Stop, Children, What's That Sound? Everybody Look What's Going Down.
What I don't understand about physics would fill libraries, but one thing that I have been able to grock is that the simple act of paying attention changes the object/situation/person/phenemonon to which attention is paid. I get that because that's the basic teaching of Wicca.
And so, perhaps it's because I'm paying attention (aka, perhaps it's "all in my head," as if that meant it's "not real"), but suddenly yesterday, the day after Lughnasadah, it all began to change. I went out yesterday afternoon to dance in the pounding August rain and there, just as I was about to go ahead and dance all the way into the stream, was a chilling breeze that made my bones cold and sent me inside for hot tea and a warm shower.
And there, this morning, as I finished the one task that I'd planned to do by Lughnasadah but hadn't gotten done -- cleaning out the garden shed -- was the change in light, the breeze in the leaves, the different "feel" that signals the lovely, slow arc of the year, from Autumn to Winter. I wanted to be at the Ren Faire w/ G/Son, I was thinking of a pumpkin-carving party, I was remembering my favorite recipes for soup.
It's only a glimmer. Here in the swamp over which they built our nation's capital, we're still likely in for six or eight weeks of heat. Son, DiL, and G/Son are at the beach. Congress is adjourned. The farmers' markets are still full of corn, tomatoes, zucchini, basil, and peaches. And yet, and yet, and yet, if you're engaged in that most magical act of all -- the act of paying attention -- you can hear the distant flutes of a changing season, the shifting of the leaves from green to gold, the birds feeding up and getting ready for the long flight South, the chill in the rainy air, a different quality of light in the morning mist.
A witch's job is to turn the wheel. And round and round the wheel must turn.
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 . . . ."