More and more, I look back at the Sixties -- Summer of Love, Selma, Consciousness Raising Groups, and Woodstock -- as a kind of Brigadoon, that settles down unnoticed on our Moors, gives us an example, and then goes back off into the clouds to stay pure for another time when it's needed. I was, pace Mr. Dylan, so much younger then; I'm older (better funded, more grounded, smarter, more focused, and more committed) than that, now.
And, I agree with Joan. We shall overcome, someday.
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 . . . ."