A Pagan Prayer at Yuletide: Solstice Blessings fro...

A Pagan Prayer at Yuletide: Solstice Blessings from the Wolf-Woman

May we, on this longest night when the Crone-Gods rule, remember the joyful magick of the holy hag. Let’s brew something bitter for those we love and forgive the simplicity of our root rituals, witnessing the Pagan majesty of a nog brewed to perfection or a kiss well-placed. May we weep in wonder at a beauteously flawed gift made by a child’s hands, and may we nest in the arms of a lover’s ghost for a few short breaths before looking long into the soulful eyes of those who, like us, are still here.

May we, the wildest Witches and most mischievous Maidens, give up the golden majesty of our ceremonial divination and bask in the mercy of a lone candle’s flame. This Solstice holds it all for us, and, tonight, we are all the heathen’s too-rapid heartbeat as she stares through the standing stones with bated breath, waiting for the sun to rise, to make a strong-willed break through the indigo sea of silent nights and somber hymns. Let’s stay true to our ancestral lines and peel back every layer of our Craft, stripping our spells and our Priestess ways down to the barest of bones, ripping away all that is not ours to wield.

May we, the horned wizards and over-frail mothers, seek and find a particular liberation in our solitude, living an entire lifetime of a soft-bodied, woodland creature in the space of a single breath when just the right recipe of chilled pine and mineral-laden mud graces our senses. May we know ourselves as living magick charms, semi-precious calcium gem-bones and holy-water blood wrapped in cob-webbed, glitter fascia and tied up in a skin bag. Until the day we journey all alone into the ethereal infinite, riding the blessed wave of our last exhale away from this heavy-fleshed plane, may we remember our most primal roots connect us to the mother that bore us; we are first and foremost of this Earth, last and leastly of the twisted rules that would bind and blind us.

May we, the wanton sorceresses and pristine sprites, remember that our magick is the conversation we have with the cosmic powers-that-be, and every spell cast is an affirmation of the world in which we want the children of the future to be born. Here, we say. Be born here, in this global community of endless reverence for our planet and our people, our shadows and our passions, our wildness and our wisdom. May the Child of Light be born not to a virtuous, adolescent Madonna but to a worldly Crone with a skull-staff and pendulous breasts. May we resurrect Her, the essence of cunning, feminine power, and may we bid Her leave Her mark in moonblood here, on a land too long scarred and marred by the insidious corruption of colonization and capitalism.

May we, the ones who can speak in the tongue of the ancients, live longer than those who would keep Her in the dirt. May we divine our futures from the nutmeg flakes in our drinks tonight, and may we rest long and warm while the frost forms telling runes on our window panes. So mote it be for you, for those who warm your still-beating heart, and for us all.

All blessings.

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...