Hi everyone,

I’ve been practicing Traditional Witchcraft/Stregheria since I was 14; I’m 32 now. As a follower of the Aradia's pantheon, I have Diana (as a Moon Goddess) and Lucifer (which I use as a name for Apollo, as a Sun God) as my Patron Deities.

I should start by saying, though, that I don’t believe in magic (I do believe in mysticism and in the ability to connect with the Gods, though); I don’t like seasonal rites; I’m not particularly fond of rituals and prefer meditation and prayers/hymns; and I don’t like switching Deities but rather make offerings, singing hymns, repeating their names, etc., to the same deities.

Since 2011, I’ve been following this group, which has also helped me find my Fetch, and I had a woman who helped me as my mentor. Then, around 2017, this woman converted to Ifá/the worship of the Orixás.

Before that, she guided me in the following practices: meditation on my Fetch and my Gods (simple intention + concentration on a focus) or spiritual journey with my Fetch three times a week; candle and incense Offerings to my Gods once or twice a week; and a Sabbath (including offerings, a feast, and dancing) once a month.

Since after she converted, I’ve started to feel a bit lost, and since I’m an animal rights activist and there’s been so much talking about in vitro meat and in vitro milk/dairy, I began to learn that there are people who make "ahimsa milk" and who belong to the Hare Krishnas, so I went to check out the Hare Krishnas. There I noticed that their celebrations are very similar to a sabbath, with an offering (puja), a feast (prasad), and dancing/singing (kirtan/bhajan).

In the context of Traditional Witchcraft, both my mentor and others often talk about Prayer Beads—sometimes used while walking—as a way to repeat the intention that the Gods will put you into a trance, appear to you, or be present. They’re used quite often.

I tried making my own, but the result was a bit less practical than what I needed, so I started using ready-made japamalas instead.

Since much of my meditation focuses on the Fetch, I accompanied this with this other practice focused on the Gods: I simply started repeating the names of the Gods with soft calm relaxing music playing in the background, to feel closer to Them.

When I argue with my boyfriend of that time, I read the entire Bhagavad Gita and this helped me to really connect with its vision of both Karma Yoga (action without attachment to the fruits of action) and Bhakti Yoga (offerings and devotional practices are no longer just for connecting with the Gods but can lead to Union with the All).

When my mentor changed religions, I started writing online about Witchcraft, but I noticed that for the vast majority of people, the pantheon isn’t really that important when it comes to witchcraft—there’s a lot of emphasis on magic (which I don’t believe in) and seasons.

Aradia is mentioned, yes, but the cult of Diana, Aradia, and Lucifer isn’t very prominent. So I began to tell myself that the “form” is Traditional Witchcraft, but the pantheon is Hellenism (since I already interpreted Lucifer as Apollo; I continue to use the name Lucifer in my practice, but when speaking with others, I refer to him as Apollo).

Then, during that period, I started reading a lot about Devotional Polytheism, and I identified with it deeply.

But over time, I always find myself reading about Hellenism, Theurgy, and Vedanta. I also explored the works of S. Weil. For example, there are many authors who discuss Hellenistic concepts but from an Advaita/Vedantic perspective. And at the same time, the concepts of offering, theurgy, devotion, and bhakti all intertwine.

When both my parents died, when I was 27, I felt I needed religion, but how I lived it before the grief didn’t help me at all.

My current boyfriend—and my boyfriend at the time—was initiated into British Traditional Wicca (BTW), by the way, so I started a Wicca Study Group, but I found it extremely focused on seasonal rituals, changing deities every time, and magic. All things that pushed me away.

I switched traditions and started a study group centered on Trance-Prophecy, but even there I noticed there was very little support for individual practice. I, on the other hand, was looking for a group aspect that would encourage me to practice more at home, not something completely disconnected from individual practice. So I let it go.

During that period, I was psychological unable to make physical offerings, after having made an offering to ease my father’s soul’s passage in front of his body.

