Today at brunch, I was wearing a necklace (actually one of Lunea's lovely rosaries) with a picture of Hecate on it. She doesn't look too kind in the picture and G/Son is at a stage where you're either a Superhero or a Bad Guy. He was interested in the necklace and he looked at Hecate and said, "We don't like her." I said, "Oh, yes, I like her very much. She stands at the crossroads when you're not sure which way to go and she points the way." She doesn't really; she simply opens up crossroads when you need them, but I wasn't quick enough to explain it that way to G/Son. Later, when we were watching DVDs, he wanted to wear the necklace and he flipped it over to the picture of a sacred fire and said, "This is my necklace; the necklace with fire."
Later still, G/Son and I were playing in the basement and he opened up the closet where I keep, among other things, the Samhein decorations. Not surprisingly, among those decorations are several large witches. He pulled out the old stuffed witch on a broomstick with her orange-polka-dots-on-black-satin clothing and a metal silhouette witch who holds a basket into which you put a candle. He said of the first witch, "Nonna, is she Oz?" And I said, "She's not the witch from the Wizard of Oz. She's a nice witch. See her nice smile?" G/Son lifted up the brim of her hat and said, "Yes. She's nice. She has a nice smile." Then he turned to the other witch. "But she's mean. She has a mean smile." I said, "Well, maybe she's mean because people were mean to her," and that seemed to work for G/Son.
Even later still, we opened up my computer. My wallpaper is a picture of me and my wonderful circle of women, skyclad, from the shoulders up. G/Son said, "Nonna, that's you and your friends," and I said, "Yes, that's Nonna and that's Miss X, Miss Y, Miss Z," etc. G/Son said, "I like them. Why do you have blue moons on your foreheads?" I said, "Nonna and her friends paint those moons to remind them how special the moon is." G/Son said, "I like you. I like Miss X. I like Miss Y," etc. "But I don't like the moons."
I really don't know what I'm doing; I'm feeling my way in the dark. More than anything, I never want him to be hurt. There's this huge disconnect between what society tells him about witches and my experience of witchcraft and he's not old enough yet to understand. I worry a lot about how much I've burdened his 'rents and how much I'm burdening him by being a witch in a society that's not welcoming to witches. But I just can't lie to him.
Update: To be fair, we spent only about 1% of our time on witches. In between, we played about ten games of Hi Ho Cherry Oh, which I totally would have won were it not for that annoying bird who makes you miss turns. We traced stencils of Batman and hung them on the fridge w/ dino magnets for Miss Thing. We gave Miss Thing a treat and, when she made the ever-fascinating cat puke, Nonna cleaned up the cat puke w/ a wet paper towel. We went outside and walked backwards up the street, blew bubbles on the front step, went and hid in the batcave aka Nonna's shed, made a v long train out of all the Thomas the Tank Engine pieces, and played that we were going fishing w the cat toy. We pretended that the shells that Daddy got a long time ago for Nonna were marshmallows and we roasted them over a pretend fire. We played inside soccer in Nonna's basement and we took all the nutcrackers out of Nonna's decoration closet and pretended that we were cracking nuts with them beside a fire in the woods. We did some art with stickers and we had some grapes and cheerios and graham crackers and ice water. It was a busy afternoon.
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 . . . ."