I don't know, maybe this happens all the time for other people, but, for me, there are these amazing, transcendent moments that don't come too often (it's like the poem by Sara Teasdale, "For one white, singing hour of peace, count many a year of strife well-lost") but that confirm so much. I mean those moments when I "know" that I am where I was always meant to be. For me, at almost 54, those moments come, more and more often, on one side or other of the Potomac River, in a circle of women, witches, magic-workers gathered to work magic. They come on Dark Moons, and Full Moons, and on the 8 Sabbats of the Witches. They come when they will come, but, when they come, that's enough.
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 . . . ."