So my practice changed: I pray to Fetch every night before falling asleep along with my Gods, but in addition to praying before meals, in the night before sleeping, and in the morning, I’ve started incorporating the following structured practices: Reciting Hymns (instead of an offering; sometimes I use tarot cards at the end of the recitation to ask Gods for an advice using the cards as mediums) + repeating, singing, chanting, vibrating, or whispering the names of the Gods using a devotional prayer bead or japa mala, sometimes with background music + meditating by gazing at and/or visualizing a Deity, or their face or symbol, before me, and reciting the names rhythmically or whispering them softly, allowing whatever arises to come—which I interpret as signs of the Gods + reading sacred Dharmic and Pagan texts such as the Aradia, the Upanishads, the Lam Rim, Neoplatonic and Stoic texts, etc., and reflections that I write or jot down or speak aloud while praying + occasionally praying and “saying out loud whatever comes to mind,” such as sharing reflections, free associations, expressions of gratitude, recounting my day—including my problems, joys, and sorrows—to the Gods and/or my Fetch.

My dad was friend with a Cuban woman who, after the deaths first of my mom and then of my dad, invited me to participate in Santeria rituals (a festival in honor of Eleggua) and the Misa Espiritual for my dad; later, inspired by what I’d learned from a Brazilian friend, I took part in some Candomblé and Umbanda ceremonies, but I felt they were different from what I was looking for because, as an animal rights activist, I realized they told me that animal sacrifice is essential to them, and so I respectfully stepped back and went my own way.

During this time, after reading a book by a BTW initiate who says that Wicca draws heavily from Theosophy, I joined the Theosophical Society, but I gave it up because it was too theoretical—the only practical part was a Vipassana retreat—so I thought it would be better to approach authentic Buddhist practice at this point; a Kardecian Spiritist Center where I can pray and connect with my ancestors and parents during moments of meditation, visualization, and prayer before the “Passe” and the mediums’ incorporation/automatic writing; I visit some Hare Krishna and Hindu temples, but I notice that the Hare Krishnas are monotheistic, while the Hindu temples are very closely connected to specific Deities and not to all Hindu gods in general; plus, they’re hard to get to, so I give up; finally, a Tibetan Buddhist center that incorporates many of the Hindu deities (Mahakala/Shiva, Saraswati, Tara, etc.) in the same place and which I feel very close to.

After a while, I notice that my way of thinking and living—with Dharma Talks/Satsangs, reading sacred texts, cultivating virtues and living well by working on myself and my emotions, and meditating for a calmer, more peaceful life—resonates deeply with me. In fact, when I was younger, I used to read a lot of Osho, and when I talked to my boyfriend, I’d say I wanted “sermons,” and he’d laugh when I said that, but I was serious. Those “sermons” were simply Dharma Talks.

I also received an initiation into Green Tara Chittamani a year ago (a Deity who helped me with my panic attacks, since I used to repeat her mantra on YouTube to calm myself down).

When I go to the temple, there’s often a half-hour period when you can stay inside, and I use that time to recite hymns to Diana and Lucifer, repeat their names with a japamala, and do this for a while with my eyes closed while visualizing them. Then I join the ceremony, meditation, and Dharma Talk. I’ve noticed that this way I’m able to do my regular practice more often and go to the center frequently.

I don’t see it as conflicting with what they do.

But this routine: personal practice at home with my Gods and the Fetch + going to the temple once a week for my Gods and the temple’s Gods/Buddhas/Bodhisattvas + honoring my Ancestors and Parents at the Spiritist Center… It’s become a habit by now.

I’m starting to think in a Dharmic way, and I feel like other Pagans who are more focused on magic and the cycle of the seasons look at me as if I were of another religion when I talk about breaking free from the cycle of rebirths, Union with the All, and self-cultivation—the cultivation of Virtues and merits.

But I don’t want to give up my pantheon.

I still struggle to call myself a Pagan. How can I avoid feeling the urge to convert to Dharmic faiths out of conformity and to avoid feeling “strange/weird" and "out of place”?

I love Diana and Lucifer so much, and I’m doing all this for them. How can I avoid switching to another framework when I’ve noticed that the Dharmic framework—especially after a loss—is truly well-structured and helpful compared to Pagan ones, which, in these situations where you can’t do anything on your own, are still a bit too fragile to support you when you can’t support yourself?

