Imagined, Not Imaginary

When I was very little, 1950s cartoon characters, Crusader Rabbit and Mighty Mouse were my invisible friends. These characters prompted stirrings of heartfelt yearning even at that young age–a mixed desire for romance and adventure. I remember those feelings quite well and could empathize years later when a five year old of my acquaintance told me he liked Wonder Woman (Lynda Carter’s version) because she had “nice legs.”

So now that I’m cultivating a robust spirit ecology (as a witchy pagan polytheist/animist), you might be tempted think that I never outgrew my childish fantasies. And perhaps you’d be right. Crusader Rabbit and Mighty Mouse provided the little me with unconditional positive regard and I was their comrade, their equal in every way (even though I couldn’t fly). I really loved those guys and I thought they loved me back. These days my deities also seem to radiate unconditional positive regard, even though I (still) cannot fly. Or shapeshift. Or whatever. And yeah, I really love them.

And that mixed desire for romance and adventure? I’ve still got that too. And it’s gotten me into heaps of trouble as an adult. (I haven’t learned my lesson yet, though I’m immensely wary now.)

The culture (so-called) that I reluctantly inhabit takes it for granted that childish imaginations will be dulled, tamed, or destroyed via K-12 education, school bullying, and the drudgery of adult life. And we like to think that’s a good thing, a sign of “maturity.” Anyone who resists the corrosion and destruction of their imagination is suspect.

Of course I think that lifelong resistance to that destruction is actually one of the most important things we can do. Childhood capacities to ensoul and engage with imagined companions are fundamental creative skills, plus they’re precursors to grown-up spiritwork and magic. And so, yeah, I’m unapologetically on the side of most of those who work and play in and about the unseen worlds, along with their spirit pals. (There are some jerks and worse about, of course, as there are everywhere else.)

My premise and ongoing theme is this: there’s a reason human beings have these innate capacities for engagement with unseen companions and worlds, from childhood on. Like the bee orchid, I believe we’ve evolved certain characteristics that facilitate a process of mutual attraction with those unseen. I can’t imagine any other root cause for religions and magic, for fey folktales and Marvel super heroes.

Three books have been my constant companions lately: Dagulf Loptson’s Playing With Fire–An Exploration of Loki Laufeyjarson (Asphodel Press, 2014); Jason Miller‘s Sex, Sorcery and Spirit–The Secrets of Erotic Magic (Career Press, 2015); and Aidan Wachter’s Six Ways–Approaches and Entries for Practical Magic (Red Temple Press, 2018). And readers of this blog might have noticed that I’ve referenced Miranda Shaw’s Passionate Enlightenment–Women in Tantric Buddhism (Princeton University Press, 1994) more than once, I recommend all of these books. They’re excellent.

My ongoing process is threefold. (1) To explore magic, defined as Jason Miller defines it: “the art and science of influencing change to occur in conformity to will” (as quoted in this Down at the Crossroads podcast interview). (2) To get to know and work with some of the “Spirits of the Field” (Wachter, p. 13. And listen to his Crossroads interview here.), including those that “indwell” in material substances (the concept of animism) as well as wights and ancestors (my own and the ones who reside in this area). (3) To cultivate devotional, loving, co-creative relationships with a few compelling deities, especially Loki Laufeyjarson, my “most trusted one.” (This makes me only as proportionately “batty” as any serious practitioner of any mainstream religion.)

It’s been interesting working with the precise combination of books I mention above. Miller’s book on erotic magic includes Tantric and Taoist practices as well as sigil work. And Shaw’s book elaborates on the role of women and female “energy” in Tibetan Tantra, while also describing the centuries-old traditions of working with “imagined partners” (e.g. deities, dakinis, and yoginis). Wachter’s book describes sigil work and devotional practices, and models respectful ways to interact with the Spirits. Loptson’s book–ditto, but with the focus on Loki. Without realizing what I was doing at first, I’ve been combining and reassembling elements from these books into a very individual practice, which I’ve touched on in this blog.

And I am finding that working with “imagined” (conceptually “summoned”) spirits and deities is not an “imaginary” process, as what happens as a result of this work is quite real and yields tangible results. In the last 78 days of my “Loki 90-Day Spiritual Fitness Challenge,” I’ve experienced ebbs and flows, ecstacy and plateaus, and my cats not leaving my toes alone as I try to meditate. Sometimes there are sudden “jumps” to what might be a new level, but so far, I’m still uncertain as to the terrain or my ability to reliably enter and inhabit it. 78 days of sustained, daily practice is nothing, really, and yet it is the first time I’ve ever pledged myself to such an endeavor. I do intend to continue on, because the last few days in particular have been very interesting indeed. My childhood yearnings for romance and adventure could never have imagined this path.

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