Forgive My Freshly Bedded Appearance: Witches’ Gir...

Forgive My Freshly Bedded Appearance: Witches’ Girl-Talk and the Wild Hunter’s Return

I hear you knocking, and I’m coming! You’re my favorite glitter-winged, pink-pearl-wearing Priestess and, for that reason only, I will let you in. I just hope, my love, you haven’t come seeking a sister who will revel with you in the sunshine on these last bright days or swim in the still-warm sea. You see, I woke up today and decided to let Autumn have its way with me already, and I’ve put away all my stringy sheer things, swept out my fireplace, and opened my door to the dead. You’re still alive, but I’ll let you in anyway if you’ll overlook my disheveled, freshly bedded appearance.

Welcome, my love, and do forgive my uncharacteristic delight and ditzy breathlessness. I just can’t wipe the grin from my face or dismiss the memory of the first cool chill on the back of my neck. Am I blushing? I let the scent of rotting leaves lick me in just the right places, and now my heart belongs to the spectral one who has been waiting for me since the days turned long. My most insatiable lover has returned wearing only an antler crown and cunning expression, and my aching body is weary from our reunion.

Can you hear my lover, too? It’s a whisper-hiss voice telling us to build our ancestral altars and speak out against all the great American shadows so we can better see the dark and the deep. The hunter is bidding us to begin the Great Burn, to fall into and through the collective exhale and work our magick to banish the fear of otherness that binds and betrays us all.

Oh, your face! Am I scaring you? Let me make you a pot of nettle tea. I’ll leave out the moon-blood this time; I promise. Come, tell me what haunts you on these lonelier days when the long-nosed hags and vine-wrapped pumpkins sit in the shop windows and all things red, white, and blue rot all over the discount table. Tell me why you really dig your claws into summer so deeply, and I’ll tell you why I relish these misty mornings and love to mourn. I’ll tell you far more details than you care to know about the way my lover speaks to me right at the Witching Hour. You’ll call me macabre and indulgent, and I’ll call you trite and delusional. We’ve been through this all before, my friend, and I do love our bitter banter so! In truth, I look forward to it every year, and you are the only thing I would let keep me from running back to bed.

Drink your tea, and look disgusted when I tell you what I’m doing in the graveyard tomorrow, and I’ll do the same while you wax poetic about pumpkin lattes and cat costumes. We’ll come together and agree that our grandmothers’ ghosts are sitting with us- we always do- then we’ll bicker again about how to best dismantle the patriarchy. You’ll say it’s better done by good deeds and fuzzy blanket compassion, and I’ll say we need to smear some mud on our bellies and conjure the long-toothed demonesses and descended masters from the bowels of hell to wreak havoc on the ignorant suckers who will never see them coming. You’ll speak of how liberated you feel when you create your own prosperity sigils out of sacred, deconstructed runes, and I’ll warn you that an army of horned-hat Viking corpses are coming for you in your sleep. We’ll laugh then, as if we were talking about failed cookie recipes or carefree, teenage recklessness, and then we’ll remember why we’re friends in the first place.

I’m so glad you came to visit, my longtime Priestess, the light to my dark! Your Witchery is certainly not mine, but I get lost beyond the veil so easily on these near-Autumn days, content to get drunk on the musk of wood-fire smoke and cinnamon sticks, longing only to ride my tireless lover until Solstice saves me from my crucible of doomed-fairy-tale hedonism. I do love our Witches’ girl-talk. I need your softer sisterhood sometimes, as you need the grittier sort from yours truly, so please come back in a few weeks to find my black bat wings have sprouted and the skull beneath my skin is showing. Don’t be alarmed at the state of my house either; I’m going to let the cobwebs take over. Feel free to bring your angels so my demons have something to chase while we talk, and, for the love of all things holy, don’t come back without a dirty story or two.

I love you, so sweet sister, but best be on your way. I’ve stayed away from my wide-eyed, long-tongued hunter too long, and the howling is deafening even from here in my kitchen. Go now. I’ll make sure the hungriest ghost here doesn’t follow you home, and I’ll save you the trouble and sage your perfect aura before you walk out my door. Goodbye, dear. Kiss me on both cheeks but save the rest of your formalities for those with voids to fill, for those who haven’t taken the entire season of Autumn as a wild, virile, long-armed lover.

Danielle Dulsky

Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...