The first thing you notice when you drive into Savannah is the trees. The branches reach far over the roads creating a thick canopy of green that shades the road from the blazing Georgia sun.  Spanish moss trickles down in a delicate lace that adds a sense of sophisticated decay to the atmosphere.  As the wheels bump along the cobblestones below you begin to slow down and get the sense that rushing for anything down here is strongly discouraged.  Indeed, this is a city that runs on it’s own sense of time.  It is a clock built around mimosas at noon, leisurely walks among the verdant squares, and evening carriage rides.  I could not envision a place more diametrically opposed to our rat-race style of living than Savannah.

I had been wanting to visit Savannah for a while and I was pleased to see that the city looked just like I thought it would be.  This "city in a garden" truly looks like a place that time forgot.  The homes that line the grids of public squares are heavy with history.  To be in Savannah is to be surrounded by visions of the antebellum south.

I began my trip with a visit to the Davenport house, a beautiful home from the early 1800s.  As I toured the home I was struck by the french patterned wallpaper that draped the rooms in a vision of luxury.  Of course, I knew that this wealth came with a dark reality we must acknowledge - that all this financial success in the antebellum south came from the work of enslaved people.  This dark history permeates every aspect of the historic south and must be understood and recognized.  

The Davenport house was well known to have it’s fair share of ghosts and as I toured the home I could almost hear uncanny piano chords floating in the air.  The sound seemed to linger in my ears for several stanzas then delicately seeped beneath the wood and disappeared. 

Moving into the study a large black and white art print hung dramatically on the wall.  It depicted a scene we all know well--the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  The tour guide told me that in the antebellum south almost everyone had a copy of this image displayed prominently in their home.  He said back then people understood the fragility of their new country so they felt the need to declare allegiance to this great experiment in state- building we call America.  For some reason that idea stuck with me.  America seems so powerful and impenetrable now.  But yes, at one time, we were small and delicate.  A nation built upon radical ideas of democracy and religious freedom.  At that time the future of America must have seemed like a blank chalkboard: full of possibilities, but also with the risk that everything could quickly be erased.  

The other event that market my stay in Savannah was a nighttime ghost tour.  The coming of night cast a blanket of silence around the city.  Savannah is mostly free of the type of rambunctious tourist noise you would find in New Orleans.  When you walk the streets at night you feel the quiet in your bones and in the hairs standing upright on your neck.  You feel alone among the brick facades as you walk the cobblestone streets.  Any rustle of noise causes your head to snap towards the source of sound as you stretch your eyes to find the culprit.  

I passed through the Colonial Park Cemetery on my way to the tour.  The tall grasses seemed to quiver between the gravestones and shadows hung heavy beneath the spanish moss.  “I’m sure I'll be fine”, I said to myself as I walked along a pathway lit only by the yellow moon glowing above.  ‘Were ghostly phantoms passing behind me?’ I wondered.  Did they float swamp-like among the trees? I resisted turning my head around, fearing that I might see something from beyond the veil.  

As I finally made it to Reynolds Square, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would soon be among other travelers for the tour.  Shortly after the tour began we came across a particular house that was lit from the flickering flame of a single gas-lit lantern.  It was a very unassuming home set back from the sidewalk and behind a garden of tall grass.  With first glance at this home I felt something different.

Do you believe that magic can be in the air?  That it can follow along the air currents till it finds a receptive host.  What I will say is that the air near this small home had a particular taste.  It filled my nose with an unusual electric and heavy scent.

The tour guide told us this small home was called ‘Laura’s House’ named after a slave who once lived here when she took care of the mansion next door.  According to the story, her master once promised her freedom and that he would give her the deed for the small carriage house he let her stay in.  However, he reneged on his vow and she remained a slave till her death.  It seems she has claimed the carriage house in death and passers by often claim to see her sitting on the rocking chair of her small porch.

If there was a shade of paint that could be considered notorious, it would be the color known as ‘haint’ blue.  It is thought that this color prevents ghosts and evil spirits from entering the premises so people today still cover sections of their home in this color.  The homes next to The Laura House covered their doors, window frames, and porches this color to prevent her from coming in. Even the Laura House has this blue shade around the porch, but not the door.  The door was left empty of color so that the ghost of Laura might someday find a way out.  