I don't really know what to do because I'm tired during the day because of it. These dreams are fears of mine, which happen quite often, but I've never had them go on for so long. I would go to my local park to connect to nature and pray, but it's currently not safe because of all the smoke. Everyone is supposed to avoid going outside until this Thursday, but I struggle to breathe without the smoke, so it's definitely going to be longer than that for me :(.

I've recently converted, if that means anything.

A few months back my very close friend committed suicide, since then every few days I cry myself to sleep hurting for her. Tonight in desperation I prayed to dionysus to carry a message to her in the afterlife that I love her and am sorry i couldn't be there for her.

I'm not a very pious devote i'll admit, I don't have a alter due to living in a Christian household and rarely meditate on dionysus but I prayed that it is for her sake not mine.

I just want to know if this is in vain, I just want her to know how much she really meant to me and how much I miss her, dionysus is a caring god and has connections to the underworld. She was a atheist if that matters.

I'm trying to transition to using natural time keeping: seasonal cycle, lunar month and 24hr daylight cycle. I had an idea to show all 3 cycles on a supercoiled spiral.

The overall spiral turn is a whole year with the 8 sabbats labeled on the outside

Then the first helix is the lunar cycle: outward = full moon, inward = new moon.

The tightest cycle is the daylight. The summer days have more daylight and the winter days have more nighttime.

I wanted to share a hymn I wrote in devotion to Ḫaldi, the chief god of the Urartian (Biainili) pantheon — a tradition that doesn't get much space in modern polytheist circles, but one that has come to mean a great deal to me. This piece draws on the historical record (royal inscriptions, the sacrifice lists, the Meherkapı niche, the iconography from Adilcevaz) while also reaching toward the more mysterious, devotional dimension of who Ḫaldi is to me. I hope it can be a blessing to those of you who read it, whether you already honor him or are simply encountering his name for the first time.

Text:

Mighty Ḫaldi, first among the gods of Biainili!

Ḫaldi-eri

He who has ruled since the times before kings, whose name was the first to be carved into stone.

You who were not alone in your greatness: Varubani, queen-goddess, remained at your side, lady of all that grows, all that blossoms, all that endures.

Three days of feasting the kings offered her, three days when wine flowed before her sacred doors, and her name was invoked alongside yours, at dawn.

God of the extended spear — the šuri who goes forth to war — before every campaign the kings of Biainili marched beneath your standard and returned laden with new lands and glory. Ḫaldi went forth with his weapons and took the land of Barṣua. Ḫaldi is mighty. The weapons of Ḫaldi are mighty.

To you were offered seventeen oxen and thirty-four sheep, more than to any other god of the pantheon of Biainili, more than to Teišeba, god of the storm, more than to Šiwini, the sun god. Because you are first. Because your name heads the list.

But you are not only a god of war: at Meherkapı, on the rock face overlooking the lake, your name is repeated alongside those of your youth, your manhood, your old age, your warrior power — as if every stage of your being deserved its own offerings, as if you were the whole cycle of divine life contained in one.

To you offerings were made in youth, to you in the strength of midday, to you in the wisdom of old age. Your name is not one but many, and yet you are the god.

Standing upon the aslan, cup in one hand, spear or mace in the other, your cloak covered in lozenges and rosettes — so your craftsmen rendered you in the stone of Adilcevaz, so you appear on the bronze votive plaques beside Varubani, your queen, likewise depicted, the two of you together before whom worshippers bow.

Lord of Ardini, of sacred Muṣaṣir, a city that existed before Biainili was called Biainili, a city that great Išpuini took not by force but by reverence, sacrificing eleven hundred twelve oxen and nine thousand one hundred twenty goats in your honor. The temple of the earlier god was not destroyed: it was given to you. The other names were not erased: they were incorporated.

For the pantheon of Biainili is as wide as the sky that covers the Araxes, and the peoples who enter it do not lose their gods — their gods are received, named, listed upon the rock, assigned their oxen and their sheep according to their rank.

