The Ritual Begins Now
The Old Ways of Beltane
Beltane happens annually on May 1st, which is the subject of this post, but I am writing this two weeks later and while I want to be true to the spirit of these posts, I’m choosing to break the fourth wall for a moment by acknowledging that I am writing this in the shadow of Gordon White’s passing this week. I never met Gordon, so I want to be respectful of those who actually knew him well and not grift onto his memory as so many others have done, but Gordon was a monumental influence on my occult life (for a fitting in-memoriam by someone who did know Gordon well, read the piece I’m linking below by Peter Grey whose books are a wonder in their own right).
I found Gordon’s work early in his ascent to prominence in the weird and insular world of contemporary magick. I read his books and listened to hours upon hours of Rune Soup over the years, even taking a few of his deep and challenging courses in the premium section of the site. He led me to many other thinkers, podcasters, authors, and schools of thought over the years. Other than Disinfo and Grant Morrison’s The Invisibles, no other source has affected me so much.
It’s not that Gordon and I followed the same path, and as the years went by, I found his path harder to relate to; it was that Gordon was not the typical magickian that drew me in. He was sardonic and funny, charming, and deeply studied without ever lapsing into the dusty ways of so many in this field. His teachings lived in the contemporary world and sought to bring re-enchantment and sovereignty to it for those brave enough to chart their own way. He was not a guru or a preacher, he was merely a scholar and practitioner who instructed by example and always had something to say you had not heard before.
I rarely talk about my spiritual path publicly though I feel that changing in these strange times where chaos magick provides a way of knowing that many need to hear. My own path is deep and strange and there are few who would understand it. Hell, even I don’t understand it sometimes. But that it is real, that it is an undercurrent to my life, and a practice that I’ve engaged in deeply since at least 2013 is true. That it has led me out of dark times and given me structure and meaning when I have needed it most is also true. Like Gordon, I have no desire to convert, to proselytize, or to engage in the petty arguments that consumes so much of the online esoteric world. My desire is only to know thyself and to move in right relation to all the forces of nature and the divine. If I can stay on this path, and find my way back when I go astray, then I will have done all I can do live a good life and eventually to welcome a good death.
And so it is that I write about the Beltane portion of my Utah 2026 journey with a heavy heart for the passing of Gordon White but also with deep appreciate for the quiet path I walk and for the role that Gordon played in showing me the way. I am speaking of my practice now more openly than I ever have publicly with the intention of allowing those who know me to understand that there are other ways of being than the ones given to us by our modern culture; there is a self-directed spiritual path for those who seek it, and freedom and direction for those who follow the course. There is also assistance, both in this world and in others we do not see.
And so it is. To Gordon, wherever he may be. And to the fire of Beltane.
The dogs and I are back at our campsite after a day of exploring Arches National Park, and I look to the sky to see the sun moving toward the western horizon. I eat some snacks and tend to the dogs—the last tasks I need to complete before the ritual begins.
Tonight, after the Sun goes down, I will perform a ritual for Beltane that I constructed before coming here, before this amazing cliffside campsite was a reality. That ritual was my excuse for this mini vacation and I try, as often as I can, to spend every cross-quarter in nature. But the plans I made back in Phoenix are just a blueprint—ceremony, for me, is always a combination of what I have planned, what I find, and what happens. It will unfold as it should.
We are not ready for the fire yet. First, the wood must be gathered. Rheya and I walk a good radius from the campsite, gathering woods from various spots—a bit here, a bit there, never so much that I disrupt the natural ecosystem and never from a living tree. When performing ritual, being sensitive to the natural order is law.
After I carry three armloads of wood to the fire ring, I know I have enough for the work ahead. It is time to build the altar. From my truck I pull the small bag made by Mama Rosa—matriarch of a lineage of shamans I worked with in Peru—and a few other items I have brought from home for this working: some incense, three precious stones, some Agua de Florida (flower water), a hand-carved tiki god who lives in my truck and has traveled with me since 2014, and a piece of driftwood spirit gifted to me in 2014 that I have used in all of my magickal workings as my staff. Other than these items, everything else I need is right here, on the land.