The Laura House is now an airbnb so you can even spend the night there if you wish.  Though I wouldn't recommend it if you’re male.  It is said that men who stay there are often awoken with a sensation of hands clasped tightly around their throat, constricting their ability to breathe.  It seems that Laura doesn’t like men too much, and given her life story I don’t blame her.

You must be wondering if I actually saw a ghost during my trip to Savannah?  I must be honest and say no.  I did, however, feel their presence. I felt it rattle my bones as I walked along the cemetery.  I felt the electricity in the air as I stared into the Laura House.  A question I often ask myself is if these feelings are truly real.  Or, does just being in a place filled with old homes and ghost stories cause us to have these sensations.  I guess I’ll never really know for sure.  But if ghosts are real and they are out there, I’m confident that many of them call Savannah their home.

Have you ever been to Savannah?  Did you get the sense that the city was haunted?  Share below in the comments.

A gathering approaches.  I’m in the heart of my home tending to a bubbling brew atop the stove.  Cozy knitted socks warm my feet against the October chill and the steam from the pot of wine tickles my nose with the scents of late fall.  Warm clove and cardamom meld with the bright citrus of orange peels.  Five-pointed anise stars and thick cinnamon sticks bubble to the top of my burgundy brew.  I swirl the collection of herbs around with a wooden spoon and my cat jumps up onto the kitchen counter, trying to get a better view.   

The doorbell chimes.  My fellow witches have arrived!  I let them in and we share our tales of magic and mischief as I carefully pour the mulled wine.  The steam spirals above the mugs and twirls towards the window.  I catch a glimpse of the trees outside.  The crackled brown leaves of late October are frosted with ice crystals, yet they still dance as the wild wind whispers through the branches.   

We move to the living room and get cozy by the crackling fireplace. Cheers! We chime our haphazard collection of glasses and mugs together and begin to warm our bellies and hearts with our autumnal witches brew.

MULLED WINE

Recipe adapted from Ina Garten
Makes 8 Servings

Ingredients

4 cups apple cider
1 bottle of red wine
¼ cup honey
2 cinnamon sticks
1 orange, juiced & zested
4 whole cloves
3 star anise
4 oranges, peeled for garnishes (optional)

Instructions

Take a large pot and add the wine, cider, cinnamon sticks, cloves, star anise, honey, and orange zest & juice.  Bring to boil then simmer over low for around 10 minutes.  Pour into mugs and add an orange peel as a garnish.  Enjoy!

The grain swells against the morning wind as waves of amber and gold ripple through the fields.  I envision what these wheat fields of Illinois might have looked like a long time ago.  Farm boys swinging scythes, their calloused hands aching with a summer of hard labor.  I envision horses neighing in the distance, their glossy chestnut mains shining in the summer sun.  I imagine a large farm table filled with sun-ripened tomatoes and loaves of freshly baked bread.  The delicate sounds of a summer afternoon, the wild hum of grasshoppers leading to the warm and hazy glow of lightning bugs as the sun falls below the horizon.

Today when I look upon the fields outside my city, I find endless rows of wheat and corn.  The fields go on for miles, a never ending surface reflecting the color of our summer sun.  In the midwest it seems we have our own ocean, but instead of water, our ocean is a sea of harvest.  Our modern fields take on an otherworldly quality in their grandness.  The visions of amber punctuated only by roaring machines that have taken the place of of scythes.  

Living in the Midwest I feel a great connection to the harvest festival of Lammas.  While other regions may provide more glamorous resources, the midwest has taken on the role of Ceres, the goddess of grain.  Our wheat and corn travels across the country and beyond to nourish millions.  It’s so easy to become complacent and unaware of the skill and hard work necessary to create this endless sea of golden fields.  So upon this harvest festival, us Pagans take a moment to give thanks for the summer bounty nature has provided.  

Looking upon my modern feast, I see not only the foods from my region.  I see the success of our beautiful country united.  I see grains from the midwest baked into an herbed loaf.  I see goat cheese from New York, and olives grown in California.  I see beer made from the hops of Washington and charcuterie from Kansas.  To hear people speak, you would think we are more divided as a nation than ever.  Yet looking at my harvest table I see value in each region of our country and feel united in this celebration of the summer bounty.  So upon this harvest day, let us come together ‘round our tables.  And let us take a moment to appreciate and give thanks to all that makes our feasts possible.

How will you be celebrating this harvest festival?  Let me know in the comments below. 

