N., one of the most naturally-gifted witches that I know, and, lucky me, a founding mother of my circle of magical women, led us last night, on the September 11th dark moon, in a magical working mere blocks from the Capitol. All over the city, as if just to piss me off, flags were flying at half mast. Everywhere, that is, except for the school across the street from our magical working, where Betsy Ross' flag and the flag of the District of Columbia flew high, and strong, and proud.
N. used this song, one which I'd have thought was too over-used to affect me. But by the time that Bruce got to the verse that says: "We are not afraid, we are not afraid . . . ." I was sobbing like a baby and shedding magic into the Earth like a big-old-magic-shedding thing.
Come to DC this weekend. The witches have been making it ready to hear that the people want an end to this war.
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 . . . ."