WSHU’s Molly Ingram spoke with CT Mirror’s Shahrzad Rasekh to discuss her photography as part of the collaborative podcast Long Story Short.
This is story was featured on Long Story Short, a podcast that goes behind the scenes of public policy journalism in Connecticut.
As Tony Griego stood alone in the woods, frost began to form over his altar water. It was 8 p.m., March 23, 1997, and the Hale-Bopp comet was near its closest point to Earth.
Griego, a U.S. Army veteran and New Haven police officer at the time, was dedicating himself to a goddess, part of the ritual of converting to paganism.
“It was one of the most screwed up rituals I ever did, because I was new at it,” said 81-year-old Griego.
More than 25 years later, Griego still practices paganism. Even though he does so in solitude, he’s far from alone in Connecticut. Connecticut’s 20-odd metaphysical supply stores are one indication.
Griego was raised Roman Catholic, but at a certain point, “it wasn’t working for me anymore,” he said. Griego took immediate interest in the Connecticut witch trials after reading about them following a visit to Salem, Mass., in 1992. He was intrigued by the history behind the trials, which mainly scapegoated women for seemingly inexplicable deaths in the 1600s and eventually co-founded a witch trial exoneration project that passed in the Connecticut state Senate in 2023.
His interest in paganism, however, was newfound.
By 1995, Griego had begun “to really, seriously look into paganism.” That year, he lost his 25-year-old son in a car accident.
“I was just beyond myself because of that. And I felt that God was punishing me. And the way he punished me — because I was dabbling into witchcraft and paganism — he took my son.”
In hindsight, said Griego, “that’s not the proper thinking. It just doesn’t happen that way.”
As he dealt with this sudden loss, he continued to explore spirituality. He would read pagan magazines, purchased at a store on Chapel Street. Soon, he discovered the Pagan Community Church — and with it, the realization that paganism has many more adherents in Connecticut than he thought.
The Rev. Alicia Lyon Folberth created the Pagan Community Church, now known as the Panthean Temple of Connecticut, on Halloween of 1995 when she held a Samhain ceremony in her former home on North Avenue in Bridgeport. Griego attended some of the temple’s meetings as he began to immerse himself in pagan spaces.
The Panthean Temple has moved to several homes over the years, but the COVID-19 pandemic moved the space online. Lyon Folberth now teaches small groups and runs an annual Beltaine festival, the temple’s largest event, which has more than 5,000 followers on Facebook.
Since its formation, the temple has been involved with St. Vincent’s Hospital, Bridgeport Hospital and the Department of Correction facility in Cheshire, for various visits.
“It was not easy convincing DOC to approve visitations as clergy,” Lyon Folberth said of her five years visiting the correctional center. “Father Bruno at the time was not aware of what Wiccans did, so I did speak with him in person and had him watch the ‘Goddess Remembered’ documentary series.”
The Rev. Anthony J. Bruno, known as Father Bruno, was the Connecticut DOC’s Director of Religious Services at the time. He eventually agreed to her visits.
While Lyon Folberth was successful in visiting inmates, she “was only permitted one-on-one visitations, as they considered Wicca at the time not to be a collective religion,” she said. “The inmates also had a struggle receiving books and even simple things like tarot cards.”
After retiring from the police department as a patrol sergeant, Griego began working security at a hospital. In 2005, a reporter at the New Haven Register interviewed Griego, who told him he was pagan. At the time, Griego wasn’t “out of the broom closet.”
“If that comes out in the paper,” he thought, “I’m gonna have a problem.”
The paper published the quote. To Griego’s surprise, no one seemed to care. Similarly to Lyon Folberth, “one of the Christian ministers came up to me and said, ‘I have to administer to many people when they’re close to death and to comfort them, and I know nothing about paganism.’ And she was asking me for something helpful.” Griego referred her to literature, but “it’s really a bigger project,” he said.
Although paganism is still relatively obscure to most Connecticut residents, those interested can find events and communities through ads in metaphysical supply stores or on social media. On Facebook, the group Connecticut Pagan Events has more than 3,600 followers. Networking groups like Connecticut’s Welcoming Pagan Network (CWPN) find that word of mouth also remains a powerful tool to bring in new or curious pagans.
Griego first learned about CWPN from one of its co-founders, Ainsely Friedberg. CWPN came about as a natural expansion of the Fairfield County Wiccan Network, which had been established in 1989. It evolved to CWPN in 1994, earning its non-profit status in 2002.
The Gathering
The network’s largest event is the Harvest Gathering, an annual event that Griego has attended since 2004. A four-day retreat with a Saturday day pass option, the 2023 event united nearly 100 people from the tri-state area and beyond.
Tucked into the woods in Orange, Camp Cedarcrest seemed like a peaceful oasis on that mid-September morning. Sun shone through the canopies as the crickets and the gentle breeze muffled the light hum of cars passing on the Wilbur Cross Parkway nearby.
Most attendees were pagan, but some, like Jackie Getchel and her family, simply enjoy the community.