This image from Local Milk Blog

The waitress poured my coffee into a delicate porcelain cup as I stared out the window looking towards the old cobblestones that my feet would soon tread.  It was hot that morning and the trees in the nearby park hung thick and languid waiting for a breeze to sway their leaves.  I was staying at the Hawthorne Hotel right in the heart of Salem, Massachusetts.  I had read that the place was haunted so of course I booked a room hoping to investigate later in the evening.  At the moment though, ghostly apparitions were far from my mind.  Instead, I was thinking about what these streets and buildings might have looked like in the spring of 1692.  

My trip to New England had taken me across Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Massachusetts.  There was one main constant across these states and that was the forest.  Tall pine trees and heavy maples grouped together.  Looking into the forest the sunlight soon became obscured under a canopy of leaves.  Even today, in our modern world, I felt that the forests of New England seemed to conceal mysteries and magic.  

It is no wonder that the settlers of New England feared the woods.  The early villagers of Salem must have worked relentlessly to carve their town from these forests.  The ‘civilization’ they created for themselves still did not allow them to escape fear.  Their fear came, not from the forest, but from each other.  Their fear built and built until the fear created a life of itself.  Accusations and hangings ran rampant through the town, spreading like a virus.  And then, in about a year it somehow died off and the great witch trials were over.

It seemed odd thinking about such historic tragedy on a hot summer day.  Walking through the town you discover a much different community.  I’m not quite sure why modern witches have gravitated towards Salem.  Perhaps they enjoy good irony or maybe it’s an attempt to reclaim and proclaim the real meaning of the word 'witch'.  You are reminded of what occurred in 1692 around each turn as you pass by shops, museums, and historic markers.  Regardless, it was enjoyable to walk through the quaint town and visit its many shops.  While some stores were filled mostly with tchotchkes and souvenirs, I did encounter a few stores providing supplies for the discerning modern witch.  

Returning to my hotel in the evening I wandered the halls for a bit passing by the two rooms where various hauntings had supposedly occurred.  I wish I could say different, but honestly I didn't get much of a ghostly feel from the hotel.  As the skies turned dark I looked off in the distance to the line of trees.  For some reason, I couldn’t keep my mind off the sensation of walking through the forests of New England.  Here I was in a haunted hotel in a town covered with dark history.  Yet I felt it was the woods in the distance that held the real mystery and only there would I gain an true understanding of this place.

My recommendations in salem

 

where to visit

The Witch House

Peabody Essex Museum

Witch Trials Memorial

The House of Seven Gables

places to eat & Drink

Notch Brewery & Tap Room

Far From The Tree Cider

Caramel Patisserie

Rockafellas

favorite shops

Circle of Stitches

Haus Witch

The Coven's Cottage

Wicked Good Books

Have you been to Salem before?  What were your thoughts?  Share your favorite places in the comments below. 

There it was, a lonely glass filled with "two-buck chuck" wine and next to it a small plate with four town-house crackers.  The ritual was over and as I turned to partake in the "cakes & ale" portion of my full moon ritual it somehow felt all wrong.  Here I was all exhilarated and energized from participating in this sacred rite.  I had just danced to the beat of drums with the summer air swirling around me.  I had called the energies of the elements and felt their presence within my circle.  I had pondered the beauty of the full moon and felt my own connection to its mysteries.  

And now it was over.  It was time to ground my energy and recover, which meant partaking in the "cakes & ale" I had laid out for myself.  Compared to the beauty and energy of the summer full moon, the wine and crackers before me seemed lackluster and uninspired.  While I have nothing against cheap wine, in fact I rather enjoy it, it somehow didn’t feel right for this ritual.  It was summertime and the flowers were in full bloom all across the city.  The scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air as the fresh breeze from the lake tempered the evening heat.  Summer was a time of sticky-sweet strawberries and cool lemonade.  Wine, on the other hand, reminded me of an autumn landscape filled with burgundy and chestnut-colored leaves.  

In general I’ve been trying to eat more seasonally as I know that doing so will make me feel more connected to the changing seasons.  I’m not sure why this intent hasn’t filtered down to my own solitary full moon rituals.  It seemed that I was just going with routine; casually picking whatever I happen to currently have in my apartment for the "cakes & ale" portion of my rituals.  A simple ‘cakes & ale’ definitely makes sense for group rituals, but as I practice mostly solitary I know that I can do more.  Besides, I really do enjoy cooking and know that with a bit more effort I can really end my full moon rituals with something unique and truly representative of the season.

