The womb-wounds of women are often their most tightly gripped secrets, and, while you certainly do not owe your story to anyone, I have found that much healing comes from bringing our experiences out of the dark.
To you who are known by so many names across space and time, it is with the fervent devotion of a burst-open heart and the awe-struck reverence of the enraptured that I write in homage at this inky, indrawn moment of the winter solstice.
Let me be that tree, so that the scent of pine will remind the world that someone must have meant it. I will be a singing sentinel, and that which breathes life into death. The raven has no part with the pine, nor the blackthorn with the dove.
She 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…