I fill you wIth Naming. Be! Be butterfly and behemoth, be galaxy and grasshopper, star and sparrow, you matter, you are, be! Be caterpillar and comet, be porcupine and planet, sea sand and solar system, sing with us, dance with us, rejoice with us, for the glory of creation, angle worms and angel host, chrysanthemum and cherubim (O cherubim) Be! Sing for the glory of the living and the loving the flaming of creation sing with us dance with us be with us Be!
They were not her words only. They were the words of Senex, of the Deepening Sporos, of all the singing farae, the laughter of the greening farandolae, Yadah itself, all the mitochondria, all the human hosts, the earth, the sun, the dance of the star whose birthing she had seen, the galaxies, the cherubim and seraphim, wind and fire, the words of the Glory.
Echtroi! You are Named! My arms surround you. You are no longer nothing. You are. You are filled You are me. You are Me.
Lately, I've been re-reading some of my childhood favorites and, duh, realizing how almost everything that I read throughout my entire childhood was about witchcraft, and magic, and mysticism. And I never knew; like the person who spoke prose all his life, I never knew. Anne has a great post; you have to read the comments about how people came to Paganism. And, although, for me, the aha moment came in a dry, dusty, political tome (ha!), all my life, every book that I took off a library shelf was preparing me for that moment, it seems to me.
I drove today, as I do every work day, past Spout Run, just by where it empties into the beautiful Potomac River. And I saw what I saw and have known there before. I live in a world more full of wonder and Naming (which, we all know, is the secret to magic and is, of course, what witches do) than I could ever have imagined.
(And, how could I have know, when I read A Wind In The Door the first dozen times that L'Engle was such a fan of de Chardin? And why would I have expected anything else? you matter you are be!) It's all a glass bead game. (Have I told you the poem about goblins and glass beads?)
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 . . . ."