Author: Barbara Ardinger

Barbara Ardinger, Ph.D. (www.barbaraardinger.com), is a published author and freelance editor. Her newest book is Secret Lives, a novel about grandmothers who do magic. Her earlier nonfiction books include the daybook Pagan Every Day, Finding New Goddesses (a pun-filled parody of goddess encyclopedias), and Goddess Meditations. When she can get away from the computer, she goes to the theater as often as possible—she loves musical theater and movies in which people sing and dance. She is also an active CERT (Community Emergency Rescue Team) volunteer and a member (and occasional secretary pro-tem) of a neighborhood organization that focuses on code enforcement and safety for citizens. She has been an AIDS emotional support volunteer and a literacy volunteer. She is an active member of the neopagan community and is well known for the rituals she creates and leads.

Are These Three Novels Prophetic? Part 1: Gibbon’s Decline and Fall by Sheri S. Tepper by Barbara Ardinger

Members of this community (and others) have been feeling that the world is out of balance since the 2016 election. There’s a feeling that people are becoming less kind and that some men (following the model that lives and tweets in the White House when he’s not at one of his golf resorts) are more misogynistic. I’ve heard that Orwell’s novel Nineteen Eight-Four is more popular than ever before. We seem to be living in a new, dystopic society. It’s very sad and very scary.

I’ve recently reread three novels written by women that I think may be both prophetic and inspiring. I’m hoping that if you read them, too, you’ll inspired by their brave heras to keep on resisting. The novels are Gibbon’s Decline and Fall (1996) by Sheri S. Tepper, Woman on the Edge of Time (1976) by Marge Piercy, and The Fifth Sacred Thing (1993) by Starhawk. Continue reading “Are These Three Novels Prophetic? Part 1: Gibbon’s Decline and Fall by Sheri S. Tepper by Barbara Ardinger”

Wickeder and Wickeder by Barbara Ardinger

The raven was standing on the little table in the wicked witch’s private room. Expecting a new kind of feast, he dipped his beak into a bowl of wiggly white worms. And spat them clear across the room. “Great Suffering Succotash!” he exclaimed. “What is this stuff?’

“It’s ramen noodles,” the witch replied calmly. ”They’re cheap. And you know we need to save money. El Presidente’s got men cruising around the country doing whatever they want to obstruct justice. We’re all trying to save money and build up the resistance.” Continue reading “Wickeder and Wickeder by Barbara Ardinger”

A New Story for the Summer Solstice by Barbara Ardinger

This year the summer solstice occurs on Tuesday, June 20 in the Northern Hemisphere. (In the Southern Hemisphere, it’s the winter solstice and it occurs on June 21.) For us in the Northern Hemisphere, the summer solstice is the longest day of the year. The word “solstice” means “sun stands still.” It’s when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky and seems to stand in the same place before it begins moving toward the winter solstice. We like to think that the primary solar deity is Apollo, but there’s a whole crew of solar gods who are born near the winter solstice and live for a season in great honor, after which they’re sacrificed, spend a season underground, and are reborn.

But before there were solar gods, there were solar goddesses. Patricia Monaghan’s New Book of Goddesses and Heroines (Llewellyn, 1997) lists 58 of them, from Aclla to Xatel-Ekwa, who have been honored all around the world. Monaghan also tells us that Cinderella and Rapunzel may have been goddesses before they became heroines of what the Brothers Grimm called household tales. (Not fairy tales—no fairies in their stories.) Cinderella might have been a goddess of fire, and fire includes the sun. Rapunzel might have been “a sun maiden who would bring spring if she were not held prisoner by the witch of winter” (p. 265). Let’s reimagine Rapunzel in a solstice story… Continue reading “A New Story for the Summer Solstice by Barbara Ardinger”

Do We Need Wonder Woman Today? by Barbara Ardinger

We all remember the protests—and the pink knitted caps with the pussy ears—that filled the streets of our major cities after the inauguration of the Troll-in-Chief. Some members of this FAR community went to those marches and wrote about their thoughts and feelings in this space. I don’t go to marches and demonstrations anymore, mainly because it would be majorly inconvenient if I had an asthma attack right in the middle of when other people are trying to do important things. But I always send my thoughts.

