Oh, Not Again. Wasn't She Just Out Here In The Summer Thunderstorm?
And, there it is. The Sun gone down on the shortest day of the year.
It was a day of almost surgically-white sunlight, bouncing off the two feet of snow and highlighting every speck of dirt and grime in the house, the way that only Winter sunlight can. I cleaned -- a lot, my housekeepers showed up in the snow and cleaned, and the old cottage is cleaner than it was before. I edited pre-appellate pleadings, interpreted the Code of Federal Regulations, and agreed with my associate's decisions about when to file motions. I dug a path out to my car where my wonderful neighbor helped me to dig out to the (still unploughed) road. I finished knitting a sweater vest for G/Son. I made roast turkey salad. I chatted with one witch about this week's CSA delivery (fewer green beans and lettuce this week; more oranges) and with another witch about grandchildren. I listened to Wynton Marsalis run up, up, up, up, up, all the way up into crystal. His music seemed to match the blinding sunlight.
I'm an old woman with a bad ankle and a recently-broken toe, but, at sunset, I whipped off my clothes and rolled in the snow on my back deck, startling a fox, a rabbit (whose life I think I saved), three squirrels, the demanding cardinal, and more sparrows and wrens than I could count. You can almost hear them thinking: "Fly away! It's the crazy lady! Tomorrow, she'll be out here with seeds and liquid water (which is rare and precious in this time of snow and ice), but, for now, this manifestation of the Goddess is in her crazy aspect. Best to wait it out here in the cryptomeria; it never lasts long. Damn! That is one crazy old woman." If there weren't two feet of snow and if I didn't have a broken toe, I'd have made it out to my boulder and the magnolias and back, but, we crones, we do the best we can and then we go back inside and have a martini. What do you think Baba Yaga has inside that house on chicken feet??? She has crystal martini glasses, that's what she has.
I have some magic to work this evening, and I will do it, but it will begin, because I am old, in a steaming hot bath filled with sage that I picked from my garden just as the snow began.
May the light return to you and yours, may your new projects grow and thrive in this bright light, may our lovely Planet continue to tilt upon her axis. Blessed Yule.
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 . . . ."