Here’s some links to a couple recipes I've found that I’m planning to make for future summer full and new moon rituals.  These recipes and photos are adapted from Local Milk Blog and The Minimalist Baker.

I’d love to know if you ever change-up the "cakes & ale" portion of your full and new moon rituals.  If so, do you have a favorite recipe?  Share in the comments below.

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Summer "Cakes"

Lavender Blueberry & Ricotta Turnovers

White Peach, Rose, & Basil Hand Pies

Herbs de Provence & Rose Olive Oil Cake

Summer "Ales"

Blackberry Basil Mojito

Cardamom & Rose Iced Latte (non-alcoholic)

Rhubarb & Strawberry Margaritas

"I’ve always wanted to find a pagan group.  Sometimes I feel so lonely doing rituals by myself in my bedroom.” My new friend, lets call her Ashley, took a sip of her wine and relaxed in her chair.

Ashley and I initially met through Instagram.  Upon seeing all the pagan and tarot content on my feed she sent me a message and we started talking about all kinds of topics.  As she also lived in my city we decided to meet in person for some wine and occult discussion - two of my favorite things.

“Have you ever gone to any of the pagan community events in the city?” I asked.  I was waiting for the answer I knew I would hear.  An answer I’ve heard from countless other girls my age.

“Uh, yes..” She started. “But I didn’t really vibe with the people there.”  Ashley looked at me, waiting for the indication that I understood the subtext of her comment.

And yes, I did understand exactly what she was talking about.  For I too have had a variety of ‘interesting’ encounters at various events since I started learning about paganism and wicca as a teenager.   

Going to a new pagan event can definitely be a bit nerve racking, especially if you’re going by yourself.  Some events I have gone to have been wonderful experiences.  In fact, I just went to an excellent summer solstice celebration where I met a lot of new pagan friends.      

However, this is often not the norm.  Usually at pagan events there is always a much older man, often with minimal social skills, who approaches me and begins a conversation.  This usually doesn’t bother me as I love talking about spirituality and paganism with new people.  However, often the conversation takes a dramatic turn when he says something inappropriate and completely out of context to what we were discussing.  This is usually in the form of the man saying something about his sex life in order to see my reaction or have me divulge personal information about my own sex life.  

For example, I might be discussing my ritual plans for the next Esbat and then he will randomly yet suggestively mention how he’s really into sex magic and is planning on meeting up with some of his ‘friends with benefits’ for a full moon tantric sexual celebration.  At this point there is an awkward silence as he waits for me to reply and I think about how to exit this conversation as quickly as possible.

While I’ve never felt in danger at any Pagan events, these types of conversations have definitely made me feel uncomfortable.  Just because us Pagans tend to be a sex positive group of people, it does not mean that I feel comfortable discussing sexuality with strangers. I wish more people understood that and this is why I’m writing this article.  

Of course I do not to mean to suggest all male pagans and witches are like this or that this occurs all the time.  I have plenty of kind and respectful male pagan friends that I’ve met at various events.  However, I believe that we do need to recognize that this is in fact a real issue within our community.

I have had countless young girls who find me on social media and message me about similar issues and experiences they’ve had.  How many young and bright girls does our community lose from our inability to seriously tackle this issue.  

I understand that this article is sure to draw some controversy and by no means am I trying to call myself an expert or say that I have the solution.  All I’m asking is that we have our own discussions about these topics so we can continue to build a respectful community for all.

What are your thoughts on this issue?  Do you have your own experience that you’d like to share? Post below in the comments.

The roots of gnarled oak trees snaked underneath the sidewalks. They cracked and broke the pavement - a reminder that here, in New Orleans, nature is in control.  I later learned that these ancient sentinels were in fact mostly hollow as termites slowly gnawed at them from the inside out.  A fitting macabre symbol for a city all too familiar with death and slow decay.  As I passed these great dames I was grateful that they were still able to cloak the city beneath their verdant leaves.  The dappled light from the trees shimmered through the branches, providing momentary shade from the heat that steamed up from the ground and fogged my glasses.  

The misty air was enveloping and heavy.  It laid thickly upon my skin and soaked my patterned dress till it clung heavy to my shape.  I greeted the smallest breeze like a savior and I smiled and swayed as the lightest of air swirled past.  It seemed so remarkable to be in a city, yet be immersed in such a vibrant and lush dreamscape.

