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Magia y Wicca
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Feeling the Pulse of Autumn
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Sacred Lands, Sacred Hearts
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Vegan or Vegetarian? The Ethical Debate
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Love Spells: The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly
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A Minority of a Minority of a Minority
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A Thread in the Tapestry of Witchcraft
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On Wiccan Magick, Theurgy, Thaumaturgy and Setting Expectations
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Manipulation of the Concept of Witchcraft
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Thoughts on Conjuring Spirits
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The Pagan Cleric
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To Know, to Will, to Dare...
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Article ID: 15932
Age Group: Adult
Days Up: 985
Times Read: 3,573
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Author: Merideth Allyn
Posted: August 12th. 2016
Times Viewed: 3,573
I am Witch. It is one a.m. yet again, with two, then three to follow. The Witching Hours. However, unless casting or divining by the moon’s hours or its course, no matter how I struggle or resist, my legs take charge, grounded in earth’s gravity, and take me to bed. They know, at least, that should I refuse, which I have done as I am of defiance born, or if I linger longer, fatigue awaits me in the later morn.
The post twilight now-dark hours past midnight are most magically magnetic and most mysteriously mine. Like the svelte nocturnal beasts I prowl. I own the dark: above, below and around me. The black night is as pregnant with possibilities as the faeryflies are abundant this midsummer night. A whimsical wind I hear outside the confines of my cottage, and I look out my huge bay window opened to the balmy air, and my heart trips at this full night of moon. The wind makes musical the enchanting wind chimes scattered for prism effects and crystalline tinkling in the lower branches of the huge oaks for strength and in the walnuts for wisdom, the elders for magic and the hawthorns for the fae. I love my trees, wildflowers and my medicinal and magical herbal gardens copious with lavender, sage, bee balm, primrose, lilac, jasmine, chamomile and so many more. I am a healer, primarily of the emotions and spirit, and I take pride in what I grow to be of service to any who seek me.
This wind seems to take its orders from the clouds scurrying across the moon followed by birds all seemingly going to some sacred ritual. A most enigmatic night it is and my soul stirs in my loins. The moon’s radiance brings deep shadows and contrasting light placing in bas relief every leaf on every tree and every petal on every flower, yet keeping the background almost too murky making me wonder who or what lurks. Regardless I am inside and feeling stifled, I wrap my shawl more tightly around my shoulders as I can sense more than most.
The night sounds that deafen suddenly can go silent, though, when the whip-whip-whippoorwill trills in a minor key the liberation of a soul from Middle Earth, and takes its piping melody, with bound soul, to the Otherworld. But it saddens me not. It is release…freedom from this heavy overcoat to a lighter, more energized, viable and less visible form. With a lighter coat, there is less scrutiny from eyes that wish harm and souls that lack understanding. Fear is a terrible thing. I have little fear as I have faced my imminent death to Middle Earth, regardless my late middle years for age matters not to the majestic reaper. And, besides, I seek adventure of the mercurial kind.
This evening’s past ‘tween time feels much like my adolescent first love…reckless with passion. The sun sinks into the coral, lilac and golden ocean. My veins feel the thrill of blood rushing and a lightning like quickening. My stomach is roller coasting in uncontrollable ecstasy. Almost giddy and childlike now I merge, in my mind’s eye, with all the beauty, wonder and awe of a Universe so replete with surprises.
The night, this night, calls me. It calls to me like no other has ever called. My middle-aged loins are buzzing where comfort and coziness and sitting contently by a blazing fire were all I usually desired. I have felt no 20-year-old passion in many a year; no galloping knights on steeds sweeping me off the mundane ground and off my peasant’s feet to gallop with them to their sparkling castles in the Otherworld. And, oh, that sweet smell of honeysuckle and wild rose competing for attention in my gardens; it does more than waft through the windows. It compels me. How can I refuse such an alluring call?
