Enter The Crone

obeah woman whispers the hosue of twigs thot warrior women

She sits in her chair, with her darkened glasses, always with those glasses, and asks about my life. What am I up to, how are the boys, work treating me alright?

She’s never changed, or at least not to my eyes. Her body’s grown frailer and her face has aged, but ever the beautiful woman she remains, strong of spirit and still full of fight. Age hasn’t worn away her wits or mind, and she’ll speak her mind no matter what, no matter the backlash. She’s always on our side, the side of her grandchildren, her family.

My beautiful nana.

She was a witch too.

How little we truly know our elders.

Sometimes I sit and think of all of the things she must have gone through, all of the things she’s seen and felt and experienced. I wonder how she practised and what it must have felt like then, in the days before Pinterest and Google. She’s always been a lover of nature, a defender of it even. Maybe that’s where I get it from.

My paternal grandmother is no longer here, but always with me, in my heart, in my blood. She joined the ancestors years ago.

She came to England from Jamaica in the windrush years. How hard it must have been, to leave her home and start somewhere new. But she did it for her family. Strong and proud, she always was. Always there for her family, always.

Our grandmothers are our links to our history. When I think of them, it’s like thinking of a spider web, each strand linking from us at the centre, ever outwards, each strand stretching back through our lineage, to our grandmothers mother and so on and so forth, stretching ever backwards, to the beginning of our line.

Our grandmothers are our crones, our knowledge and experience is nothing in comparison to all that they have seen, to all they have done. They have stared down sexism, racism, all of those things the patriarchy would use to control us, to keep us as pretty little women.

It is now our turn to carry the mantle, to remain true to ourselves and to our lineage. It is time that we embraced one another, sister witches, to stand together in defense of ourselves and our craft. To learn of our elders, our crones and ancestors.

Stand strong when others condemn our crooked paths, lit by half-light and dappled with shadow, for we cannot all be love and light all of the time.

We are more than our looks, more than our bodies, more than the roles we must play in life. We are strong and cunning, fighters and lovers. Sometimes the fight is hidden, the struggle silent. The strength of character to persevere when life is hard, all of these things our grandmothers have known and overcome.

The blood of these warrior women, the ones who came before us, flows through our veins. It is time for us to become warrior women too.

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My name is Emma Kathryn, my path a mixture of non-Wiccan Traditional British Witchcraft and Obeah, a blend that represents my heritage. A Devotee of Hekate, my witchcraft is what is needed when needed.

I live in the middle of England with my partner, two teenage sons and two crazy dogs.

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My name is Emma Kathryn, my path a mixture of non-Wiccan Traditional British Witchcraft and Obeah, a blend that represents my heritage. A Devotee of Hekate, my witchcraft is what is needed when needed.

I live in the middle of England with my partner, two teenage sons and two crazy dogs.

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