And so I have recently been thinking about a feminist hera who can inspire us resisters. (Note that “hera” is not only the name of the queen of the Olympians, but it’s also the feminine form of “hero.” I’ve heard some women say “shero.” I guess that works, but it’s an ungainly word. Let’s call our courageous women heras and superheras. But I digress.) I’ve been thinking about Wonder Woman since the election. Here’s what I wrote about her in my book Pagan Every Day. (Note that I’m expanding what I wrote in 2003.) Continue reading “Do We Need Wonder Woman Today? by Barbara Ardinger”

Finding Quantum Magic with the Wicked Witch by Barbara Ardinger

When El Presidente decided his war against his people was insufficient, his toadies began throwing very, very tremendous bombs at the university. When one of those very, very tremendous bombs blew up the university library, pages from exploded books floated far out into the country. Some of them spiraled down and landed on the wicked witch’s farm. Among the refugees driven away by this attack upon learning and knowledge were Professor Schroedinger, who had once owned a cat, and Professor Heisenberg, who had proposed that one could know either where a cat was going or how fast it was traveling, but not both. The two physicists and many other new refugees were welcomed by those who had escaped earlier, among whom were displaced performance artists, philosophers, musicians, and scientists.

The wicked witch and the senior refugees called a meeting the next day. As people from other farms arrived, the two ravens, Kahlil and Hamilton, also flew in to attend. Everyone gathered in the field where they had magicked the scarecrow.

“My friends,” said the witch to the crowd of newcomers, “you’re welcome here,” she looked around, “though I have no idea where you can sleep. It’s already too crowded. All the farms, indeed, all the small towns past the woods and the river are also overcrowded. Is the capital city empty?”

“It’s nearly empty of people,” said Professor Schroedinger. “It’s just ruins and rubble.”

Kahlil the prophetic raven had been walking around the circle looking for handouts. “Yo, folks,” he said, “like I been sayin’, you’re all in a world a hurt. Yer El Presidente’s got most a th’ army, but since he decided to destroy learning, what else has he got? Nada.” He plucked up a tiny scrap of something that might be edible, then dropped it again. “He’s gonna come to a bad end. An’ that’s my prophecy fer today.” He bowed as everyone applauded, then dived on an eyeball. No. It was a cat’s eye marble. “Phooey.”

“A bad end,” said one of the professors, “is devoutly to be hoped. Ignorance is a dangerous weapon.” He turned to the wicked witch. “Madame, what can we do to ensure that the bad end is ultimately his and not ours?”

By this time, of course, all the refugees both old and new were becoming enraged at El Presidente and his endless war. A muttering was arising among the gathered people, and pretty soon, someone shouted out, “Hey—you professors know how to build bombs, doncha?” “Isn’t that what physicists do?” someone else shouted. “So hows about we build a big ol’ bomb and give El Presidente a taste of his own medicine?” At which nearly everyone raised their fists and began cheering.

The witch raised her hand to try to stop the cheering. “Wait!” she cried out. “If we start hurling bombs, then we become as bad as he is. Do we want that?”

Some of the refugees cried yes, it’s the only way to get back at him, the only way we can go home, while others stopped cheering and considered her question. “No,” some called back, “no, we don’t want to be like him. But what else can we do?”

One of the older refugees tapped Professor Schroedinger on the shoulder. “You did that experiment with your cat,” he said. “How about you just build a bigger box and put El Presidente in it? Then release that fatal gas! Who cares what other universe he goes to as long as he’s not here anymore?”

The professor shook his head. “That was a thought experiment,” he said. “And Sweetums, my cat, lived to a fine old age. I have no definitive proof that the thought experiment would work on the macro level in what we call ‘real’ life.” “And,” said Professor Heisenberg, “we have no more scientific equipment.”

While everyone was thinking about this, one of the louder refugees pushed his way through the crowd. When he reached the center, he approached the witch. “You keep saying you’re a wicked witch. Well, prove it! Be wicked! Invent quantum magic! Find a way to send El Presidente to some other universe. Or chop him up into quantums and send parts of him to multiple universes.”

This set everyone to whispering and muttering again. The idea of quantum magic even got the two professors thinking. After a brief conversation, they nodded at each other and turned to the witch. “We may be renowned theoreticians, but you’re the witch. How would this work? Can thoughts become things?”

And so the wicked witch let herself be persuaded. “Build another scarecrow and we’ll see what we can do. Professors, will you assist?”

A few days later, on the spring equinox when light and dark are equally present, refugees from far around returned to the field and took their places in a huge circle that was many layers of people deep. A new scarecrow (wearing a nice red tie) stood in the center, and the two ravens were dancing on its shoulders. As the wicked witch took her place at the north and cast the magical circle, the ravens flew around the circle nine times.