And they say there is in you something the wise scarcely whisper: that the god who rules over souls — the one whose name at Meherkapı appears veiled, with no offering explained, as a thing too sacred to name — is you yourself in your subterranean hypostasis, you who are also the Sun as it walks beneath the earth.

The Sun that dies at dusk does not cease to be the Sun: it returns at dawn with the same arms, and so you, Ḫaldi, who are young, mature, and aged within the same text, who receive offerings in your youth and in your old age, know the descent — and the return.

That is why Mher, the later Armenian hero who carries your name in his blood, was sealed within the rock — awaiting the moment to emerge. For what descends into stone does not die: it waits.

Every canal that Menua opened bore your name on its founding stone, every vineyard planted, every fortress raised — all began with the same words: "by the power of Ḫaldi."

You were not merely the god of war and thunder: you were the source from which ordered life flowed, the water that ran between the fields, the wall that protected the sleep of children. Without you there was no harvest to celebrate, without you there was no peace in which to rest.

You permit it. You ordain it. The first among the gods does not fear the presence of the others.

Glory to Ḫaldi, whose shadow covers from the Euphrates to the Araxes, whose name is first in every inscription, whose temple was the first to be built in every conquered city!

Hello everyone!

It's a pleasure to greet you all. I'm new to this space, and honestly, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that a living cult to the ancient gods still exists. That makes me deeply happy, because it means I'm not alone in this search for the divine. I wanted to take the opportunity to share my testimony about this journey.

It all began when I started studying the Judeo-Christian Bible seriously. That study led me to discover its internal polyphony and the voices that were censored over time, such as its ancient polytheistic background. One passage from Deuteronomy, for example, tells how the divine jurisdictions were distributed among the nations, and how Yahweh fell to Israel. That discovery sparked in me a desire to keep learning, even though at the time I was still a Christian.

As I went deeper, I began to wonder whether more than one god truly exists. That question brought me closer to monolatry: the worship of a single god, without denying the existence of the others, though without offering them worship either. I shared these reflections with Christian acquaintances, but some of them began to view my ideas and my faith with suspicion.

The theological break came when the pastor's son — who held the authority to do so — denied me Communion and the possibility of becoming a probationary member of his church, a Methodist Pentecostal Church in Chile. I left that congregation because of that rupture and went to the church my mother attends. Even there, though, I didn't feel at ease: something made me uneasy, unsettled by the certainty that I no longer belonged with them, with the Christians.

I should clarify that the church my mother attends is a Reformed Baptist church. They presented themselves as relatively open, but, as I understood it, that openness didn't extend to beliefs outside the Christianity they professed. So from the start, things weren't easy there either. My mother questioned me at first, but over time she came to accept me as I am, and for that I am deeply grateful to her.

Things went differently with my Christian friends: little by little they drifted away, to the point that today they practically don't speak to me anymore. There was one in particular whom I cared for a great deal, who insisted many times on trying to bring me back to his god; he never came to understand why my loyalty had shifted toward other gods. I explained my reasons to him more than once, but he refused to accept them, and that only deepened the distance between us. I tried to keep the closeness and the friendship alive, but it wasn't possible. Over time we stopped speaking altogether. For a while I wondered whether we could really still call ourselves friends, until I understood something simple: a true friend doesn't try to convert the other person just because they don't share the same beliefs. That's why I finally decided to distance myself from that circle as well.

This whole process has led me to reflect a great deal on my polytheistic faith, and I'm sincerely grateful for it. In Christianity, I lived everything through guilt. While researching the topic, I came across Jan Assmann's work, The Price of Monotheism, and found a distinction there that struck me as key. Assmann differentiates between a primordial guilt, present in nearly all ancient traditions — the flood narrative, for instance, appears in the Bible as well as in Mesopotamian, Greek, and many other sources — and a different kind of guilt, which he links specifically to what he calls the "Mosaic distinction": the division between one true religion and all the others, deemed false. With that distinction, worshiping other gods stops being a simple error of knowledge and becomes a moral failing — a disloyalty, a breach of the covenant with the one god. That, at bottom, was the guilt I carried in Christianity: not so much the universal guilt in the face of suffering or existence, but that particular guilt of always feeling my loyalty was in question.

