Feather, Pencil, Trowel & Moon

Cerridwen and the River Spirits

Today it is grey and dark, windy and raining.

 

But, for two days the River Witch took to the water. Skin smelling of river musk and golden sun and the lingering smoke of the night’s fire under the waning gibbous still in my hair, mixed with the green feral scent of an unguent for the River Spirits, ripe with river willow, fern seed,  enchanter’s nightshade, poplar bud, moss, and well-rendered wild goose fat, among other things, all harvested last year from this big channel, and the riparian and tributaries that run with it. And, the spirits came, wearing the physical guises of Deer, Beaver, Eagle, Goose, Heron, Duck, and Turtle. I muttered spells over odd amulets, collected fresh willow branches, horsetail, waterleaf and nettles, and filled bottles of water from below a tree, its base submerged in the flood waters, an eagle’s nest directly above, to refresh and replenish the jars on my Water Altar. At the confluence of two rivers I twirled my Jupiter finger in the swirl of a whirlpool, like Cerridwen at her cauldron, and pulled the primordial force of this land’s blood up into my arm, and all throughout my body, replenishing my own vessel with the magic and power of the current.  When my thoughts would turn dark, and the Black Arts threatened to muddy the Green Arts, I willed them away under the perfect blue of a cloudless day. The mind needs a reprieve from such intensity. Everywhere, the flooding blurred all the lines between riverbed and land and sky, and the familiar became strange and allowed me to get lost in the meandering curves of the river’s course. Such a balm to just close my eyes and float away.

 

And then, it was home to a meal of morels sauteed with young nettles, and venison steaks.

The Spiral Path

Magic is an arduous pilgrimage along a spiral path. Moving forward and circling back. Compass wildly spinning. Tracks, as personal as the whorls of your fingerprints, imprinted like sigils upon the fertile ground. My own path is taking an ever-deepening inward turn. Spiraling to Center. Spiraling through the Seven Temples of Wisdom. Past coiled serpents and fern fronds and curling conical goat horns. A vortex of creative forces. Life and death spellwork. Stopping to whisper into the helical ears of the Seven Queens - Hekate, The Mórrígan, Artemis, Medusa, Athena, Circe, and Lilith. Walking widdershins inside Stone Circles, three times around, on the Path of Malediction, and crawling across thresholds and through portal tombs to trace my fingers along the spirals and circles carved into rock by the Ancients. Looping incantations. Following those spirals and circles in trance. Channeling. Those same fingers walking bead by bead along the heretic’s rosary into the (Poison) Garden, on the journey of a 54 Day Novena, with its 15 Promises, its Mysteries, round and round. Those spirals tied to spinning and weaving, winding and unwinding, the warp and weft of the Mother Goddess’ veil of illusion. Knots and braids. Protection and destruction. The Minoan swirls carved into the labrys blades of the Warrioresses. The vastness of the hallowed ground that spirals like a labyrinth of mystery between the hollow of my hip bones. The Womb Arcana. Beware the curse poem of an ancient lineage, a mother tongue that spills rubies from the fissures of Goddesses. The ones who stood solid upon the ground. From Them, crimson strands of life, bloodlines, like silken threads spun by the Weavers of Fate, in their terrible aspects, encircle all of Womankind, tethering them, then connecting like mystical ley lines and stretching back and back to the First Mother, spiraling, spiraling. She holds the key, the origin of Sorcery. She is the genesis. She is the destination. Magic is the map. Keep it sacred. Travel well.

+ + I N V O C A T I O N + +

Invocation

   ~ the action of invoking something or someone for assistance or as an authority.

The False Gods have risen. Settling shadows of the gloaming hour befall us. Dusk portends the coming of a Long Dark Night. Suffocating blackness descends. We lie, splayed and vulnerable. Terrified. The False Gods swarm, like wasps, hovering over our bellies. Coveting. Conspiring. They come. As a womb-bearer, and, more importantly, as a mother and protector to other womb-bearers, I wear this weighty burden in the thrashing waters of uncertainty and disbelief, saturated, sinking, drowning. Stars exploding in my heart and head, behind ribs and eyes. Suffocation begins. Something powerful must be done.

I leave the little witch house, and enter the void of night. Sitting on a boulder, facing into the woods, unfettered and without armour, demons pressing into my back, I wait for a light to illuminate the path toward Ritual. And, then, I follow that path, trusting where it leads. Picking up the breadcrumbs of the process, the directions, as I go. This is my way.

And, so, now, I am here.
Invoking the Power of The Seven Deities.
Hekate. The Mórrígan. Artemis. Medusa. Athena. Circe. Lilith.
Each, Goddess. Protectress. Warrioress. Sorceress.

