Dark Moon Witchery: Baptism in the Summer Wilds

Pause with me right here, at the edge of these muddied waters. This dark moon is having its wicked way with me, and I’m all out of breath. I’ve painted my heart alive, to death, and alive again, all in these last long weeks, all since that full moon milk-bathed me in its silver sorcery and soothed away those late-spring aches. This air is ripe with semi-sweet, electrostatic magick, and my holy lungs can barely stand the thick of it all.
Can you feel it?
We find ourselves near Solstice again, we two kindred heathens. It’s that pivotal point of pause, Solstice. It’s that radical, hilltop apex where the unforgiving sun gods sear our backs from behind with their pointed rays and the moon women hum us hymns from the dark valley below. Be quiet and listen close. They’ve got that wild intonation, that primal howl that calls you home with crow-poetry and mournful rhythms only the green-dwellers remember.
Can you hear them?
That great exhale is coming. That fast-roll down the hill, away from the bright and burning and toward the cool and spectral. Until then, let’s hold our breaths and baptize ourselves in these hard-rushing waters. Let’s strip ourselves bare of the yearning and swim skyclad ‘neath this sliver of a moon-mother before the harvest comes and we reap all we’ve sown, before that longest day comes and goes and we’re left with the louder ghosts and bone-bending wanderlust.
Come, jump in. This water is witching the pretense right out of me.
I’ve only one question for you tonight, my somber friend. Tell me, how is it with your poet’s sweet soul? I’m not interested in intellectual chit-chat or that pin-pricking small talk that starves my heart. It’s so easy to hide in witty banter and ho-hum conversation, and I want to see you, unshadowed and unmasked. I want to see you after the screens have gone dark and this strong-armed sun has burned away all pride and pretense. I want to see the beauty you’ve become and the monster you still are. Show me it all right now before the shadows return and let me bow down.
What are you waiting for?
These waters have a longer memory than this land, and I can feel the pulse of the mist-mother soft-squeezing my flesh in time with the drumbeat of the ancients. If we stay in this quiet-running river too long, I fear we’ll never be the same sisters-in-lawlessness we once knew, but so what? That Pagan joy is all I’m interested in right now, that bowl-deep and wild presence that has brought us both to this epic moment where I can truly see you, at long last.
I can see whole galaxies spiral-dancing in your eyes, and I can see those haunting reflections of who you thought you were snaking away from us on these swelling waters. It is only the most whole version of you left. I see you, and you are beautiful. The brilliance of your story is burning my eyes, and these grateful tears of mine are mixing with this holy water and alchemizing a truth serum that’s soaking into my skin.
I love you. Every word I’ve ever said to you were those three words bound-up and painted over. The waters are rising, and my will is restored. I’m more certain of our power than ever. Take my hand and climb to ground.
I love you, this dark moon and every moon.
Come, let’s not be Ophelia. Not today. Let us return to wilds restored and reborn, our new bodies brewed in these fast-rushing currents and sanctified by the setting sun.
I love you, and I can think of no better Witch, no better or braver heart, than you.

Beltane Goals: Joy-Healing the Bloodlines

Join me, Witch. This Beltane, I’m choosing slow-bubbling jubilance, ancestral blessings of fire and smoke, and ecstatic dirt-under-the-nails garden prayer. I’m remembering the bright bloom of the yet-to-come into being, and I’m doing it all before moonrise. Let’s paint our faces with the still-chilled mud and take to the sky-kissing hilltop where the bones of the burned are buried, and let’s dance bare-breasted by the light-of-day like they never could.
It’s up to us, you know. Let’s laugh to heal our great-grandmothers’ melancholy. Let’s work the magick out-loud the Old Ones had to work in secret. These are the days of the rising Witch, the heathen waking wild, and the crow-woman spreading her wide wings and taking flight.

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A Love Letter to the Water-Witch from the Fire-Witch: Moonstruck Poetry for the Storm

How is it with your moon-sick heart, Witch? How is it with that mud-loving, wanderlusting soul you kept tucked away so carefully between your aching ribs all Winter long? Tell me, you sorceress of sweet and sad stories, what hopeful visions have you to share with me now, as this first full moon of Spring swells up under my skin and softens those unforgiving angles of belief and conviction that fan my rage-hungry flames but starve my more joyous magick? Share with me your most gracious and feather-light anecdotes, and I’ll drink from that cool-running, sweet-water river you keep flowing between your ancient, inner altar tended tirelessly by our grandmothers and the over-running wellspring of your heathen heart.

Speak truth now. This moon is pulling our secrets out from all our dark places, singing a siren song so mournful and beauteous even our bitterest demons cannot resist its lunar temptation tonight. You tell me what it means to heal from the fallen angel’s grief, and I’ll tell you what it means to be a moonstruck poetess who wants nothing more than to paint a sepia-toned world brighter with what few words she has learned from this bizarre incarnation. You teach me how to brew a homemade salve for my aching bits left dry from a long-lasting Crone season, and I’ll teach you how to hunt inside those hot and steaming caves of your flawed-to-perfection Pagan mind, how to mine those precious gems of passion and desire, anguish and melancholy, artistic courage and sure-bodied dance.

Let’s walk amongst these ancestral stones tonight, Witch. Let’s move through this perilous moonlight together and bleed all over this hallowed ground while we journey toward the warmth of the Beltane torch-fires. Let’s ask the elements teach us who we are. I’ll remember what it means to be whole as a fire-veined Priestess, and you remind me the bliss to be had within the flesh of a nectar-sipping mermaid.

