When the snow begins to fall under tonight's Dark Moon, here on the banks of the frozen Potomac River, I will remember Baba Yaga, I will think of the hats and mittens and scarves and sweaters that I've knitted for Son, and G/Son, and G/Nephew, and I will dream each of them warm and safe and secure.
Baba Yaga is special to me and she's one of the Goddesses that I often invoke when I sit at my altar. To me, she's always seemed oddly modern, a tanned old woman with strong muscles, some gold jewelry, and the ability to look chic with her headscarf tied behind her neck, a la Jackie O. (Look. You relate to Baba Yaga your way and I'll relate to Baba Yaga my way. H'ok, bubbla?)
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 . . . ."