Shakti-Wicca: Where East Meets West

My wife and I are a study in contrasts, and I guess that's why we are so passionately attracted to each other. I am of Indian heritage and stem from an old Sikh family - that's the guys with the turbans and the long beards. I love my family, scattered as it is over at least three continents. I love them dearly. I've even eaten at the Sikh holy of holies, the Golden Temple in Srinagar, marveled at the majesty of that impressive structure. But I feel most comfortable in a gray sports coat, pressed shirt, and slacks. I think the Poetic Edda, Dogma and Ritual of High Magic, and Bernard Cornwell's medieval battle epics make for truly fascinating reading. My wife, on the other hand, can't wait to slip out of her nursing scrubs at the end of the day and wrap herself in an intricately embroidered sari. She even wears it to the grocery store. She could care less about Lugh and Queen Mab or Cuchulain's exploits in The Cattle Raid of Cooley; her Scots-Irish heritage and its rich body of folklore just doesn't seem to do it for her. But I think she owns every Yogananda book that's ever been published. In our house, you can't take two steps without stubbing your toe on an idol of the elephant-headed Ganesh, or bump your head into yet another framed print of Krishna and Radha sitting on a swing. What's so interesting about this strange mix is that we follow the same religion: we're both Wiccans.