The older that I get (and I am getting deliciously old), in some odd manner, the more that I look forward to Ostara. When I was v young, I was quite desperate to be thought older, experienced, sophisticated, wise. And the holidays that moved me were High Summer, and Lughnasadah, and Samhein. But now that I've lived a long time and figured out, well, a few things, I find myself quite predisposed to love maidens and to look forward to Ostara, when we all celebrate the energy of the Maiden, the Kore, the v young woman who is just OUT There.
The last few days, I've gone outside to just sit in the afternoon sun and soak in the energy that is fizzing up from the Earth, through the trees, from all the perennials, via the shrubs, from the thatched lawn. I sit on my rock near my magnolias and I drink in the Sun and I bathe in the energy of everything that is growing, beginning, emerging. I can feel the power of AIR just overwhelming everything. Now that I'm old, I've learned how to recognize this energy, absorb it, be nourished by it. I didn't always know that.
The other day, at work, a young woman whom I know only to nod to on the elevator showed up at my door, distraught, near tears, "I know I really don't know you, please don't be mad; I just need to talk; I'll leave if you want, I'm sorry, etc." We work in the heart of the Patriarchy; not all of the women who've "made it" here are predisposed to be helpful to each other. Goddess knows, what I've gotten has been a mixture of censure and support. I sat there, staring at her in her immaculate, size -two-suit, and realized how easy it would be for me to send her away, make her feel even more awkward, give her the feeling that, by seeking honest help from an older woman she'd done the one unforgivable thing in our Bramble Bush of a profession.
And, then, because I am a mother-in-law, aunt, and, I hope, friend to young women, I got up, shut my door, pushed over my box of kleenex, fished out my flask of the water of life, and went over to hug this lovely young person whom I hardly know. I hope that, whatever else life requires of me, and she has, I'm willing to note, required more than a bit, I'm capable of remembering what it was like to be standing, terrified, upon the brink, and, yet, capable of hoping that the next cycle is a bit easier than the one that I got to dance.
When I was young, I got zero support or love from older women for being young. The few moments of support that I got were for what I could become when I was older, for the ways in which I could become, as they were, older, sedate, controlled. I can feel the Goddess calling me to go beyond that. To support younger women who are capable of moving forward without holding back.
May I be equal to the task. Blessed Ostara to you.
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 . . . ."