Prodigal Texan: Homecoming for a Pagan
"Texas is the finest portion of the globe that has ever blessed my vision."
~Sam Houston, 1833
"Texas is a state of mind. Texas is an obsession. Above all, Texas is a nation in every sense of the word."
~John Steinbeck
"The sky in Texas is the most amazing sky in the whole country, I think. Like, you can see more sky in Texas than you can see anywhere else in the world."
~Idina Menzel
It's been since 1994 that I've lived in Texas, and this year is my homecoming.
During this absence, I was married and divorced. I've half-raised a son, earned an education--both academic and real-life, honed my cooking, and battled serious depression. I learned how to be independent, fell in love, and converted to Paganism.
One of these things is not like the others.
Within the first two months of having moved into my recently acquired abode, there were no fewer than 2 door-knockers a week, wanting to sell me Jesus. This is in addition to the weekly witnessing that I encountered while attempting my weekly, mundane, domestic art of hauling laundry to the laundromat. (For anyone not following my Twitter feed, you can catch up on #washateriawitnessing here.)
And I, in my apparently infinite naivete, assumed (caught me, there) that is would gently dissipate over the next few weeks, as I was, in fact, the new shiny thing who had just moved into the neighborhood. Lo and behold, I was proven quite wrong.
Long story short, A sweet little "No solicitations. No religious queries" sign put a quick stop to that. Although, I don't believe there's a difference between selling a vacuum and selling religion, as this particular sign so politely separates the two.
And I haven't had a knock on my door since, by anyone I don't already know. (Thank you, Jesus.)
Football would be the other religion.
I'm all about me some football. I was born and raised a die-hard Dallas Cowboys fan, brought up with the likes of Tom Landry, Roger Staubach and Randy White. Wouldn't trade those guys for any other team. Despite any rough patches (And, yes, I know there have been quite a few,), I will always be a Cowboys fan. Moving away from Texas 25 or so years ago hasn't diminished this in the slightest.
I would argue, however, that a third item be added to the list: Texans are religious about being Texans.
My state pride and perhaps garrulous opinions regarding said pride I have kept to myself for most of these same absent years. I learned that no one outside this great state really wants to hear about how much better Texas is than theirs. (Bless their hearts.)
So, now I'm back and can proudly scream at the enormous, heart-breakingly beautiful Texas sky, "Drink up, Witches! This is Texas!"
And since I've been home, there has been no shortage of welcome-backs and we-missed-yous and glad-to-have-you-back-with-Texas-under-your-feets.
Because there's no place like Texas. Goddess bless.
There's a specific magic here, the likes of which Austin, Houston and many others recognized, even if they didn't call it that.
Texas is Big Sky Country (I'll fight Montana for that honor.), the Lone Star State (Check it, y'all: It's a pentacle.), with epithets like "Texas tough" and "Don't mess with Texas."
My father mentioned the other day, in conversation, he had read somewhere that one of the reasons Texas culture is this way is because we are so close (time-wise) to our own frontier. I told him that I would argue that it's also because we actively try to keep it that way.
Others don't see this magic, the kind that washes over you when the wind blows, the kind you can hear in the rustling of the old growth hardwoods and feel in the droplets from the water oaks. And you can smell it, that deep, dark earth that spreads underneath that big sky from horizon to horizon.
Big Sky Magic.
I could feel it as soon as I drove that U-Haul across the state line.
I could hear it as the wind whispered, "Welcome back."
Give me that ol' time religion (Goddess, that is), and give me that dark earth She made, blessed and called Texas.