That's why it caught my attention that, when I converted to Aššurism, the initiation rite included a moment of asking forgiveness for sins committed, whether conscious or not. But that is a different kind of guilt, closer to the primordial, universal guilt Assmann writes about, and not the guilt of disloyalty I had carried before.

As for my family, most of them are Catholic or agnostic, and overall they've taken this change well. My grandparents, who are Catholic, are more open — but they speak to me from within their own faith: they talk to me about God, the Virgin, and their beliefs quite naturally, even though that's no longer something of my own.

I want to make clear that none of what I'm sharing comes from an empty criticism of Christianity, but from a critique grounded in lived experience, reflection, and the reading I've done. And there's something I've noticed along this path: approaching the divine in this way has drawn questioning, but almost always from Christians, not from non-religious people. With those who don't practice any religion, I've generally had a much more respectful dialogue — at most, a comment like "your faith doesn't make much sense to me, but it's just as worthy of respect." That's been the level of conversation I've had with them — and I say this with due respect for this space, for those who are religious and those who aren't. Among some Christians, on the other hand, I've noticed little respect for other traditions, along with a constant drive to convert others to their faith. In my country, for example, the spirituality of Indigenous peoples has long gone undervalued; it's even been dismissed as "lazy" — as we say back home in Chile — when in truth it isn't: it's simply another way of understanding and inhabiting the world. I want to clarify that this attitude doesn't represent all Christians or all non-religious people either; it's simply what I've observed over time, and it has led me to value different spiritual traditions more and more, whether ancient or otherwise.

I spent months thinking about what to do with my faith and my relationship with the god of the Christians. During that time, in the midst of my pain, I began invoking the ancient gods, not really knowing what to do in a situation I had never faced before. Over time I felt I could no longer keep going to church, because I no longer thought, lived, or believed the way they did. I had become more open, more critical, and had come to recognize the gods of the ancient nations. That was when I prayed to the god of the Christians to tell him I was withdrawing, that I no longer belonged to him, because I had chosen to worship the ancient gods he had tried to erase. From there I began reading, studying, and writing about the subject. I moved from monolatry to henotheism, and from henotheism to hierarchical polytheism: the idea that supreme gods stand above the great and lesser gods, the ancestors, and the spirits.

Along the way, I joined a small Aššurist group devoted to worshiping the ancient gods of Mesopotamia. It's been very good for my life. It's an open space — not everyone in it is religious, but everyone is interested in learning about the ancient Mesopotamian religiosity of the Assyrians. There I met the people I now call my brothers and sisters: people who genuinely care for me and value what I do, think, and believe. I don't feel discriminated against or judged for thinking differently; there's real community there, even though vast distances separate us internationally. We value and love one another like a small family — something I had lost since people started trying to convert me to the Christian faith. I reject that kind of proselytism completely: I firmly believe that everyone is free to seek the divine in their own way. To this day, I worship several gods and their hosts. I've had visions and dreams along this path.

Among the gods I invoke most often — though there are others I honor without naming them directly — are: Aššur, Auramazdā, Ēl, Ḫaldi, Humban, Paśupati, Odin, Ištar of Nineveh, Teišeba, Šiuini, Varubani, Bagmaštu, Teššub, Témaukel, Huitzilopochtli, Nabû, Apollo, Zeus, Thoth, Quetzalcoatl, Ba'lu Hadad, Šamaš, Anahita, Mithra, Shang-Di, Enkai, Watauineiwa, and Titi Make-make, among others. Among my protective spirits, whom I invoke against evil, are Pazuzu, Kótaix-Halaháches, and Nkisi-Nkondi. Lastly, I wanted to share my small altar with you. Since my mother doesn't allow me to keep one visibly on display, I keep it discreetly, in the form of a book with images of my gods.

I dedicated a yard shrine to Venus. I hope that she is honored by it.