Find your way to the third hearth to become a woman of clay -- again.
Just when you believe you are the definition of thirst, have endured too many erasures sealed inside a sere landscape, you will whirl into the dance of dragonflies.
Or the dance of the green bees -- starting in the yellow sheen of morning, of cactus bloom, of meadowlark, of the shining -- will fling you maiden-like beneath birdshadow.
The path to the third hearth is strewn with surprises of sparkling quartzite. You are amidst a fortress of rock, a cathedral of stone, and the elemental particulate that has undergone its many metamorphoses as have you. Landscape bids you to absorb time, breathe earth dust, the primordial.
There at the third hearth the women of clay await you. By their painted faces will you know them.
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 . . . ."