In Which Our Witch Pronounces Herself Well Satisfied
My sump pump is working and it fills my rain barrel whenever the temp is above freezing. It waters my oaks and it makes me happy.
I walked along the lovely Potomac River today and it was covered in an amazing not-quite-mist-more-a-quality-of-light-kind-of-aura that was so lovely that it made me cry. I watched dryads from the Federalist period and dryads from the time before Columbus and dryads from today swimming just below the surface. I love that body of water. I do. I love it.
I had brunch w/ my brilliant, tall, strong, kind, witty, Son, who has turned out to be, who knew?, an amazing father, who buys jeans w/ his son upon his shoulders, graceful as an African woman with a basket of tarot upon her head, and with my shiningly beautiful DiL, who puts bad people away to make the world safe, and with my brilliant and good and kind G/Son, whom I adore even more than I adore the Potomac, and who gives new meaning to the word "sweet."
I saw "The Golden Compass" with my wonderful, lovely, unique, dear friend R., aka the best cook in the world. I thought that it was excellent. Nicole Kidman played, I thought, the best role of her life. The daemons were exactly right. The armoured polar bears were wonderful. Once, just once in my life, I want to ride a bear like that across the arctic full-moon night. The flying witches with their bows and arrows were archetypically spot on. I am naming my next cat Serafina:
Witches own nothing, and so have no means of exchange save mutual aid. They have no notions of honor, so insults mean nothing to them. Temperature extremes appear not to harm witches. Although they feel the cold, wrapping up against it would prevent them from experiencing other things that the humans of the text may not feel, such as "the bright tingle of the stars, or the music of the Aurora". Witches fly on branches of Cloud-Pine, and equate flying to living, as Serafina states: "A witch would no sooner give up flying than give up breathing. To fly is to be perfectly ourselves." Witches see themselves as subject to fate, yet they feel they must act as if they are not, or "die of despair". They believe that when they die Yambe-Akka, the goddess of the dead, comes kindly to collect them.
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 . . . ."