The Pagan City

A young man, strangely dressed, entered the café where the writers congregate to drink coffee, nibble on pastries, and get on with the serious business of not writing.

The only table left was inconveniently located between the bathrooms and an old woman. So, he sat down, whipped out his brand new laptop, fired it up and commenced creating an act of literature. He stared at the blank screen, waiting for the words to pour forth into his text editor.

Several minutes passed, and all he could think about was how often the habitués of this café had to pee. Then he realized that almost all of them took the time to nod, if not chat with the old woman. Most referred to her as “grandmother.”

He looked away from his screen and saw that the old woman was busy writing letters using parchment, quills tipped eith copper nibs, and a tiny silver pot of ink. He leaned over and studied her patience with filling the nib, then scratching tight, but expansive, letterforms in a gossipy fashion that only the elderly can pull off.

“My dear, would you like me to read this out loud to you?” She asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just noticing how all of these people seem to know you. I was just curious as to who you are and what you were writing.”

She smiled. “I’m just an old woman. And I’m writing to another old woman in Bethesda, Maryland who belonged to the same coven I did back in college.”

“But everyone seems to know you.”

“Oh, they’re just being polite.”

Subconciously realizing that an interesting conversation was less mentally taxing than creating an act of literature, he turned away from his lap top and began to spill his guts…

“I wish people would take me so seriously.”

“People don’t?”

“No. You see, I am a Jedi.”

The old woman’s bushy eyebrows raised a fraction, but she said nothing.

“And, everyone here thinks I and my friends are a joke. Even when I go out dressed like this.”

“I thought you were in the SCA.”

“See!” Warming up now, he said, “My beliefs are just as important as anyone else’s. My fellow Jedi and I were even mentioned in the Washington Post! I cam here to write all about it.”

“Yes, my friend Martha, the one to whom I am writing, sent me that clipping. Fascinating.”

“We came in tenth on Facebook! So why do I get no respect?”

“Well, I expect, most of us just think of social networking sites are supposed to be for fun. I remember that article was pretty vague… I tell you, what, why not tell me what it is that you believe. Being able to explain yourself may be all the respect you need.”

So the young man told her about the Force. He described how it binds us, flows through us, keeps us all together. He extolled the virtues of the Jedi code. All the while, the old woman nodded, asked the occassional question, and kept her china blue eyes focused on him.

When he stopped for air, the old woman asked, “now, do you feel better?”

“Yes, thank you for listening to me.” It was then that the young man realized his lack of manners. “Here I’ve been doing all of this talking. What about you, grandmother, if I may call you that. What do you believe?”

Scoffing, she said, “No one is interested in an old woman pottering in her garden, with her simple rituals to her Lady and her Lord. I have no spaceships and no lightscimitars, er, lightsword-thingies…”

“Lightsabers.”

“Exactly. I’ll tell you what… may I?” She gestured with a liver-spotted hand at his laptop. He nodded his consent. She turned it around and began double-clicking and typing in a thrice.

Pointing at his internet browser window, she said, “Why not start here on the Wild Hunt. It’s an blog post on that article from the Post. You’ll find a lot of links about the problems we Pagans face, even here in the Pagan City, about not being counted on censuses. How the courts don’t take Pagan faiths seriously. All kinds of things… I’m sure you can identify with a lot of these issues. Especially when your spirituality is treated like an internet joke.  Now, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m meeting with my publisher in half an hour. O, the cover art for my latest book is hideous. Simply hideous.”

She packed up her quills, her parchments, her ink bottle and began the leaving behavior. “You can follow me on Twitter.” She handed him a slip of paper with her contact information. “Good luck with your writing!”

The young man stared at a dozen tabs she had opened up on his browser. While everyone was calling out, “Travel well, grandmother!” “Bright blessings, grandmother!” He had still written nothing.