As I meandered, the jungle of boughs and branches twisted above my head.  Turning onto Gov. Nicholls street I came across rows of shotgun and creole homes.  Each were painted differently in vivid hues of turquoise, burgundy, sunshine yellow, and chartreuse.  The homes themselves were not immune to the cover of nature.  Cascades of honeysuckle burst over crooked fences and green ferns peeked through the gaps.  Like the sidewalks, many of the homes were off-kilter and tilted precariously to the side.  I peaked through the many rod iron gates and glimpsed endless courtyards and fountains - little secret gardens for the citizens of the city.  

As I passed one home a large black cat greeted me with a long stretch before lazily returning to his nap.  As the afternoon light darkened I came across many more felines; stray cats that gravitated to the Jackson Square courtyard.  No one knows why these cats come to sleep there.  Perhaps, they too, are drawn to the city center in search of misty apparitions and midnight revelry.  Nighttime in this city is not passive, it swallows you whole.  Everything, no matter your hearts desire, seems like a good idea in New Orleans.

I chose to forego the bustle of Bourbon street and ventured off to the quieter pathways that seemed to call my name.  As I wandered the darkened streets of the French Quarter it seemed like I traveled back in time.  The only light came from the moon above and the gas lit lanterns that flickered from porches and beneath balconies.  The clip of horse hooves bounced through the streets and the ever-present music seemed to rise from the very earth itself.  A city more dream than reality.  

Stumbling across the LaLaurie mansion I was reminded that this too was a city of ghosts and mystery.  Anyone in tune with such things can feel the cloak of otherworldliness that permeates the air.  The souls of yesteryear inhabit the streets and drip from the trees.  You can almost feel their slow breath as they float swamp-like from one darkened corner to another.  Instead of being frightened I welcomed such feelings.  In fact, I smiled -  glad to be close to such mystery, glad to be part of it all, glad to be in the one place that truly felt like home.

A crowd of ancient Romans roar with applause as a simple laurel wreath is placed upon the head of a victor --so begins the history of the flower crown.  Awarded to heroes and emperors to signify respect and success, this simple crown of leaves soon became a powerful and regal symbol.  You can see it today across our museums, a halo of marble or bronze resting atop names that have lasted throughout history.  

Not to miss out, the plebeian masses of our ancient world donned these natural crowns and added flowers to honor their Gods and Goddesses during special occasions.  Upon May Day, flowers ringed the heads of youthful maidens as the Romans celebrated Flora, the Goddess of flowers and fertility.  When us modern Pagans wear a crown of flowers during our May Day rites we harken back to these early festivals.  

As the sun falls across the hilltops of Edinburgh, modern Pagans come to celebrate a different kind of May Day festival.  Capturing the beliefs of the ancient Celts, this modern Beltane celebration helps to bring the sun out of it’s winter prison.  A great bonfire is made in the center of the circle as followers dance along its perimeter.  Those brave enough jump over its flames in hopes that it will grant them protection throughout the year.  Special garments are worn, or perhaps taken off, to recognize and appreciate the fertility of nature.  This celebration also contains a reenactment of a marriage ceremony between the God and Goddess--a reminder that our fertility too is tied to the fertility of the Earth.

These ancient May Day celebrations have morphed and changed throughout time as they incorporate different cultural traditions and histories.  Here in America our May Day still persists in our larger society, yet it holds on by mere threads.  As young girls wear flower crowns and entwine their ribbons around the Maypole they are, possibly unknowingly, participating in a modern form of a these fertility rituals.  Perhaps if the Pagan nature of May Day lore was better known these celebrations might cease even further within our larger society.  How do we balance maintaining the symbolism and intention of these festivals yet be able to incorporate and include a wider subset of our population?  Or perhaps, Pagan rites should continue to be confined within our community.  Such questions are often on my mind during these seasonal celebrations.

Part of the joy for me personally in reclaiming these great festival days is to once again bring to life these ancient customs. While our contemporary interpretations often deviate heavily from their origins, I still view our modern festivals as a way to connect with our Pagan ancestors.  

Many of us experience history by visiting ancient sites and monuments.  I call for a more immersive approach.  Let us don these crowns of flowers and celebrate with remembrance around a great fire.  Let’s take history out of the museum and toast it together as we dance amongst the stars. Such beauty and elegance should persist throughout time and such moments of revelry and merrymaking should endure.

