN AANGAAN.

Succes met jullie uitdaging!

XX Loes

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Stier Rosé

Geplaatst op 29 juli, 2026 door Annemarie Kruit

Dromen deed hij – herinnerde zich zijn
illustere voorvader de Minotaurus. De
bron die zich in het midden van het
labyrint bevond. Een stamvader om trots
op te zijn.

Dromen deed hij – wist weer van de kracht
en de macht die de IJslanders hem toe-
dichtten. De Stier die vanuit het westen het
eiland bereikte, de potentie die hij gaf
tijdens rituelen.

Dromen deed hij – van de wedstrijden waar
vrouwen en mannen hun moed testten. De
acrobatische sprong die zij maakten als
hij op hen afstormde. De hoorns die zij
beetpakten en zo hem ontweken.

Dromen deed hij – van zijn soortgenoten die
achter de menigte aangingen. Een menigte
gekleed in witte kleding met een sjaal van
de gekmakende kleur rood. Het doel was
de groep renners te laten vallen.

Dromen deed hij – voordat hij in stukken
werd gehakt. Zijn zachtste mooiste vlees,
zijn rocky mountain oysters, werden op
smaak gebracht in een rosé van framboos,
aardbeien en abrikoos.

Annemarie Kruit

Minotaur in wood

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