Where Do the Churchless Go to Sing? — An Excerpt from “Seasons of Moon and Flame: The Wild Dreamer’s Epic Journey of Becoming”
Again, I find myself knelt here at your altar, lightning-keeper, praying to a faceless priestess who has no name other than Wild. A longing for the ancestral righteous runs in my blood even now, even when I’ve forgotten the mother-tongue language and have only pieces of the old ceremonies still stitched to my robes. My Craft is an imperfect patchwork garment sewn up sloppily, shredded, then hand-tied together again, but I’m wearing it well, I think, these sea-blue prayers of my grandmothers, these golden and somber ceremonies given me by my most treasured teachers, and these hot-pink and forbidden dances I’ve harvested from some unknown cemetery where the neglected ways go to die.
So tell me, Wild, where do the churchless ones go to sing? Where do the wayward witch-mothers go to light their altar candles for their poor babes who may no never know the belonging I feel right now, right here, beneath this summer moon. Tell me, lightning-keeper, for whom do you pray, and on whom do you cast your more potent enchantments? During my most indulgent moments such as this, I think you just might pray for me, and this is the only supplication I shall accept beneath the summer moons.