Ahhh, Mother. Now, I don't like to think of myself as a weak woman, but the veils, just now, are so, so, so thin, that I feel all raw nerves, all open wounds. My dreams have me ready to tape a sign up on the headboard of my bed: Dear Hecate's Dead Family Members: Give It A Fucking Rest; I'll See You Next Year. Enough is Enough.
I can't watch Starhawk's lovely video w/o breaking into sobs. There were years and years when -- a lonely solitary witch in a conservative, rural community, a solitary who had no real hope of ever meeting another "real" witch -- the simple knowledge that the Goddess was alive and magic was afoot in, at least, San Francisco, seriously helped to keep me going, and, by "going," I mean: continuing to get up out of bed every morning. That's what those of you who dance the Spiral Dance do for the rest of us. Don't ever think that it doesn't matter.
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 . . . ."