How is it with you, Witch? I’ve missed you terribly on these over-grey days.
Come with me to the secret place where we buried our seed-dreams last Autumn. Do you remember? The moon was swelling toward fullness, and we could speak of nothing but shadow integration and ghostly communion. The air was different then, potent with the promise of pending Winter, over-laden with lost child-spirits and hungry specters. We planted all our hopes and wishes beside our grandmothers’ graves for safe-keeping and went into the dark, mourning our beloved dead at October’s end and spinning into a hedonistic Yule from which we scarcely escaped.
Now, my love, now we find ourselves here again at Imbolc, bundled and searching for the right cemetery, lonely and numb-bodied from a Winter gone too long. This pitiful snow that’s falling won’t keep us from what we know is ours, nor will those ravenous beasts howling from the wilds; they are our kin, after all, our creaturely memory of our nature-to-soul intimacy.
Tell me, dear poetess, what shall we do if we find the roots of our untold dreams have set right there in our ancestral soil? What if the best nourishment for our desires is simply the homecoming to a land we have forgotten, the medicine of the mist people, and the Crone-songs hummed to us from the ethereal place? We didn’t know it, but what if we hand-mapped a return to our wild homes on that fateful Autumn day?
I swear sometimes I get all the magick I need from a memory harvested at just the right time, a small thought-blessing tucked away by a version of me with brighter eyes and firmer skin. I remember the fire in your face that night while we walked. Your brows were high with a thrilled possibility, an aliveness that animates the wickedest of Witches before the first snow falls, and you told me that we were casting a spell with our wandering and our words right then, in that moment.
“This ground is enchanting us with every step we take,” you said. “This land, this moon, this walk…. We have no choice but to surrender and let this heathen world have its way with us.”
Do you remember saying that? You shrugged it off then, as if the words weren’t even yours to share, and we rambled on about haunted houses and ritual.
You were a wise woman that day, my love, and I feel your words are true again now, as the Wheel of the Year turns toward Spring. This Earth is casting its spell on us, and, for all our grand plans about where to plant our dreams and how to water them in just the right places, I feel there is a magick afoot that is spiraling around our ankles and climbing our bones, piercing through the shells of our quickening and stirring hopes and sparking them to life, destined toward a brighter bloom than we could have ever imagined.
Lie on the ground with me near these stones. The heartbeat of the past and future, void and fruition, fallows and feast, drums beneath this soil, and I want to feel it bubble in my blood. I can hear our dead women mothering the yet-to-be-born babes, and I can almost taste the brilliance of greener days on my tongue.
How is it with your heart, Sister? Do you feel as I do? Let’s nap just here for a spell and soak up some familial medicine through our roots. We’ll wake better woman, to be sure, and I’ll share my dreams with you if you do the same.
All blessings be, here on the graves at Imbolc.
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How is it with you, Witch? I’ve missed you terribly on these over-grey days. Come with me to the secret place where we buried our seed-dreams last Autumn. Do you remember? The moon was swelling toward fullness, and we could speak of nothing but shadow integration and ghostly communion. The air was different then, potent […] -
How is it with you, Witch? I’ve missed you terribly on these over-grey days. Come with me to the secret place where we buried our seed-dreams last Autumn. Do you remember? The moon was swelling toward fullness, and we could speak of nothing but shadow integration and ghostly communion. The air was different then, potent […] -
How is it with you, Witch? I’ve missed you terribly on these over-grey days. Come with me to the secret place where we buried our seed-dreams last Autumn. Do you remember? The moon was swelling toward fullness, and we could speak of nothing but shadow integration and ghostly communion. The air was different then, potent […]
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How is it with you, Witch? I’ve missed you terribly on these over-grey days. Come with me to the secret place where we buried our seed-dreams last Autumn. Do you remember? The moon was swelling toward fullness, and we could speak of nothing but shadow integration and ghostly communion. The air was different then, potent […] -
How is it with you, Witch? I’ve missed you terribly on these over-grey days. Come with me to the secret place where we buried our seed-dreams last Autumn. Do you remember? The moon was swelling toward fullness, and we could speak of nothing but shadow integration and ghostly communion. The air was different then, potent […]
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