The 13th Moon House: The Witch’s Yearly Fare...

The 13th Moon House: The Witch’s Yearly Farewell

Peel the worry from your face, darling. I can only imagine what you must be thinking, finding me like this, lips quivering and cheeks streaked grey with all my costly paints and glitters, house still a post-October wreck with toppled-over skeletons, melted candles, and the afterbirth of ritual. The ghosts still linger here, too; they’ve found a kindred spirit in me, a woman who haunts her home now more than lives in it. Even so, my flesh is thickening, and I’m about to go on a little psychic wander through the frost-covered fairy tale forest of my mind. Would you like to join me? If so, I’ll show you the vision that has me so shredded now on this dark moon morning, the dreamscape that warmed my Witch’s blood so seductively that I’m now steeped in grief for its loss.

Let me cup your face in both hands. Press your forehead to mine. Don’t shrink back when you feel the spectral chill on my skin, and I promise I won’t move when your flushed face all but burns mine. Close your eyes, and picture this:

This very morning, still in the over-fluffed nest where my greatest work gets done, I rolled to my lover and told him of my 13th Moon house. I saw it in the most lucid of dreams just last night, and, while he did not understand, I think you might, having been bewitched by the void once or twice yourself. I had wandered a long time to find it, I think, and I heard the crows and smelled the smoke long before I saw its humble stones, long before wolf songs began lulling me into a more rhythmic walk toward its blood-covered door, and long before I remembered that I had already been inside its ancient walls.

You see, I return to this woodland temple just before Yule every year, first while I sleep then every late afternoon on these shortest days. In my waking hours, I spend what little daylight there is in a semi-aching state, half of my many-sensed body always longing for the sound of the quietly crackling hearth, the sight of the low-burning oil lamps, and the heady scent of a wicked brew bubbling on the stove.

I am talking to you now, my love. I see my wrinkling, dry hands curling into your youthful skin and dimpling your hope, but my thoughts are far away. I’ll live an entire lifetime there in my 13th Moon house, every night aging a little more toward Crone while the snow falls, moving from wide-eyed Maiden to hooded, skull-faced wise woman in a 29-day, birth-to-death incarnation, leaving behind my most virile lovers and ever joyous children.

Into the dark void, I’ll go. I’m halfway there already. Tonight, while the sun sets, I’ll make it closer to the door, shedding every mask and leaving behind a trail of broken jewels, torn fabrics, and every frivolity I still carry on my back from my heathen’s summer. Tomorrow, I’ll trace the Algiz rune in the blood on the door and push it open. As the 13th Moon rises, I’m locking myself inside with not so much as a wand, dropping deep and sinking strong into the fertile, primordial soup that will birth the next turn of the wheel, into the crucible that will recast my hardened bones and sagging flesh into a softer shape.

I can’t know for sure, Sister, if the butterfly remembers the cocoon or the babe recalls the womb, but I can tell you I never know exactly what goes on inside that house once I close the door. I melt back into the source of everything, I think. All goes hot. I wretch, and I purge last year’s pride and fantasy from my guts. The walls start to drip with a bitter thick that reeks of iron and salt, and all the fires burn so white-hot I’m blinded by the brilliance of my particular, annual death. My beauteous, cosmic, connective tissues all fail me at once, and I crumble into a pitiful, sopping mess on the floor where I’ll stay until something stirs me awake, some unknown and ancient whisper bids my cells rebind themselves before Solstice, some descended master sculpts my cool and malleable flesh into a smirking, saggy-breasted Goddess with full lips, wide hips, and hard nipples then furrows his brow to paint on my tattoos just right.

I know it sounds awful, Sister, but I just can’t wait. Even now, the siren song of my 13th Moon house is so loud I can barely hear my own voice whispering to you. You’d better go, I think. You deserve someone who can be present and peaceful in your company. I haven’t asked how you are, and I won’t. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just could not care less about shopping and New Year’s Eve. Come back in a month, and I promise to show you a better rested and rejuvenated face. This Witch is rushing to rest now, and my wintry womb, the warm shell of my strategic, ritual depression, can only hold one of us.

Don’t worry. I die and return every year, beloved; this is just the first time I’m sharing it with you. Trust me. I need this blissful and blessed dark to gestate the coming year, to seed the next round of passion and partnership, erotic ecstasy and wild art, primal writing and sacred work. Beneath the 13th Moon, I am nothing and everything at once. I am a fat body surrendered and pure consciousness awoken. Sweet darling, here I can hear the hisses of the darkest Goddesses, and I’ll return with their divinations and from-the-ether proverbs, bringing a perfectly channeled prophecy just for you.

Wait for me.

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...