“I love exploring spirituality as a whole,” she said. “I like to see what everyone else does. I just like exploring it. See how other people are. Because paganism has a bad rep. So when you come, it’s just people enjoying themselves.”
Jackie and her family have attended the Harvest Gathering for a few years, their 4-year-old son Isaac in tow.
“We just try to bring him to whatever we can,” Getchel said. “Every experience.”
The love Griego and Getchel have for their community was palpable. As they walked through the grounds, vendors and volunteers greeted them: “Welcome home.”
Volunteer Douglas Yeager of Willimantic came of age in the 1960s and ’70s, “where many young adults like myself [were] in search of a community. We didn’t really know what we were looking for, but we somehow resisted or did not want to belong or follow what was considered acceptable by the greater community,” he said.
His experience was shared by several attendees, who had explored Buddhism and other world religions before encountering paganism. “The search for like-minded people led to the resurgence of paganism,” Yeager said.
The day’s workshops ranged from classes like “Using Tarot for Spellwork” and “The Process of Manifestation” to psychotherapy-related classes like “Introduction to [EFT] Tapping.” A “Pagan Pronouns 101: Introduction to Trans Inclusion” class aimed to teach attendees to create a more welcoming space.
By the end of the day, attendees had gathered around the fire pit for a ritual led by Voodoo priestess Lilith Dorsey.
A yearly highlight, attendees gather for a night of dancing and drumming following a service. This year, Dorsey honored Maman Brigitte, the female Voodoo spirit of death and protectress of women.
Wearing a maroon bandana and an embroidered dress, Jessica Vanhenteryck, CWPN president at the time, lit the fire and began to circle it, swaying side-to-side, one foot in front of the other, as it grew to her height in minutes.
“Dance for Legba! He shows you all the ways,” exclaimed Dorsey as the fire grew. “Open the door, Papa Legba,” referring to the intermediary Voodoo figure between humans and the spirit world.
People began to circle the fire. Tevas, bare feet, leather boots, white lace socks, all trod and twirled to the sounds of seven drummers, the ground slightly muddy from the previous day’s rain. Long, white ribbons tied to their fingers swirl through the air, which smelled like a mix of incense and forest dirt. Even little Isaac soared through the air, held up by his father. Onlookers clapped along, some slowly chanting, as the cornmeal veve spread and blended into the soil.
As the night progressed, the eight tealight candles on the nearby altar grew to an increasingly vibrant orange.
A volunteer pours cornmeal onto the ground to form a veve. SHAHRZAD RASEKH / CT MIRROR
As participants danced around the fire circle, the veve dissipated. SHAHRZAD RASEKH / CT MIRROR
‘Coming home to them and coming home to myself’
“I always felt comfortable with this group,” said Griego, thinking back to the Harvest Gatherings he’s attended. “Over the years, there were so many good speakers.”
Griego has also spoken in pagan spaces across the state himself. Last August, he attended the Church of Eternal Light’s end of summer gathering to present his efforts in the witch trial exoneration project.
The Church of Eternal Light (CEL) is a small former schoolhouse in Bristol with a long relationship with spiritualism and paganism. Surrounded by the woods on three sides, the building was built in 1884 and became a church only five years later. After being non-denominational for the first half of the twentieth century, it changed leadership in 1962 and became Spiritualist.
When Dr. Charles Rubin was elected pastor in 1987, he changed the name to its current form. Rubin was an ardent activist during the AIDS crisis and died of the virus himself in 1999. Two years later, the church became recognized as Pagan Spiritualist. It is understood to be the only Pagan Spiritualist church in the U.S. and still emphasizes LGBTQ+ inclusivity today.
Similar to a Christian church, CEL holds Sunday service, which is open to the public. A few dozen people gather around in a circle while a speaker leads a two-hour sermon and service. On holidays, the church welcomes even larger numbers.
“It’s not uncommon during holidays to see over 100 people,” said the Rev. Laura Dodge. One holiday, she remembers, 115 people showed up to an outdoor gathering in 35-degree weather.
The lesson plan for ordination today is the same that Rubin conceived. The process takes at least seven years, and lessons include comparative religion and interfaith studies. Willow Violette began the process in 2020.
She began attending in 2017 after hearing about it for a few years. Raised Roman Catholic, she initially found paganism as a teen. She began reading books and even set up an altar, but “I didn’t know what to do with it,” she said. “And it just kind of sat.” Then she discovered CEL but resisted going for years.
“I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. I wasn’t sure if that was necessarily the right fit, and I didn’t know what to expect when I did go,” Violette said. When she did finally go with a friend, “it was coming home to them and coming home to myself,” she said. “I found so much of myself. They’re just things that I was hiding or suppressing about who I was without even necessarily realizing it. And just kind of embracing all of that side of me, that spirituality side of me.” The sense of acceptance and belonging that she gained led her to her path to ordination, which she hopes will help her guide other people.
“I will be completely candid and say that I regret that I let that fear of unknown stop me, because I wish that I embraced it sooner. I wish I showed up at any of those points in time, because I’ve met a lot of amazing people that I know were destined to be a part of my path. And I feel like I held back some of that by not showing up sooner.”
