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.