As Dedicant, I stand at Their altar, facing North. A triangle, like a womb, drawn in chalk on the floor around my feet, pointing South. Standing boundless and vast from a 2 day fast of water, Oil of Iron, and a broth made from 7 elements, dictated by Them, under the Full Moon in Scorpio. Scorpio, who holds the power to Create, and Eliminate. Life and Death. Workings of Mars (defense/attack) and Saturn (the dark). The body of the Transitioning-Mother unintentionally sings the song of sacred mysteries, while the wise Becoming-Crone knows the Moon is still her Master. A payment of rubies, a bargain of magical currency, for the sake of the spell. Red thread braided, knotted, and strung with talismans of Iron, worn across the clavicle. 7 Stones of Council on the altar: Lapis Lazuli, Mahogany Obsidian, Tiger’s Eye, Malachite, Green Sardonyx, Green Calcite, and Rough Onyx. 7 Charms for the Queens: Hekate, tooth of wolf. The Mórrígan, bone of bull. Artemis, claw of bear. Medusa, skin of snake. Athena, feather of owl. Circe, hide of boar. Lilith, horn of goat.

I make an amulet from a blood red pouch and seeds for each Deity. Hekate, Wolfsbane.
The Mórrígan, Black Hellebore. Artemis, Mugwort. Medusa, Snakeroot. Athena, Apple. Circe, Belladonna. Lilith, Wormwood. This was a clear directive. Fed smoke to awaken them from their sleep, the seeds hold the near-bursting purpose of each Great Ruler, each Power, ready to unfurl and unleash. I hold the pouch against my heart, and while the candles sputter, and the incense swirls, I say these words...

“I invoke thee, Hekate - Unconquerable Queen, Beast-Roarer and Wild-Voiced, unafraid Enemy of Mankind who Bears Torches and is Keeper of the Keys. Lay your hands upon me and light my way forward, unlocking the way, so that I may move with savage purpose.

I invoke thee, The Mórrígan - Great Queen, fierce Battle-Crow Goddess of the Dead, Bringer of Frenzy and Terror and unapologetic Guardian of the Sovereign-Self. Lay your hands upon me, that my intense dedication to upholding bodily autonomy will be respected, honored and feared.

I invoke thee, Artemis - Goddess of the Hunt, Savior of the Strangled-Woman, The Unwed, and tireless Worker from Afar. Lay your hands upon me, that I may support others and unbind their voices and choices.

I invoke thee, Medusa - Avenger of the Raped-Woman, She who is Coiled with Snakes, the dreaded Goddess of Venom and Stone, and the unjustly Maligned. Lay your hands upon me, that I may avenge injustice and guard the truth of our experience.

I invoke thee, Athena - Goddess of Wisdom and War, unwavering Defender of Justice, and determined Woman of Returning Vengeance. Lay your hands upon me, that I may fight this battle with knowledge and undying passion.

I invoke thee, Circe - Goddess of Sorcery, ruthless Changer of Men into Swine, and feared Poisoner. Lay your hands upon me, that I may know the ways to transform situations using herbs and magic.

I invoke thee, Lilith - Guardian of a Woman’s Right to Choose, the First and the Banished, steadfast Refuser of Subservience, Keeper of Child Souls and Ruler of the Legions of Demons and Shadows. Lay your hands upon me, that I may be unbowed and unbreakable.”

Boom. A thunderstorm rattles and hurls itself at the windows.

At the end of the day we must remember that those who seek dominion over our bodies are, indeed, False Gods, and that flaccid lies bear no weight against feral truths. They stand stunted next to these Pillars of the Underworld, the Otherworld, and the Heavens. And, so, this Invocation, my words, this conjuration, cut like swift blades, and rise like doves on the plumes of incense through the injustice, patriarchy, and our own mortal coil.

The Ritual begins.

 

 

   

Summoning

If you know the way, and the words, enchant the red thread, and wrap it nine times around each ankle, and nine times around each wrist. Boundaries for protection. Go out, then, when the sky is pewter and the clouds are low. Wear these for invisibility. You don’t want to be followed. Go out when the wind is demented, when it moans its dread lament in an unending wail so powerful it bludgeons all other sound. You don’t want anyone to hear you. Walk through the woods, limbs cracking and falling around you. Widow-makers. Or, widower-makers, as the case may be. One of them, the Dying Branch, will cry for your hand. Allow yourself to grasp it. Go straight to the fetid marsh. You know which one. Pay no mind to the allure of the plum blossoms. Take no notice of the velvet-nosed fawn. You are only among the serpents, beetles, and the muck-dwellers. It is not the sweetness of wine that stains your lips red, but something more feral and metallic. Drink deep of it. Remember your purpose.

Do not hold your breath. Release it. Let loose the scent of it over the dark water. A silent song of summoning. Let it beckon Them. It is a power, here, your breath that is:

Fecund, like Earth.

Heated, like Fire.

Moist, like Water.

Exhale, like Air.