“Let us begin our magic,” said the witch. “Our honored professors worked on the subatomic level, with particles and waves. One thing they learned is that the particles and waves like to change form and become wavicles. I don’t know what a wavicle looks like…but we have our imaginations! What do you think a wavicle might look like?” She was silent for several minutes as the people built images of wavicles in their minds. “And now we attempt our quantum magic,” she said. “Throw your wavicles at the scarecrow and visualize them going to El Presidente to punish him for his crimes by being dissolved and his parts sent to multiple universes.” A few minutes later, the scarecrow disappeared.

Barbara Ardinger, Ph.D. (www.barbaraardinger.com), is a published author and freelance editor. Her newest book is Secret Lives, a novel about grandmothers who do magic. Her earlier nonfiction books include the daybook Pagan Every Day, Finding New Goddesses (a pun-filled parody of goddess encyclopedias), and Goddess Meditations. When she can get away from the computer, she goes to the theater as often as possible—she loves musical theater and movies in which people sing and dance. She is also an active CERT (Community Emergency Rescue Team) volunteer and a member (and occasional secretary pro-tem) of a neighborhood organization that focuses on code enforcement and safety for citizens. She has been an AIDS emotional support volunteer and a literacy volunteer. She is an active member of the Neopagan community and is well known for the rituals she creates and leads.

Springing Forward with the Wicked Witch by Barbara Ardinger

Barbara Ardinger El Presidente was enlarging his war against his citizens. This meant the roads were more crowded than before with refugees fleeing the capital city for safety among the farmers on the plains and up in the hills. Some of these refugees arrived, of course, at the farm of the wicked witch.

Refugees

Whenever a family arrived, the witch would put on her wickedest face and voice (she’d been practicing) and tell the children she was going to roast them and eat them with mashed potatoes and baby gravy. The children believed her for about a minute and a half, whereas their parents just smiled as each family was taken in hand by the senior refugees and led to rooms where there were new beds. The tenured refugees had (with the witch’s permission) taken charge and somehow found enough lumber to build two new rooms (lean-tos) at the side of the house. They were also working the farm and doing whatever they could with other providers of shelter to make newcomers as comfortable as possible. All the farms across the plains and in the hills had nearly run out of food to feed their guests, but with the coming of spring and tiny green shoots already showing, many of the people were hopeful. Continue reading “Springing Forward with the Wicked Witch by Barbara Ardinger”

A Light Story by Barbara Ardinger

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

raven —first there was a dark eye at the window. Then a tap-tap-tapping. Then a long black beak came around the edge of the slightly open window. Then the raven hopped inside. “Oh, goody,” said a gravelly voice. “Eyeballs! I dearly love a tender, juicy eyeball.”

The wicked witch looked up from the quaint and curious volume she was perusing. “Oh, Kahlil,” she said, “those are grapes. And,” she added, “do come in.”

Already in, the raven speared a grape. “Pfui! I hate grapes! Back in the city,” he added, “there’s so many dead bodies lying in the streets all the scavengers think it’s a feast day everyday.” He paused and dropped the grape on the floor of the tiny room. “It’s awful in the city. It’s awful everywhere. No sign of yer husband, either. Witchie-pooh, how ya doin’ out here in the country?”

She sighed and pushed the book aside. “Not well. Not well at all. There’s no more room in my house for refugees, and yet they keep coming. The storehouse is nearly empty, and we need to find new seed to plant. I’ve put some of the men in charge of the farming. They’re waiting for the season to change.” She waved one hand over the table. “And I’ve still trying to learn how to be properly wicked. I’ve got all the books I can find. I’m looking for a spell that works. One that will bind el presidente. And his army. Kahlil, has it ever been this dark?”

oil-lamp The raven looked around. The tiny room at the top of the tiny wooden house was filled with books and papers written in a dozen ancient languages, which the wicked witch was reading by the light of a sputtering oil lamp with a nearly empty reservoir. “Well,” he told her, “we’re only six weeks past the solstice. Yeah. It’s dark all over. Girlfriend, you could do with a little more light—” Continue reading “A Light Story by Barbara Ardinger”

Happy New Year by Barbara Ardinger

Here we are, beginning a new year. Let’s hope it’s a good new year. I grew up in a working-class family in St. Louis. We were Calvinist and Republican. I’ve escaped from the last two, but I still claim my working class background. My father was a lithographer, my mother, a housewife. And I will never forget the advice given every year (actually, more than once every year) by my Dutch grandmother: Whenever you start something new, start clean. Take a bath, brush your teeth, wash your hair. More than that, she meant clean your house. Wash dishes. Dust. Vacuum. Pick up stray books and pet toys. Gramma put the fear of god in me, at least about cleaning. Every time she took the bus down to visit me while I was in graduate school, I spent two days cleaning my apartment.

