The River asked me to be her fingers her voice her song. I don't remember saying "yes" that day I offered to help clean up, but here I am dancing her into wholeness and beauty. Segments of my life on seemingly unrelated streams and branches weave together in a flowing undulating tapestry as the watershed unveils herself to me through me in me.
Burning desire to know about her-story, who drank from her waters before in birchbark, in cabins, in mills, in factories, in suburbs:
How can I feel her sense of transformation of the slime and dumps, the stench and cement banks of the hopeless reputation into greenbelts, wetlands, joy-filled parks, wild reserves?
When did I say I would spend my days connecting the places opening my eyes and their eyes to her web of grace? To come to know her intimately over hundreds of square miles to feel her voice whisper or cry, "Have you noticed this? Show them this! my colors, my offerings my stories of Her-Story."
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 . . . ."