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.
—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 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—”
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. 
“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.” 
When the Spirit of the Cap upon which were embroidered the words 
What on earth, I hear you asking, got into that dish? Why did she run away? Well, let me tell you. It was at one of our last carnivals. It was an enchantment. That dish was our Princess, and she was under the enchantment. Actually, the whole Royal Family was enchanted. The warriors came galloping in from the steppes beyond the river, but first they sent a Prince. He told our Queen that they were coming to “protect” us, that they were bringing new gods to us. Bringing what they called new civilization and new ways, bringing us what they called “good news.” Well, our Queen and Her Consort were rightly skeptical about all these news, and they locked the Princess up in a safe tower. Kept her there for who knows how long while that handsome but rapacious Prince came and went and the warriors surrounded our lands. Back and forth, back and forth. It was them that declared the carnival and threw that enchantment on all our important people. The Prince lured her down out of the tower—he’d stolen the magic words that unlocked the door—and then he told her he was going to eat her up. She thought it was a joke. He dressed himself up as a big spoon and persuaded her to dress herself as a dish. And then, when the invasion got serious, she ran away with him. Maybe she thought she was saving herself. 
There has been so much hate on display in the world so far in the 21
Let’s turn off the news for a little while. Let’s set aside our devices and all those pesky social media. Instead, let’s consider one of the best known (and, alas, probably most ignored) teachings of Jesus—the Sermon on the Mount as given in the Gospel of Matthew. I especially like the Beatitudes (verses 3-12):
You all know my story, at least the popular version of it. I was an only daughter, the princess (so to speak) of the house until Mama died. Then Papa, who couldn’t seem to manage anything, much less a busy household, went out and got married again and brought Stepmother and her two ugly daughters into the house…and the princess was promptly reduced to servitude.
Feminism and Religion 