Walk with me, sinner. My cauldron is too heavy to lift, and my athame is dirty and dull from overuse. These ritual robes of mine are fraying at the edges, and I fear my matron deities have finally forsaken me for good. I’m heading into the haunted woodlands with nothing but my modern fragility and ancestral belonging packed under this skin of mine. I’m traveling light, leaving a trail of moonblood and seasonal angst behind me, and I’m hoping you’ll join me as I shed all my higher learning and meaningless credentials. I’m exchanging my hard-earned legitimacy for a hand-picked loneliness, and I’m choosing you as witness to my ceremonial undoing.
Why you? Somehow you seem to share my embodied longing for truth and my undying admiration for words; it’s in our Witch’s blood, I suppose, and my blood is the only thing I trust nowadays. All I know for sure courses through these veins like tiny red-blue rivers moving message-in-a-bottle cells back through time. My virile heartbeat is a rhythm my grandmothers’ grandmothers are dancing to around a humble hearth, and the ta-dum-ta-dum of our footsteps is rippling through the fabric of space and time and urging the next generation of wild ones to press on and through all that would tether their hands and choke their voice.
Why you? Because you don’t profess to be some reincarnated Goddess of a land you’ve never visited or claim a divinely mandated pedigree that places you on a gold-tasseled pedestal. You, like me, are a wounded magick-maker who moves these god-sparks to and fro powered by sheer will and an inherited, earth-bound, feminine intent. You, like me, are seeking that particular solace we’ve only ever been able to find in that bark-temple where the moonlight meets the thin branches, in that wind-kissing-skin moment before a thunderclap, and in these painful but purposed walks away from apathy and toward the holy unknown.
I must confess I’ve grown weary of that bright-screen and soulless landscape where all is stated as absolute fact yet no one trusts a thing. No wonder we wish to swim in a warm sea of nostalgia and over-romanticized memories of robed Priestesses who exist in an enduring state of serene and sweet-smelling beauty. No wonder we forget why our magick has meaning and neglect the over-running well of power and joy we house within our still-fresh, so supple flesh.
Let’s drink from these fertile springs tonight, friend. I’m returning to the misty lands I long for in my quiet moments, and I’m building stone circles from the mythic designs etched on these spiral bones of mine. Come with me. The journey’s worth it, I promise. We embody these wilds in our subtlest vibrations, in our soft muscles and our over-worked organs, in those patches of fat bubbling up and layering over the innocence of our over-smoothed youth. We embody these wilds in the deepening spider-web borders around our eyes, in the spots where the sun bore too hard into our skin, in these loud-creaking knees and aching arches, and in these low-swinging but still-feeling breasts that hold more memories than the sharpest mind.
We’re nearly there, Heathen. Tonight, we reclaim our right to belong inside this skin, to power our magick with movement, rawness, and our more creaturely ways. Tonight, you are my most potent medicine, and I am blessed to walk beside a woman who knows that wildness does not mean descending the debts owed by our forefathers and inherited by us, nor does it mean denying the merit of our grief. Let us drink up and recharge so we might return to the topside world a more vibrant version of these two hopeful shadows who now wander toward the setting sun, who will be undone at moonrise and reborn by dawn.
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Walk with me, sinner. My cauldron is too heavy to lift, and my athame is dirty and dull from overuse. These ritual robes of mine are fraying at the edges, and I fear my matron deities have finally forsaken me for good. I’m heading into the haunted woodlands with nothing but my modern fragility and […] -
Walk with me, sinner. My cauldron is too heavy to lift, and my athame is dirty and dull from overuse. These ritual robes of mine are fraying at the edges, and I fear my matron deities have finally forsaken me for good. I’m heading into the haunted woodlands with nothing but my modern fragility and […] -
Walk with me, sinner. My cauldron is too heavy to lift, and my athame is dirty and dull from overuse. These ritual robes of mine are fraying at the edges, and I fear my matron deities have finally forsaken me for good. I’m heading into the haunted woodlands with nothing but my modern fragility and […]
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Walk with me, sinner. My cauldron is too heavy to lift, and my athame is dirty and dull from overuse. These ritual robes of mine are fraying at the edges, and I fear my matron deities have finally forsaken me for good. I’m heading into the haunted woodlands with nothing but my modern fragility and […] -
Walk with me, sinner. My cauldron is too heavy to lift, and my athame is dirty and dull from overuse. These ritual robes of mine are fraying at the edges, and I fear my matron deities have finally forsaken me for good. I’m heading into the haunted woodlands with nothing but my modern fragility and […]
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