I place some wood at the base of the fire ring and center my tiki god among it. I take some wood and form the altar around him. I gather stones and set them around the altar—eight stones representing the passing of the wheel of the year with the largest stone representing tonight’s season, Beltane.
I lay the precious stones I’ve brought from home on the altar and set up some incense to burn. There must be an offering. I walk the canyon side and cut some flowers and branches from the plants, saying to each as I cut—”thank you for your sacrifice. I honor you in tonight’s working.” Once the bouquet is added to the altar, I step back and examine my work. It’s perfect—temporal, natural, an alter I will burn at the end of the night—just for me, just here, just for me and the spirits who walk with me tonight, as it is, as it should be, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
With the prep work finished, I crack a beer and slip into ritual attire with my heavy sweatshirt to fight off the cold over it. I use the flower water to cleanse my hands. It’s the best I can do here on a cliffside at dusk. I put up my camping gear and arrange what I need so that it’s all easily accessible. From here on out, there should be no more logistics—only ceremony, so tending to these pragmatic matters and thinking through what I need and how I will move when the sun goes down is part of the ceremony. It is all part of the ceremony—deciding to come here, packing my gear, the two day drive, researching ritual options, printing ritual instructions, gathering wood. In a magickal mindset, all the preparation becomes ritual.
With the truck packed, I crack another beer and call the dogs. We climb to the top of a rock and sit as close to the side of the cliff as we can. We’re around 6500 feet above sea level and below us, nothing but air for 1,600 feet before the red rocks of the valley floor. The air is crisp and cold, the wind picks up as the sun moves majestically behind a distant mesa—slowly.
I am so grateful for my life and for getting to experience all of this. I am so grateful. When I do stupid shit like drugs with someone with whom I have a connection but with whom nothing serious is ever going to happen, I am denying myself the best possible life which is the one I am experiencing right now. Right now. Sitting on this cliffside with my two dogs beside me and the sun setting, solitude, a good book to read in the morning, a ceremony to perform tonight, a worthy man who is thinking about me on the other side of the country. What a life! What a beautiful life.
I am overwhelmed by the beauty and the solitude as it dawns on me how many times I have seen this scene since childhood—in photographs, on posters, in documentaries—but this is real. The sun setting over the red mesas of Utah is a real place I didn’t know if I would ever get to see, but it is right there. And I am watching the sky turn the color of a 1970’s advertisement for the southwest. It is real, and I am alive, and I am experiencing this moment in all of its untranslatable wonder.
The sun sets. A long quiet settles over the valley and the chill is suddenly intense. I stand, stretch, and jump up and down to warm myself as I call for the dogs and we descend the rock in the fading light and move back to the fire ring. It is time to build a fire, and for the ceremony to begin.
Once the fire is roaring, I circle the space singing plant songs I learned in Peru, then I tuck the dogs into the tent so that they feel safe and my attention can be where I need it—which is fully present in ceremony.
I circle and feed the fire, staff in hand, and feel the elements. I face each of the four directions and call to the guardians of each gate by name. I ask for protection and guidance in my workings tonight.
I circle and circle the fire, allowing myself to drop out of the consensus consciousness that governs my days—the one that makes grocery lists and gets to work on time, the one that thinks about branding and reach, the one that remembers to call home on holidays. There is a deeper mind beneath all of these domestic things. It is the mind that led humans to carve shamanic figures onto red rock walls in this land thousands of years ago.
I circle. I commune. I circle. The fire. My feet find way on bare cold rock, I circle, forget who I am. I circle. I light a cigarette, the closest form of sacred tobacco I have with me here, I blow smoke and chant and I circle. I circle until I come to forget how long I’ve been circling.
Then it’s time for Evocation:
“By staff and stone and red-rock bone, I cast this circle” “Cernunnos, Horned Lord of the Wild, guardian of hound and hunter, master of the green fire that forges strength from stone—hear me in this place of cliffs and open sky. As Beltane’s flame rises, I stand before you. Come, walk with me and my pack.” “By flower and water I bless this body, this staff, these stones, and this pack. May tenderness temper strength, and may abundance flow.”
