Saturday Witchery: Stewart and Janet Farrar

Gonna wash that Winter right outta' my hair

Candlemas. Imbolc. Oimelc. Brigid. Brighnasadh. First Spring. The Sabbat so nice we named it, like, a dozen times.

The holiday rolled around in the middle of a very nice warm spurt here in Texas with crisp mornings, hot afternoons and chilly nights. Not quite Spring yet, but the Old Lass is starting to show her legs and is thinking about getting her toenails painted a frivolous shade of pink.

Candlemas rolled in just as I was scheduled to begin the Fire period of a series of elemental workings. I didn't really time it that way, it just synced up rather nicely.

My Candlemas wasn't very fancy. I did a lot of Spring cleaning, throwing out a lot of emotional baggage with the unwanted and nonredeemable. I burned evergreen leaves and carried the smoke through the house. I lit candles in every room and bathed in ice cold salt-water. I sat vigil with a burning votive nestled in a bowl of ice. I welcomed Brigid, a Goddess who seems very elusive to me, and poured milk and left bread beneath my favorite tree. And then I began my work with Fire.

The Air period was extremely productive. In the course of the workings, I wrote numerous invocations and spells. I drafted and tested several incense recipes. I read a lot of books. I started a new journal. I bought a glorious peacock fan. 

I also realized how much I missed having a writing outlet.

You may have noticed, if you pay any attention to this space, that it was gone for awhile. I had every intention of deleting it and letting it remain deleted. I was tired of blogging. Tired of silly Pagans and their silly Pagan drama. 

But working only with Air for a period of time, and returning to my daily devotions and practices after a much needed mental health break, the nagging voice in the back of my mind was extremely firm about me getting back to this writing thing.

I hope that the new life beginning to pulse in the Land, and in me, will mean some interesting blog content here again.  We shall see.

Mocked by Squiggles

Working on some sigils as part of some end of the year woo. I love the way some squiggles on paper turn into massive symbols of power that can transmit ideas.

One in particular has, at it's core, balance and clarity. Something we all could use more of all the time, but especially during the holiday miasma.

The process of making the sigil is always organic. It lets me know exactly how it wants to come together. I don't think about it much. I don't impose my sensibilities onto it.

The finished product makes all my Obsessive Compulsiveness hurt.

No balance. No real symmetry. Odd angles.

Real funny, squiggles!  Like the old joke about praying for patience only to have life throw every curveball at you to force you to be patient, this sigil is having a giggle at my expense. Drive him nuts and force him to breathe and deal with it. 

I breathe. I copy it onto nicer paper.

And then I get a look at it upside down. I see it from the other side and it's perfect.

Flow. Harmony. Stability.

Well played, squiggles.  Well played.

Winter of the Witch

Witch Porn

There is nothing like going to your favorite candle-buying-place only to discover they are having a 50% off sale.

Are you there, Mighty Dead? It's me, Veles!

Today I received a wrong number phone call from a pleasant voiced man who identified himself as Alex Gardner.

I wasn't the person he was trying to call, but he wished me a "Blessed Day" anyhow.

Never let it be said The Mighty Dead lack a sense of humor.

Truth

"The daytrippers would take their cotton-candy version of Wicca home, and when it had dissolved away to nothing in their hands would wonder why they hadn't gotten the fulfillment they'd been promised. They'd feel cheated, and vaguely dissatisfied, and think -- if they ever got far enough again to pick up Phyllis Curott or Margot Adler -- that the people claiming to get that much out of Wicca were deluded, or lying. 

Neither is true. The difference between that world and this is the difference between an afternoon's idle play and years of training and study and practice. It's a difference that lies in that which can't be spoken of, because it can't be put into words.

But as it is in fairy tales, you only get what you give."

- Rosemary Edghill

Bast: A Winter's Tale