Siobhán Keane’s coven

Pagan, forager, Wheel of the Year keeper. Muddy boots, a field guide always in my pocket, and gratitude for every tree I lean on.

Retired mail carrier, church deacon, and rootworker. Yes, all three. Psalm 23 and a dime in my shoe. Learned it all at my uncle's kitchen table.

Hellenic polytheist. First flame of the day for Hestia, libations on the balcony, and a lot of Homer read aloud badly. Athens-born, Melbourne-based.

Druid of the oak and the drizzle. Welsh learner, hedge-layer, birdsong counter. Awen comes when I stop trying so hard.

Astrologer, data analyst, recovering cynic. Mid-Saturn-return and documenting every lesson. I'll read your chart if you stop blaming Mercury for everything.

Heathen, blacksmith, dad of two. Hailing the ancestors and the land-wights from a very rainy corner of Oregon. Mead is a craft, not a personality.

Kemetic polytheist. Daily offerings at a bookshelf shrine for Bast and Djehuty. Archivist by trade, so yes, I footnote my prayers.

Software tester by day, Lalitha Sahasranama by night. Chennai roots, Toronto snow. Shameless rangoli overachiever every Diwali.

Coven-trained, now happily solitary. Sabbats, circle-casting, and an altar that is mostly cat hair. Twenty-two years under the moon and still learning.

Anglican contemplative and choir alto. Julian of Norwich keeps reminding me that all shall be well. Centering prayer at 6am, mostly.