Together, let’s call upon the full Storm Moon to sweep through our Craft and spring-clean the dust from our routines, from those over-dull rituals and from those altars that have for too long gone unchanged. You bid the torrential waves wash over my Witchcraft, and I’ll send some fire your way, to be sure. I need your medicine, and you need mine, my love, so let’s not be coy any longer. Let’s skip the small talk and get right to the red, bloody heart of the matter. In your eyes, I see who I might have been had my childhood left my skin unscathed, had my lovers been loyal and my courage applauded. In my eyes, you see who you might have been had your rebellion been rewarded, your vulnerable art praised, and your more timid prayers answered. Let’s see what sizzling steam arises when fire meets water now, my love, when you really see me and I really see you. Inside that hot mist encircling us both will be the cosmic language of birth and death, and we’ll both rest well tonight as wiser women warmed by my hearth and wet from your wild waters.

In This Skin: A Ritual Body-Prayer for the Full Quickening Moon

Welcome to the Quickening, my love. Here, we are living expressions of radical hope, blood-and-skin reliquaries for these ivory bones of ours. Beneath this full and vibrant moon, we are calling in what is ours with our very breath, and we are the living antidote to body-spirit separation. ‘Tis the season of sensual expression and embodied Craft, and the Witch’s body becomes a soft and soulful bridge between where she is and where she yearns to be. Know your longing as holy, and let’s wed our feeling flesh to our as-yet unrealized dreams.

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Bride to Fire: A Three-Part Wolf Moon Ritual for Imbolc

Blessed be those who tend these mid-Winter flames, who keep the embers alight by their sheer warrior’s will, and who will forever honor the darker days of our Craft when the miracles of warmer days remain hidden beneath the snow. The Wolf-Moon cycle follows the Long Night’s Moon cycle, rising with a howl on January 16th (New Moon is 9:17pm EST), swelling to fullness just before Imbolc on 1/31 at 8:27am EST, and darkening to sliver-thin on Valentine’s Day. Under the Wolf Moon, the Fire-Keeper archetype is dominant, and the wise feminine in us all continues to walk forward in conscious grace, leading with an ever-faithful heart and harboring an ever-lit inner altar that burns for some holy and ephemeral dream, as yet unseen and unnamed.

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Santa Witch: Simple Rituals for a Family Yule

Santa Witch: Simple Rituals for a Family Yule

We Witches live in a land starved for  magick. The unfortunate union of individualism, consumerism, and the energies of the 13th Moon- the annual, lunar void that tasks us with rest and reflection above all else- has given birth to the absolute antithesis of this yearly Witching Hour. The modern Santa Claus is capitalism’s loud-mouthed answer to this holy, fertile darkness when all of nature is bidding us to turn inward, to sink back into the primordial source of all things. Despite debatably admirable roots, today’s Santa Claus is a marketing tool embodied in a bright red, well-satiated, nocturnal gift-giver who, like many of our Wintertide traditions, has traveled ages from his solemn, Pagan origins.

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The Silent Supper: A Witch’s Ritual in Memory of the Holy Dead

‘Tis the season to remember the holy Dead, to honor your ancestral line in somber ritual, and to give a nod to the ephemeral nature of your soft flesh and warm blood. So soon, my love, will we sink back into the source of everything, yet again stepping through the sacred veil and entering the fertile, dark space between death and birth. So soon will we join them, these precious ones for whom we mourn. For now, let us remember these wild creatures for their compassion, their lawlessness, their innocence, and the lessons they gifted us when their hearts were still beating inside the very ribcages that now house wormy soil, have turned to soot and ash, or have otherwise surrendered to the elements.

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Blood Moon Vows: A Witch’s Unmasking Ritual

Open your palms, look moonward, and breathe in the raw, red musk of dying leaves, smoking pine wood, and ever-cool, so potent spectral mists. Know that this is what the primal feminine smells like. Embody the long-nailed and black-mirror-eyed demoness you were taught to fear during childhood. These are the days of the Great Purge, when the Witch is tasked to dig up her cobwebbed secrets and put them on unapologetic display, to befriend the very shadows that make her bones quake, to strip off and burn every mask she has ever worn, and to do it all in front of her ancestors’ ghosts as they encircle and honor the brave-hearted and strong-willed Priestess she has become. Continue reading “Blood Moon Vows: A Witch’s Unmasking Ritual”

Spirit-Scapes and the Dark Harvest Moon: A Beginner’s Guide to Ancestral Communion in Autumn

Set your intention, Prophetess, for these are the days of the primal feminine dark when the holy veil is so thin you can hear your grandmother’s ghost shouting for you to listen and listen closely. The waning Harvest Moon is a fertile time for ancestral communion and spirit guide work; all of nature is calling you into the shadowy mists and bidding you become the hooded wolf-woman of your dreams, begging you to resurrect the parts of the ethereal, omniscient feminine that have been objectified and oppressed. Your intuition is heightened, and you embody the Crone-Priestess archetype in your magick, your divination, and your so valuable, so sacred work. Know that your guides are not tools to be used, nor is their advice to be blindly followed without your keen discernment. Respect these wise ones who have chosen to hold you with their spectral hands while you walk this soul’s path in this body, show them that you hear them, and hone one of the deepest and most potent forms of your Craft under Autumn’s Witching Moons.

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