Hugs, Kisses, and Grabbing Paws!

As an admitted “touch-a-phobe” and a borderline “germ-a-phobe,” one of the harder things the Tweed Witch has had to accept is how the Craft subjects its adherents to constant hugging. When greeting another practitioner, the polite handshake is deemed insufficient. One must hug. And when leaving a function, one cannot escape without first hugging everyone in sight. Often the Tweed Witch can escape with only the “mini-hug,” an abbreviated form in which the participants briefly touch at the shoulder with a one-handed pat on the back. But the Tweed Witch is not always so fortunate. Instead, the Tweed Witch often finds himself wholly enveloped within hugging arms like cream in a Twinkie. So the Tweed Witch must do as in Rome, even though he would rather be in Victorian London where, the Tweed Witch surmises, vigorous hugs were something rarely seen, like the Yeti or good teeth.

So the Tweed Witch wonders: “Where did this unquenchable appetite for hugging originate?” Certainly, people would have frowned upon wanton, unbridled hugging in the olden days when even exposing a woman’s ankle was deemed too saucy for polite society. So maybe the “clothing optional” Gardnerians provide the answer. But the Tweed Witch can imagine no circumstance more adverse to instilling the urge to hug than a circle of mature, portly, “sky-clad” witches running about willy-nilly with certain parts (best left tucked in) proudly flapping in the wind (“hidden children of the Goddess” indeed!). Maybe it simply started as a novelty, and then became a trend, and then an ensconced tradition, like doing the Electric Slide at a wedding.

But whatever the reason, we hug. And hug. And hug some more. And the Tweed Witch endures. He hugs. He kisses. He complies dutifully in circle when ordered to “grab a paw,” resisting afterward the anxious urge to pull hand sanitizer out of his cingulum pouch. And he even sometimes drinks from the chalice instead of kissing the side—even in cold and flu season (although, to be fair, usually only when the chalice is filled with grain alcohol that can kill the Ebola virus). And if people wonder why he wears gloves in less than fully frigid weather, maybe it’s because, as a child attending Catholic Mass, he was forced every week to greet his fellow parishioners with a handshake, no matter how clammy their complexion, or sweaty their palms.

So when the Tweed Witch hugs, he really is displaying “perfect love and perfect trust,” even if the hug lasts a bit shorter than expected, or his paw-grab seems strained. And really, don’t we need a few more restrained fuddy-duddies in the Craft, just to balance things out? The Tweed Witch thinks so. So please know that, from the Tweed Witch, a polite wave or gentlemanly handshake says as much as someone else’s passionate, atom-splitting, bear hug.

Touch-a-phobes of the world, be proud!

Welcome to my humble blog.

Welcome to Tweed Witch! I am a proud Wiccan of the old school (or at least I try). I try to battle the evil forces of fairywing wearing, moondust snorting, fluff bunnies (in fact, they don't even have that correct-- to be authentically pagan, shouldn't they be "fluff hares?"). I long to bring back the tweed wearing Tory Witches of old, before everything was "love and light" and when the deep mysteries were not something one bestowed upon oneself after reading one Silver Ravenwolf book!