It’s thanks to Gramma that when I wrote a daybook titled Pagan Every Day, I started the year writing about home. Here’s the page for January 1:

Usually, we invoke Janus on this first day of the year. He was the Roman two-faced god of the doorway (ianus), the transition point between the safe indoors and the outside world, where anything could happen. Roman weren’t alone in believing that this opening needed to be protected. The mezuzah, which holds verses from Deuteronomy, is affixed to doors of Jewish houses, the façade around the doorway of a medieval cathedral is as elaborate as the altar, and nearly every pagan is taught to cut a “doorway” into the energy of the circle. As the doorway stands between inside and outside, so does the turning year stand between an old year we knew and a new year we don’t yet know. Janus gave his name to January and the Romans honored him all month. Before he came to the city, however, he was Dioanus, an Italian oak god whose consort was the woodland goddess, Diana. Continue reading “Happy New Year by Barbara Ardinger”

A Midwinter Ritual by Barbara Ardinger

Midwinter, the winter solstice (December 21), is the shortest day and longest night of the year. I like to think of Yule, an old pagan name for the solstice season, as a time when we get to take a nice, long, peaceful nap between all those holiday parties. For this ritual, you need two candles (silver and gold), a blanket, and a small gift for yourself.

santa Santa Claus is really a shaman. He wears red and white and black (the three sacred colors of the so-called ancient triple goddess) and he’s fat because he’s well-fed. (A traditional shaman once told me never to trust a skinny shaman; if his people don’t provide for him, he’s not doing his job.) Santa flies from the frozen north, where the Saami (or Lapp) shamans still wield their full traditional powers. He’s drawn through the air by magical reindeer whose antlers symbolize the surging force of life. The Christmas tree is the world pole. From Mongolia to the American Southwest, shamans traditionally ascend the world pole to make their astral journeys. Santa knows everything, especially if we’ve been good or bad, and like karma itself, he brings us our just desserts. His gifts are the gifts of the spirit made material. His attendants, the toy-making elves, are the Old Ones who help the deserving and play tricks on the undeserving. Santa is not a god, but let’s honor him along with the solar gods and goddesses in our midwinter ritual. Continue reading “A Midwinter Ritual by Barbara Ardinger”

A “Wicked Witch” Discovers Gratitude by Barbara Ardinger

Once upon a time there lived a youngish woman and her husband on a tiny farm outside the capital city. Their life was satisfactory. But when el presidente declared war on another country, the husband was press-ganged into the army, leaving his wife alone on the farm. Well, alone with a milk cow, a sow, a rooster, a dozen hens, and, on one side of the house, seven tiny graves holding stillborn babies.

The woman was devastated. “What am I going to do?” she asked herself over and over again. “The land here is poor and infertile. I’m poor and infertile.” She was so unhappy, all she could do was mope around. The animals went untended and soon began foraging for food. The seven tiny graves went unweeded. Their one good field went unplowed. The woman stopped taking care of herself.

The war went on and on. She could still hear explosions in the capital city, and now there were people traveling along the road at the edge of her field. Telling herself the explosions and the refugees from the city were none of her business, she just sat inside, feeling sorry for herself.

Time went by, and one morning when the youngish woman happened to look in the mirror (which was cracked), she was both surprised and not surprised by what she saw. Her hair was gray and ragged and dirty. Her face was wrinkled and dirty. Her clothes were wrinkled and dirty.

witch “My goodness!” she said. “I look like an old wicked witch!” She gave this some thought. “Well,” she finally said, “why not? I’m alone and friendless. I have barely enough to eat. I remember hearing about other old women who lived alone. People thought they were wicked witches. Hunh! I guess that’s what I’ll do now. Go into the wicked witch business.” She thought some more. “Well, maybe semi-wicked. My grandmother taught me stuff her grandmother taught her—how to mix potions to heal or kill. How to read the cards. All I need to do is remember those lessons. Then I can go into the wicked witch business.” Continue reading “A “Wicked Witch” Discovers Gratitude by Barbara Ardinger”