I pour Agua de Florida on my hands and chest, and smear it on my face. The smell helps remind me of why I’m here, helps me slide completely into deep mind.
With staff in one hand, I take a few incense in the other and squat down to the fire remembering that it is the most primal animal, alive. I have two requests from others I am asking for tonight. I speak them aloud and receive an answer I will convey by text in the morning to my spirit sister a thousand miles away.
I move to the three stones I have brought from home and drop Agua de Florida on each— moving between them I incant: “For building strength and shedding what no longer serves—weight falls, vitality rises, the body becomes a worthy vessel.” “For safe travel home to Kentucky kin, for family bonds renewed, for social circles that nourish and expand.” “For the book that waits—words flow, discipline holds, abundance in creation and in completion.”
I place the stones in a triangle formation and move on to the Spell. This ceremony is brief, and the Spell is its central element. Woven into it are traditional rites and passages along with my hopes for the season. Creating these lines involved a lot of personal magick I am not yet ready to reveal, but the product of that work I now speak boldly to the heavens—
"Cernunnos, Lord of the wild, In Indian Creek’s red rock I call you down. Grant me the strength that breaks old chains, The body lightened, the fire unchained. Open the roads that lead back home, Let happiness bloom and abundance take root, Let friendships gather and joy fruit. Ignite the first page of the book I will write, Words disciplined, clear, and bright. By staff and stone and flower and flame, These goals are sealed in Cernunnos’ name. As the 10 of Cups now comes to bear, Harmony, home, and harvest I declare.”
The fire now lashes at my face, alive, embodied. I have sat too close and the flame nearly burns me. I jump back and raise my staff commanding the fire: “Down!” The fire pulls back but burns strong. We dance for a while, it leaping forward, I pulling back but not retreating. I hold my ground and tell it to behave, then feed it more wood when it complies. But the fire is still hungry and I feel Cernunnos near, the god of the hunt, of the forge, of prosperity, he must be fed. The fire lashes toward my tiki and for a moment I consider the request, but this is not a sacrifice I am willing to make so I spit Agua de Florida into the fire and watch it leap. Fire is not satiated; it wants more. I tell it that it cannot have my tiki but I hurl the reminder of the bottle of flower water into the fire and a bright green flame jumps high.
“To the land, to the dogs, to the Horned Lord—gratitude given, reciprocity received.”
SO MOTE IT BE! The Fire leaps. SO MOTE IT BE! The Fire retreats.
A ball of energy runs from the Earth through my body and into to my outstretched hands, staff held tight, the energy releases into the fire and the ceremony closes.
so mote it be. I breathe.
One more time, I say, so mote it be feeling the working complete and my requests settle into the vast and unknowable energetic web that binds all things.
This celebration of the passing of the season from Ostara to Beltane and soon to the peak of the Summer Solstice celebrates the maturation of life and the coming abundance of the light. Winter is behind us, the dark recends, and as the spell closes the memory settles in me that all over the world there are people of different backgrounds, religions, and languages celebrating this very transition in their own ways tonight, each carrying forth a fragment of the old ways, keeping them alive for another generation.
My ancestors practiced these customs with fire, though their incantations and the workings of their holy men the Druids are lost to time, their wishes granted or not, their harvests fruitful or not, my ancestors survived, or else I would not be here, and these customs were essential to their survival. These nearly forgotten ways found a fragmented path through books and oral traditions down through time to me, a descendent, and to the others who choose to practice the Old Ways.
The work is sealed. A full moon rises to the east. I let the fire burn down and a welcoming dark moves across this wild, enchanted land. Inside the tent, I slip into my sleeping bag and into another real of dreams which come fast and strong all night long.
Another Beltane has come and I have done my part to honor it. As it is, as it was, as it ever shall be. So mote it be.
🔥 🪄🔥