On May 1st, I woke up feeling called to mark Beltane.
This was intimidating—I had never celebrated a pagan holiday on my own. In the handful of years I’ve been exploring paganism seriously, I’d only ever participated in rituals planned by others. Raised Catholic, the taboo against a “normal” person leading a religious ceremony still clung to me. I felt the shadow of shame pass over me as I thought about it.
Two years ago on Beltane, I saw a naked woman leading others in worship by the fire at my first pagan ritual.
A previously unknown well of grief and rage erupted out of me. In an instant they leveled the foundations of my world.
The woman by the fire showed me that I’d been lied to. My gender and my sexuality didn’t have to prevent me from being a spiritual leader. Everything I’d been taught was impossible stood before me that night. I left transformed.
One year ago, I celebrated both Beltane and the launch of my sex coaching business at that same event. This year, I stayed home working on that business—a practical choice that left me alone on the morning of May 1st.
Still, I longed for a connection to the earth and to God—the way I long for a lover I’ve been apart from too long. If I let the day pass without that connection, I knew the ache of self-doubt would feel much worse. So I went to a park near my house. I didn’t have a plan, but I trusted I would know what to do when the moment came.
As I walked into the forest, I stopped at a moss-covered picnic bench along a well-worn path. Sitting there, I watched the wind whip through the branches overhead.
A thunderstorm was coming.
To my human eyes, the wind looked wild and intimidating, the trees tilting like a boat about to capsize. But the trees told a different story.
They were young and lithe. They weren’t struggling—they were laughing. Delighted to be moved with such power.
Then a groundhog ambled down the path toward me. I stayed still, not wanting to scare him, but I don’t think it was necessary. He passed my bench, turned into the woods behind me—and that’s when I noticed the altar.
The body of a fallen tree lay parallel to the path. It was beautiful.
Death and decay repel most mortals. If it had been the body of a dead animal, I might have fled. But a dead tree is peaceful. You can see the new life fed by the death of the old. Trees don’t fear death.
I hadn’t known I was searching for an altar. But there it was. A dead tree laid out along a busy path, with a convenient place for contemplation. A dream catcher had already been added to the young tree growing behind it. Other people had felt the energy of this place.
That day, I left a large flat stone I’d found nearby on top of the fallen tree. On top of that I placed a fossil from the creek and a small pile of cannabis. I lit a tea candle I’d brought from home and tried to say what was in my heart.
My ritual was clumsy—words of love and gratitude echoing pagan rites I’d sampled over the years, accented by my native Catholicism.
But I chose them myself.
No priest or priestess.
No authority but the certainty in my gut and the love in my heart.
That was the day I went from exploring paganism to practicing it.
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