But a good Witch, also, must make her daily tasks magical by completing them. There is still sweeping and mopping and watering the drooping plants in my sacred space no matter the lateness of the hour before fulfilling fantasies in this night so intensely wild. I look out the bay window again. I look up at the silver mother of pearl hanging orb surrounded by twinkling smaller ones, a sequined sky. My sky, my night. I see the huge trees bending and swaying, undulating their siren call to me. I can resist no longer.
I burst through the stained glass and oaken door which has afforded me such sunny pleasure when the yellow orb of day penetrates the glass and paints the walls, floors and ceiling with dancing, colorful, prismatic figures. I rush heedless into the untamed freedom of this cacophonous night, smelling the sweetest of fragrant scents…so sweet almost unimaginable and certainly not of this world or of my garden. I hear music alchemically mixing with the music of my wind chimes and could swear to the sounds of children laughing and singing a beckoning song. I follow their laughter. I follow their song but cannot reach them try as I might. I could only, and finally, sink to the soft, receptive earth watching and waiting expectantly for the night to bring me what it promises.
Five a.m. What happened to the time? I look as the dawn turns to pale shades of citrine, lavender and rose quartz, and I cannot recall. And, oh dear Lord and Lady of the Wildwood, my gardens…so overgrown. I remembered then the legend of Rip Van Winkle and knew, without one doubt, that I had been pixie-led.
My gardens have grown up to the cottage and farther up the old stonewalls tend riling around the chimney. The glass is cracked and the panes shattered in my beautiful bay window where my cats and I had so peacefully curled and enjoyed thunderstorms, sunsets, and warm slumber during all seasons. My hands are gnarled and littered with age spots. And, my clothes are tight and cumbersome where they once fit correctly on my used-to-be middle-aged body. Wildness and chaos reign but from a different kind on this day.
The now old woman lived broodingly a year and a day to the exact moment when she was pixie-led, which seemed to her lifetimes ago. She had foraged among her kitchen and wildflower gardens to keep her alive, but, sadly, she never could remember the happiest days of her life; her days with the faeries in the cherished green forest, feasting and dancing by the amber fires with glowing lanterns swinging from the trees expressing an ambience unearthly; a day she had always dreamed of for she had never given up believing in faeries regardless the parents’ and the preachers’ and teachers’ insistence that there were “no such things.”
Grieving, she lived those three hundred and sixty-six days going outside to leave, each night, a gift for those who had taken her and a plea they would come for her again promising she would never reveal the way to the Otherworld, to the place of The Gentry or People of Peace. If she could only remember, she would take any path, no matter how difficult, no matter how terrifying, to get to Elphame, one of the Faery Lands, once again. She looked to the heavens, saw the moon and the stars and sighed. No more was there midnight mystery although there was mystery in the not knowing…the lack of remembrance. A tear fell and riveted along her wrinkled cheeks and dropped to the ground.
Midnight on day three hundred and sixty-six found her feeling dizzy. Her heart fluttered and once again she fell to the receptive earth filled this time with varied colored and fragrant lilies. There was music again as well, but this time her ears were dead to the sounds as was she to all of life on Middle Earth. Though, before her ears could hear no more, she did hear the minor keyed melody of the whippoorwill.
The Good People of the Otherworld were trooping toward her in high fashion. For the fae never forget one of its own regardless kith or blood kin. Trumpets trumpeted, flutes pan-piped and The Gentry whisked her away as if she were no heavier than they. Moonlit bright ribbons billowed in a once again whimsical wind she seemed to hear and feel from a distance. A moment or two later, no matter it was not past midnight on Middle Earth, she woke to the remembrance of remembering, to the sheep’s tail of a lingering dream…she woke to bliss. She looked herself over and saw a maiden’s light ephemeral form…she always knew she would feel lighter in the Otherworld, and she understood that this time she was here to stay. She would laugh, love and live with her beloved faeries and dance in the magical sunlight and moonlight in enchantment for forever and a day.
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