It happened on the cusp of the Long Night’s Moon, on one of those lonely Winter evenings when even the touch of the most sacred lover failed to appease her. She had sent him away, for sometimes the Holy Wild needs no witnesses. There was no magick elixir for her particular ailment, after all; it was the time-worn soul sickness of closeted divinity. The ache was everywhere and all consuming, and she longed for nothing more than to be seen as the cosmic infinite mystery. Mind you, she did wish anyone to bow down to her or perform majestic rituals in her honor. She only wanted to be known in her totality. On this night, as she stared into the low-burning oil lamp willing herself to scry her future through her tears, to see some perfect dream realized in the flame’s glow, no vision was coming.
Her cards were all strewn about the table top, and she had casted every manifestation spell she knew; nothing was working. On this night, when she could seek no solace in divination, the Witch was plagued by hopelessness. She yearned to be held by a great circle of hooded mystics who would tell her of her venerable nature, and she pounded her fist on her heart in a slow rhythm, bidding the Ascended Masters to be conjured by the sound and come to her aid. Alas, her body prayer went unanswered.
She ran to the cold hearth and painted her face with the ashes of a year spent demanding a reckoning that never came, and she anointed herself with the warm, spiced wine her lover left behind. Surely, such a beauteous display of madness deserved divine reward! Wouldn’t some blessed angel who had been watching over since childhood descend from the brilliant ether and crown her with a crystalline halo? Better, couldn’t some earthen elemental take time out of its busy evening and ascend through the mud to offer her a Faery’s benediction?
She sank to the ground, this fragile creature whose spirit-hunger could not be satiated, and she called to the ghost of her grandmother to intervene and offer some secret Crone’s brew for her stomach ache. The Witch was so far in her depths, so deeply she had dug this loamy hole, she could hear no ancestral wisdom. A lost and homesick daughter, she was, and she had no psychic magick left in her vast storehouse.
Huddled in a heap of shivering bones and gazing moonward through a frosted window, she spent long hours in further descent. In between mournful howls and fleeting fears that her lover would find her here, covered in ashes and wine and crooning carols to a God she did not believe in, she slept. She drifted off not in comfort but as an escape. Surely, in her effort to be truly seen, she would be abandoned. Surely, she was destined for a lonely life of wayward journeying and selfish, spiritual questing. In this moment, just now as the lamp burned out and her world had never been so dark, she was so asleep she had no choice but to awaken.
Her lids snapped open as if she was jolted awake by a holy injection of hellfire straight into her unruined heart. Her blood coursed so warm and raw now she could hear her cells communing with the Ancients, and, there on her frigid floor on an otherwise painfully ordinary Winter’s night, the Witch had an epiphany. There would be no wise visitors come to validate her divinity, and she needed no one to see it. She was her own prophet in that moment, and she whisper-prayed eloquent affirmations of her perfection. She scrawled words of her own majesty on her body-temple and realized no one would see her as Goddess until she saw herself as holy. No one would hold her as whole until she demanded they do so, and the Witch’s soul-retrieval is never complete; it is an enduring spiral dance of descent, mining, ascending, and integration.
On this night, as she waited for some majestic validation, the Witch had gone into her psychic caves and dug out the flawless gem of divine self-worth. She clung to it now with all that she was, chanting the verses of the blessed feminine and foretelling her visions to an empty house. Every deity that was ever worshipped was alive and well inside of her, and she was her own savior.
“I am the Child of Light,” the Witch whispered. “I am returned. Every breath I take is a sacred ceremony, every movement a living ritual. My rib-cage is the holiest of holies, and my heart and soul are priceless relics that have been so carefully placed in my safe-keeping. May I never again forget the blessed brilliance that is me.”
For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends Wild and Free: A Hope-Filled Anthem for the Woman Who Feels She is Both Too Much and Never Enough.
Sip a little more from Danielle’s magic here.
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