Should you make your own flower crown or build a bonfire this May Day, take a moment to smile with the thought that you are actively connecting with both nature and our Pagan history and are helping to keep it alive for future generations to come.  

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How to Make a Flower Crown

1. Take a piece of floral wire and form it in a circular shape.  Rest it atop your head and size it so that it fits comfortably.  Tape the circle shut with floral tape; you may want to wrap the tape several times around the ends of the wire.

2. Choose your greenery and flowers.  I recommend starting with some greenery and forming it along the whole circular wire so that you will have a base to add your flowers on.  Attach the greenery to the wire circle using your floral tape.  

3. Cut the flowers so that they have a stem of at least 2 inches.  This will make it easier as you tape the stems to your crown.  You can add as many or as few flowers to your crown as you like.  

A Review and Reflection of Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman

We are all brought up with the classical myths of Ancient Greece and Rome.  We can recall their stories, visualize the characters, and visit their ancient temples and sites.  By comparison, the Norse myths seem shrouded in mystery and misunderstandings.  They somehow feel more foreign, more ancient, and more inaccessible.  With Norse Mythology, Neil Gaiman takes us in hand and guides us through these powerful tales.  He does so with a narrative prose that makes these myths feel familiar and relatable.  Relying upon the Poetic Edda and it’s various translations, Gaiman weaves a collection of tales that introduce us to these larger than life figures and the many worlds they inhabit.  

Many of us are already acquainted with the mighty Thor.  A generation of children, including Gaiman himself, eagerly followed the adventures of Thor as a superhero through his comic book series.  Despite the comic's mythological and historical inaccuracies, it helped bring the world of Asgard and its divine inhabitants to life.  The recent Thor movies additionally help contribute to widening the audience for this mythology.  

The comics and movies, however, provide only a sliver of light onto the vast world of Norse mythology.  Gaiman is on a quest to deepen our understanding and as he guides us through Yggdrasil and it’s nine distinctive worlds, one begins to understand the complexity and richness of this web of gods, goddess, frost giants, elves, and dwarves.

Gaiman gives the Gods and Goddesses personality and thus brings them to life.  As I read through these tales I found myself joyfully laughing at Thor’s wild antics and smiling at Loki’s cleverness.  I felt concern when lovely Freja was about to be wed to an ugly giant and I felt triumph when Thor recovers his stolen Mjölnir.  These stories sometimes balance on the absurd.  You will read of Loki giving birth to a giant horse, Thor dressing as a bride to disguise a thieving giant, and Odin transforming into a Snake in order to sip the mead of poetry.  Instead of being jarring, these moments become believable through Gaiman’s brilliant storytelling.  

The tales go beyond the humorous and absurd.  They are touching, imaginative, and contain themes that translate into our present day.  Loki gains complexity with each tale as his intelligence is both admired and vilified by the other Gods.  As a half giant, Loki represents the ultimate outsider.  He’s not even supposed to be in Asgard with the others and no one knows how he ascended to their realm.  He vacillates between being an agent of chaos and risking his life and dignity to assist those who may never truly accept him.  Loki is a villain we can all see within ourselves and thus we too can both admire and scorn his actions.

Watching over these realms is the All-Father, Odin.  Odin gave his eye for wisdom and hung himself from the world-tree, Yggdrasil, for knowledge of the runes.  Odin understands that knowledge is power and has sacrificed himself many times over to achieve it.  His thirst for knowledge is insatiable, and he even enters our world dressed in disguise to see things from our point of view.  Odin sends his two ravens, Huginn and Muninn (‘thought' and ‘memory’) to travel the realms far and wide so that they might bring him new knowledge and perspective.  It is honorable that the leader of the Norse Gods should have such respect for knowledge and understanding.  With each story Odin becomes more mysterious, more complex, and more worthy of our admiration.    

Many question why mythology is important and if it still holds value in our modern tech-focused society.  I exclaim a resounding ‘YES’ to such questions.  We humans are storytellers.  The stories we tell define our culture and bring us together in common knowledge.  The great myths of the old Gods reference a world we could only dream of, yet their wisdom gives us guidance and comfort.  These ‘tall-tales’ illuminate our imagination and kindle our compassion.  Such stories are worth preserving and sharing among generations yet to come.  With Norse Mythology, Neil Gaiman helps these deities maintain their immortality and refreshes their stories for a new collective of storytellers, big-thinkers, and adventurers.