Dianne is asking some v good questions. One of the more difficult things to do in Wicca is to grow to a certain point and then to stand upon the mesa and ask, "What now? Now who's going to help me to grow spiritually?" And, to realize, well, no one. It's mostly just you and the Goddess and Air. And Fire. And Water. And Earth. And the Fifth Sacred Thing. And to smile, raise your face to the Moon, breathe, and . . . Dance the next step.
Everyone has gone here before you, but the footprints that they left are deliberately vague. Clad your own dear feet in thousand-league-boots, or only a bracelet of silver around your ankle, or in ballet flats, or in Manolos, or in Renaissance moccasins, or, hell, just go barefoot. But whatever you wear, slip your feet into the almost-invisible footprints left by your older sisters and your mothers and your great-aunts and dance that dance with your own shimmy of the hips.
I feel it, too, the longing for someone lots farther ahead on the path than I am who can at least lay down breadcrumbs. But, too, I love the fact that this religion, more than any other, invites me to dance off into the thorns and weeds and figure out my own path to my better self.
It's all real. It's all metaphor. There's always more.
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 . . . ."