The Trouble with Patrons #divinepatrons #owc

Divine Patrons.

I feel like I have spent insurmountable lengths of time turning the subject over in my head. Perhaps, coming from a Protestant background, the idea of having a relationship with deity which reflects the parent/child dynamic resembles a comfort familiar to my childhood conception of “God as a father.” Even having left the church, I still ed that feeling of closeness, of utter intimacy, in my private prayers of earlier years.

I’m hoping some of you reading this are familiar with Rick Riordan’s book series about Percy Jackson, the problematic middle school kid who finds out his dad is Poseidon. Ever since I opened that first book in sixth grade, I have been in love with his writing—at 23 1/2 years old, I still swear by it.

Because Poseidon is his dad, he can do things like manipulate bodies of water or speak to horses. Meanwhile, children of Athena tend to be extremely intelligent, and Apollo’s kids are talented in various skills, such as archery, poetry, or medicine.

Upon being introduced into the Pagan community, certain people I met and had been exposed to expressed their relationship with a patron in this manner—as an actual parent. I heard claims like, “I’m a daughter of Sekhmet, which is where I get my temper from,” stated as simply as though they were explaining which of their parents’ physical traits they had inherited.

Maybe the scenes of demigods being claimed by their divine parentage in these pages, further emphasized by the statements made by the pagans I’d known, are what fueled my need to be claimed by a patron as I entered into the world of Wicca.

Immediately my attention was drawn to two well known, equally wonderful goddesses. These were the Great Goddess Isis, and the Titaness Hecate, Queen of Witches. At this stage of my journey, I still battled to break out of my Christian perspective on the occult, and the idea that magic was not only something that could be sacred, but that it was something even I was capable of doing, exhilarated me. Naturally, my instinct was to pursue a goddess well known in Wiccan circles to be intrinsically tied to the practice of magic. In this way, my pursuit of the magical arts would be blessed by a patron of magic itself.

So, I pondered over which of these Goddesses to chase for some time. Looking back, I now understand this was not constructive for developing any sort of rapport with deity. I learned in time that relationships cannot be forced, sacred or human. While I did make the decision to work towards earning the right to name Isis my “patron deity,” it wasn’t a decision I found myself able to uphold or commit to so early in my craft. The thought faded away.

As I researched, I came across other figures I might’ve called patron: Cerridwen, Anubis, Nut, Hera, Circe, Diana, Lucifer, Lilith, and a few more. I going through phases of intense excitement over the thought of one of them sticking, but my practice was not solidified enough for anything to take. So it remained a series of temporary phases.

This isn’t to say I didn’t experience with any of these beings. On the contrary, deities like Isis, Diana, and Lucifer responded to me through various omens. On asking Isis for a sign of Her willingness to work with me, an outdoor meditation was interrupted by the beating of a hummingbird’s wings, which hovered mysteriously over me for what felt like hours.

In 2019, everything went wrong. A traumatic incident involving S, the police, and the heartbroken of many families shattered me into a million pieces, the way glass can sometimes shatter into crystal dust when it hits the ground. I stopped practicing anything. I stopped worrying about who might show up as a patron. I did not care. I did not want to be here anymore.

The incident eventually ed, but it still stuck with me in a way. It probably always will. However, I knew it was time to heal.

Months later, I opened my dusty old books on Wicca. On traditional witchcraft. On paganism and shamanism. I forced myself to spend time outside, simply seeing Nature itself as my mother and father. It gave me some comfort and began to restore my strength. I grounded, I centered. I prayed to the trees, to the Earth, to those breathtaking celestial lights in the sky.

On Imbolc day of 2020, I drove myself to the bookstore, as a treat, and then walked to a nearby park. The sky was grey and drizzling, and the air was cool, but not cold like winter. I could see the green of the Earth beginning to return, and I felt it returning in me, too.

Then, it happened. As I ed by a tall tree standing at the center of a triple crossroad, there was a change in the air. There was a change in my body. My consciousness was ejected from its everyday, waking state. I will never be able to describe to you in words exactly what I felt, but I was not here anymore. It was as though I had walked beyond a threshold I hadn’t even been aware of.

I stood between the worlds.

At this time, I called out to the gods, alone, in that park. I called out to the Maiden, Mother, and Crone. I called out to the ancestors. I called out to the Universe. In all my grief, in all the trauma I clung to, I called out to be transformed into something else. As I spoke, the rain suddenly poured harder and harder over me.

A voice came to me. Not like one you might hear rolling off the tongue of another person, but one like an inaudible whisper from inside. “Approach the tree,” it seemed to say. “Offer up all that does not serve you.”

At first, I hesitated, unsure if maybe I was having some hysterical fit. But, as the feeling persisted, I found myself stepping forward. I placed my hand on the tree, and I offered my heart up. The rain cascaded down in heavy droplets.

”I release you. You are entering a new chapter.”

And then it was done. I wept, more than I had in years. I felt, for the first time, that my identity was not tied to my trauma. I did not have to be a victim. I could embrace my life as a beautiful experience.

It goes without saying that I became very interested in the voice, the presence which had appeared to me that day. So, I opened my eyes for more signs, and I waited. They came, in everything I consumed—books, TV shows, experiences walking around, and even in my daydreams.

After engaging in rites intended to encourage the presence to identify itself, it did—with overwhelming synchronicity. As some of you reading might have guessed from the meeting occurring at a triple crossroads, She appeared to me once again as the Trivian Goddess Hecate.

To say I was thrilled beyond belief is a violent understatement. Years had gone by as I waited to be claimed by a god(dess), and in my heart I felt the time had finally come. I had been claimed.

The many months following my encounter were, more or less, filled to the brim with exploration into Hekatean Witchcraft. I read blogs and listened to videos and podcasts by modern witches such as Cyndi Brannen of “Keeping Her Keys.” No amount of historical research on Her myths and cult practice could satisfy every bit of me that wanted nothing more than to learn how to work with Her.

In order to take that next step, to consecrate myself to Her as Her priest and witch, I enacted a ritual asking that She send me unmistakable signs of Her consent. I asked, as per tradition, for three signs within three days.

I almost wish I could tell you that those signs blew into my life like a storm, flying in with bright colors and confetti. She did send me three signs, but not of Her consent: the unidentifiable feather of a bird who had left its nest, a broken skeleton key, and a large, black dog who wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.

There are times in our spiritual journeys where we are bound to misunderstand something. I did not understand initially, but She came to me simply to help me transform in the exact way I needed, at the exact time I needed it. That’s all.

Heartbroken as I was, I understand the necessity of Her appearance now. I will be forever grateful for the gifts She brought into my life, and the lessons I learned in that time.

Gracious Goddess as She is, those were not the only omens She left me. At every turn in those three days, the Universe seemed to declare, “Return to the old ways of Ancient Egypt!”

Suddenly, I ed how, as a young child, it was always Egypt I loved the most. It was always those mysterious, animal headed gods that caught my attention above all others. I ed having dreams of roaming through the archaic tombs of the pyramids when I was only a few years old, following the strange blue lights which lit the dark corridors like alien fireflies.

And it made sense, and I wondered how I could have ever thought I was meant to walk any path other than the one my inner child had always known I belonged to.

As I write this, I still have no deity to call a patron. Maybe, when I’m ready, one will step forward. Maybe no one ever will. Either way, I’ve learned that developing a meaningful, sacred relationship with deity does not require you to have a patron.

Perhaps more importantly, I learned that, as much as I desire that relationship, my magical practice is equally valid whether I have one or not.

#pwspotlight