Joy Magick and Heathen Delights: The Wilds of the Summer Hags.
Help me move this last stone into place, and let's lie quiet on the mossy earth, silent enough to hear those hags moon-croon us lullabies of magick.
Browsing Tag:
Wild Woman
11 Resolutions for an 11 Year: Heathen Vows for the 2018 Portal.
I am resolving to get back to basics, swimming long and hard into the deep end of the Heathen ways where I once found such solace.
These Are the Blades We Were Born With: From One Death Priestess to Another.
The Death Priestesses are the chosen ones who swim in this chaotic soup of righteous rage and power-hunger willingly, who do not fear the breakdown, the loss, and the dark void of absolute nothingness as others do.
My Horns Are Showing: The Timely Ache of the Blood Moon Witch.
You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Put on the bone-and-antler crown I made for you, and I’ll grow my horns long to match yours.
Lilith’s Return: Harvest Moon Resolutions.
She is howl-praying to the waxing Harvest Moon just for you. She is through being a loner, and she knows you can speak in the fork-tongued language of snakes and join her in the quest for a deep and certain truth.
To Hand-Build a Demoness: A Sunday School Craft Project.
Call Her to wake now. Bid Her rise on Her shaking, wooden legs. Animate Her with the sheer power of your will, and help Her to stand and march.
Mind Your Manners, Heathen: A Witch’s Table Etiquette in Five Rules.
You don’t need my permission to leave this table, and I promise not to think you rude should you gorge yourself on my bounty and leave the mess to me.
Pray Here Too: A Witch’s Brief Her-Story of Primal Communion.
Alas, you know as well I do, Sister, that the real prayers are not said in such sacred vacuums. Once, with legs spread in the final stages of labor, the midwife’s voice caught and her face went pale in such a way that I thought my precious baby doomed. I begged to every deity I knew, promising ...
Memories That Haunt, I Thank You: Begrudged Grace Under the Blessing Moon.
To the lover who left us behind to go wandering, thank you for leaving a black-hole void in our bellies that ached so persistently we had no choice but to fill it with our own molten power poured straight down from the heart-crucible where self-love still bubbled.
This Is What the Primal Feminine Smells Like: It’s Not All Roses and Vanilla.
The Primal Feminine is not pure, and you know it. Let’s show them it looks like thick-skinned substance and defiant eyes more than pastel wings and glitter.