Use these living elements to draw those who long for their place back in this World. Call Them with the words of the Dead. Let your voice rise to meet the crescendo of the wind’s scream. Let this duet plunge you into trance, and hold you, there, under the water of it, for awhile. Let your hood fall back, the cowl slip down your shoulder. Then, feast your eyes on the marsh, as the Spirits rise, face first, to the surface of the murky conduit. Strike the Dying Branch three times upon the ground. Break it. Use your teeth, if you must, to tear through the green. Throw it into the swamp. This is something tangible, an anchor in this world. That got Their attention, and They grab for it.

They come as daemon. Formless. Fury. The hive’s drone. Black flags slapping the silvered sky. The dark bruise. The horde of Menaces. To Them, speak the names of all those who would seek to hold dominion over the bodies of the Life-Bringers, those who would seek to defile the sacredness of the Womb-Carriers. Send the ones made of night and blackness, madness and rot, out after those who would bind the destinies of Women, the Holy Beings with bodies as Divine Portals between the living and the dead. The daughters of Circe, Hekate, Medusa, The Mórrígan, Lilith, Artemis and Athena. Speak their names, and send the locust swarm terror to ravage the false kingdoms of their unordained authority. Let them be flogged with stripped branches of the apple tree, those whips of their own undoing. Join your wrath to Theirs in a fire so hot it all burns down. Burn. It. All. Down.

This is the time for Action. Reaction.

If not now, then, when?

(artwork, "Hekate", by Maximilian Pirner (1854–1924) )

Hour of Mercury

To the darkness, I am devout, so out into it I go. Unmasked. Ceremonial. Moth-flutter, tourmaline, and rumble drum-beat. Deep in the raven-wing night, the woods like cast-iron, I look over my shoulder through a mirror, scrying, a slice of obsidian like a bottomless well, wet black sheen, my reflection pure shadow and night-sky, onyx and cobalt, the twinkle in my eye the only constellation. The soot of the blackened salve - blood, belladonna, boar’s fat - symbolically fed to the fasted, worn thick and unctuous on hungry skin, on pulse-points, charming me into another place, that *other* place, its song honey-tongued; its voice soft and strong, like a seed husk splitting, all subtle tremor and bursting promise. Around me, in the pitch-black jet and labradorite flash, the silhouettes of leaf bud, root, and tendril unfurl in story, The Green Speech, that other native tongue, flickering through my sickle-moon-quenched consciousness like guttering candles; three strands then braiding together in feral communion, knot-magic, a language I decipher through fingertips, like Braille, eyes inky blind. In an ebony cloak of stars, I stretch a beast’s hide beside the rich soil, its blackness melting into the blackness all around me, above and below, and I plunge my hands in, deep, to where they entwine with buried stone and beetle, with damp fertility, eyes shut tight yet all-seeing, then draw sigils across my face and body in dirt.  Above me, the shadow of the Dark Moon perches like hanging fruit, which I pluck and sink my teeth into, ravenous, sweet nectar dripping warm and sticky, like taking a lustful bite from the bleeding heart of Night. This is ritual. Holy rites. This is New Moon Magic.

(artwork: “Passage”, colored pencil, by Marco Mazzoni)

The Jackdaw Knows The Way

Remembering that sweet golden day of vanilla-scented furze growing thick and brambly beside steps nearly too high to climb, carved into the stone of the hill, ascending towards a cerulean sky and great gilded sun we were told we would never see when visiting Ireland in winter, to the ruins of a 15th century castle, in its place of honor atop the promontory. And, there it stood, in its wreckage and its glory, stone sides clad in vines, surrounded by the wild unhemmed ground of long grasses and the spilled rock of walls and outer buildings, long since ruined. A couple deep breaths of unfaded air to recover from the climb and we wandered off widdershins around the remains of the keep. The jackdaw knows the way in, so we followed him to the east, an auspicious place to begin, and where the wall was missing. As he alighted high up on the stump of an old parapet, heralding our arrival, I rummaged through my rucksack for an apple, a bright shiny thing to leave as an offering to the old spirits of the place, and we were ushered in with a flourish, and an invite to stay awhile. We basked in the gift of solitude and were suspended in the spell of timelessness. Our words were hushed, spoken in whispers, unless I was speaking to the spirits or singing them songs in their mother tongue, Gaeilge. We sat at a hearth, long-cold, and ate the rest of the apples, and bread with cheese, or roamed the grounds and small interior, imagining the past, while the sun travelled up the exposed east side, disappeared behind the impossibly arranged and long standing stone ceiling, then slanted amber down into the windows of the west. There, in the wild place, a hare/“giorria”, those deliverers to the Otherworld, vanished down his burrow with messages from us to the departed, and an owl/“ulchabhán” called out it was time to go. Not wanting to descend those difficult stairs in the veil of the gloaming, we heeded the call, though, I very much wished we could have built a fire in that hearth, and spent the night. I think the jackdaw, the hare, the owl, and the old spirits, would have all been fine with that.