I know that on my main page I said that this diary tab would lead to a series of timed writing exercises as I set about the task of trying to rediscover my muse. Well, I haven't done too much for timed writings, being the father of a toddler kinda limits my ability to concentrate for long periods. 

However, I did get to thinking about mythology and ended up writing a post to my Pagan Mens' group that I would like to share:

First off let me explain, I have a hobby of writing fantasy stories, and recently I began the task of creating a fantasy world based on neolithic North America rather than feudal Europe. When I brought this up to the creative writing list I'm on, anything that reeked of American influence was immediately shot down. This got me thinking. I remember seeing a book titled "American Gods," written by Neil Gaiman in the book store. One of the the blurbs on the book cover stated that America had no stories of gods and heroes. That got me thinking even more deeply.

We are are Wiccans, Pagans, Neo-Pagans, Heathens, and Shamans - stories of gods and heroes mark our spirituality and beliefs. Many of us feel close kinship to the mythologies from the areas our ancestors are from. However, there are also those of us whose ancestors come from such a scattered array of locations that we can only call ourselves American. There are also those of us who do have strong lines of Native American ancestry in addition to our European ancestry. To what mythology should we subscribe? Yet, wait - America does have its own stories of gods and heroes. For what are the stories of John Henry, Paul Bunyan, Pecos Pete, the lowly Johnny Appleseed, El Hombre Dorado, The Seven cities of Cibola (commonly confused with El Dorado), The Great Ghost Dance and White Buffalo Woman, Tales of the Wendigo - wind walkers, and many more both precolonial and post-colonial. What are these stories and tales if not for being an American mythology?

In particularly, I began to think about the story of John Henry (one of my childhood favorites) the images of man versus mountain versus machine started to circle about my mind. It struck me that the image of a man, hammer in each hand - hammer heads glowing hot with the effort of a thousand by a thousand blows against rock emerging victorious from the side of a mountain wild eyed, with skin the color of midnight from the stone dust, was something so primal and masculine that it could have come from any culture during any time period. Now, to we who draw our spirituality from myth, what does this discovery of the new world mythic images mean to us and our spiritual beliefs?

Any thoughts?

Searching for the blessings of a long forgotten muse, I sit here, pen in hand with fingers cramping already. Staring at the blank page trying to remember. Try to form thought - been so long, been so long synapses are rusted. Trying to find the fuzzball, best man at my wedding. I've already walked through the darkness, the light was 6lb 11oz with blonde hair and blue eyes - may he never lose those eyes - full of merriment and wonder. I am old, jaded, and set in my reptilian ways - look at the dragonlet, he is all the meaning I've quested for, the meaning of life - now I think I've found it. Life exists to serve itself in never ending cycle. "Hoof and horn, hoof and horn, all that dies will be reborn - corn and grain, corn and grain, all that falls will rise again."

My soul was slain with the passage of time, but now I find myself renewed - dreams and hopes and fears and joys flow within me again. "Earth my body, water my blood..." the waves of spirit sing their tidal song. The young one embodies bliss and joy. "Air my breath, and fire my spirit" - the dragon calls to me again. Many say they would die for their children; I would kill for mine. A fierceness I've never felt beats in my heart and veins. Hurt my child and I am the dark god - the stag horned lord wielding the bloodied spear - fierce and terrible. I am again the lovers' son with love and kindness and mercy - may my son only know this side of me and never have to witness my wroth. 

My lifemate - my soulmate - my chosen companion of hearth and soul - my lover, my priestess, my goddess, my wife - I feel my love for her has only grown. She has set me upon this path that once I followed but have lost, and now have been shown again. Words are again my ritual tools, books my gods, libraries my cathedrals, and the blank page the altar upon which I make sacrifice.