What I think that I want to say tonight is that living the life of a witch is, as the titular head of the resident junta often says, hard. It's hard to live with, as the Temperance Card in the Tarot shows, one foot in this world and one foot in the next. It's hard work, hard work, to function here and to function there. It's the deep secret that the High Priestess knows, the secret that she's brought back from the underworld.
Last night, my brilliant circle of women, my wonderful gift of a college of priestesses, were discussing, after our Lammas ritual, what is WRONG with so many Pagans. Why do so many Pagans seem to miss what it is about magic that is supposed to make life in the "mundane" (Goddess, do I hate that word as a complete misrepresentation of reality) world so effective? Margot Adler, whom I adore, has apparently been on about this, recently.
Even the amazing women with whom I practice, didn't have a real answer. And, I am gifted to practice with such an amazing group of initiates. Last night, K. priestessed a ritual that spanned from the ancestors to the future. N., wounded and yet, still magically effective, called to our ancestors. E called all the women of the world to open their throat chakra, as she and K. opened ours. The heady scents of rosemary (for remembrance) and the mint on E's hands (for immediate life) made us all a bit high and the chocolate of B.'s cake made us all a bit serious and full of courage. Today, BP. came home with photos of places in the homeland where women were sacrificed, where she, in memory of them, sat looking magnificent. I am so proud of her. She is working so hard right now to manifest the Goddess as mother, wife, mathematician, Hestia, teacher, gardener, witch.
It's hard work, hard work to smash other lawyers all day and then to come home and tend your gardens all night. And yet, it's the work of a witch, the work that I took up more than 20 years ago.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."