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Our Year of the Hag: Imbolc Prophecies Beneath the...

Our Year of the Hag: Imbolc Prophecies Beneath the Wolf Moon

wolf woman witch danielle dulksy the house of twigs thot witchcraft full moon imbolc

Stand just here and indulge my snow-struck heart for a moment. Hold my hand so tightly our pitiful flesh loses all meaning; then and only then will our wild communion begin. A bone to bone kinship is what I need now, you see, as we ride this holy rock ‘round that arrogant and lusty star one more time, as we fatten ourselves with the promise of a new year done right. I’m calling this the Year of the Hag, even as the blue-skinned Cailleach hardens into a hillside crag, and I need you to humor me, just this once.

I wouldn’t ask, but I know you feel it, too, my sister-in-lawlessness. That great Imbolc swell is upon us, and the browning ground is rising and falling under our chilled feet like faintly pulsed but still breathing land, like the soul of this Wolf Moon went underground to dream us all into being one milk-silver breath at a time, like the loam-skinned and grey-eyed crone who rules this ground is hissing in rhythm with the songs of our foremothers somewhere in the deep below. Surely, this is the midwinter of my heart’s longing, and I’m pressing my aching face to this iced-over mud, whisper praying with an urgency that I might hear the echo of prophecies foretold long ago by those old gods who were made of bone and lightning, who held the whole world together with their rough-woven stories and hard-loving commandments.

I wonder now, as the soft-bodied creatures creep about this humble tree and-stone temple, just what memories these ice-bent pines would share if they could, if I could slow my heart enough to speak their long-groaning language, if they would think this winter witch worthy of their epic myths. I wonder what Imbolc tales they know that I don’t, and I wonder what mysteries might be revealed if I were able to trace those ancient ebbs and flows of birth and death, of the ever-peaceful dark and so-embattled light.

Tell me, do you think yourself a mystic, friend? I did last year, I think, but I don’t any longer. A mystic’s dance is with the sweet ethers, you see, and mine is with the rot-riddled muck of the slow-dying and enraptured lovers. I’m calling this place a graveyard for my most dazzling voices and all my one-size-fits-all inspirations; I’ve slayed those trite and romantic frivolities from gut to throat, and I’ve wrapped the warm, bloody bowels of deep poetry around my wrists like a storyteller’s most grotesque, living, thumping jewels.

This Imbolc, this looming day of flame-tending sorceresses and steadfast altar-keepers, I’ve set out to renew my vows in this forbidden place. There’s something so potent about a ceremonial undoing set deep in the wounded wilds, is there not? Here, the land mourns the way I mourn. Let us become the incarnation of our grandmothers’ best-kept secret, that timeless longing for shadow-beauty and ecstatic art. We’re the answer to their wickedest prayers, you know, and I’m not about to let them down.

This year, this Imbolc, I’m swelling with a long-tongued passion hotter than any I’ve ever known in this life. I’m spitting all over those pitifully persistent, dull-burning fires and stoking the ones that threaten to overtake this world of mine. This year, this Wolf Moon, I’m tracing spirals on melting ice and calling in the hag’s more potent pleasures, the heathen erotic, and a deep love of living slow. By this time next year, these elder trees will share some story of immortal bloodlust with me, and I’ll know this was time well spent.

And so it is.

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Danielle is a heathen visionary, Aquarian mischief-maker, and word-witch. The author of Woman Most Wild and The Holy Wild., she teaches internationally and has facilitated circles, embodiment trainings, communal spell-work, and seasonal rituals since 2007. She is the founder of The Hag School, the lead teacher for the Flame-Tender Teacher Training, and believes in the emerging power of wild collectives and sudden circles of curious dreamers, cunning witches, and rebellious artists in healing our ailing world. As an Irish-American, Danielle’s witchcraft is deeply rooted in Celtic philosophy and Irish mythology. She believes fervently in the role of ancestral healing, embodiment, and animism in fracturing the longstanding systems supporting white-body supremacy and environmental unconsciousness, is committed to centering the voices and teachings of POC and LGBTQIA+ folks in her work as founder of Living Mandala, LLC and The Hag School and supports organizations and initiatives that do the same. Parent to two beloved wildlings and partner to a potter, Danielle fills her world with nature, family, and intentional awe. Find her praying under pine trees, wandering through the haunted places, and whispering to her grandmothers’ ghosts.
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Danielle is a heathen visionary, Aquarian mischief-maker, and word-witch. The author of Woman Most Wild and The Holy Wild., she teaches internationally and has facilitated circles, embodiment trainings, communal spell-work, and seasonal rituals since 2007. She is the founder of The Hag School, the lead teacher for the Flame-Tender Teacher Training, and believes in the emerging power of wild collectives and sudden circles of curious dreamers, cunning witches, and rebellious artists in healing our ailing world. As an Irish-American, Danielle’s witchcraft is deeply rooted in Celtic philosophy and Irish mythology. She believes fervently in the role of ancestral healing, embodiment, and animism in fracturing the longstanding systems supporting white-body supremacy and environmental unconsciousness, is committed to centering the voices and teachings of POC and LGBTQIA+ folks in her work as founder of Living Mandala, LLC and The Hag School and supports organizations and initiatives that do the same. Parent to two beloved wildlings and partner to a potter, Danielle fills her world with nature, family, and intentional awe. Find her praying under pine trees, wandering through the haunted places, and whispering to her grandmothers’ ghosts.

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