Tag: wicca

poetryandarete:

Hymn to Artemis of the Drowned Birches

Mistress of beasts,

Whether weighty and waddling

Loping and lean

In the darkness of the slow-rising dawn

I call to you

*

The bears enter town here

The trash bins have locked lids

When I walk to class the forest presses up against the breaking spear tops

Of the Canadian Shield

And it whispers about the onset of frost

*

Goddess, this weather makes beasts of us all

As the mushrooms grow plump on the leaf layer rot

We are on our knees foraging –

Like any animal when the chill sets in

The low hanging rosehips and staining sumac

Are warnings: gather now

Or regret

*

I have always seen the graceful birch and thought of you

But the beavers by the lake have devastated them

Teeth marks so fresh the wood is discoloured

The beasts have dragged them into the water which sits still

(Deceivingly so)

And some are left rotting, shore stranded

The gluttonous ruins of this slow-building season

*

Someone told me once that birches were called widowmakers

For the rot in the inside is long hidden by the outer paper bark

Goddess, you must smile

(Being a widowmaker yourself)

For you know too well that eventually the paper falls apart to reveal that ever creeping death

Your sister-cousin has taken her first steps below the earth – you know this because:

How things begin to rot around you, mistress! How even the living begin to stink!

Send out your beasts, your holy hunting dogs

Let your hurried hungry arrows miss the crowns of every baby I catch this year

Let the mothers rejoice or mourn as they will;

I am with you, goddess, whatever comes.

homopower:

khmacleod:

Ancient moon priestesses were called virgins. ‘Virgin’ meant not married, not belonging to a man – a woman who was ‘one-in-herself’. The very word derives from a Latin root meaning strength, force, skill; and was later applied to men: virle. Ishtar, Diana, Astarte, Isis were all all called virgin, which did not refer to sexual chastity, but sexual independence. And all great culture heroes of the past, mythic or historic, were said to be born of virgin mothers: Marduk, Gilgamesh, Buddha, Osiris, Dionysus, Genghis Khan, Jesus – they were all affirmed as sons of the Great Mother, of the Original One, their worldly power deriving from her. When the Hebrews used the word, and in the original Aramaic, it meant ‘maiden’ or ‘young woman’, with no connotations to sexual chastity. But later Christian translators could not conceive of the ‘Virgin Mary’ as a woman of independent sexuality, needless to say; they distorted the meaning into sexually pure, chaste, never touched. —Monica Sjoo

Casual reminder that “virgin” in the modern/Christian sense of the word is literally a complete bullshit, made-up social construct, arbitrarily given a negative connotation.

the-midnight-ocean-knight:

writing-prompt-s:

butterflieswithsnowflakesontop:

screamingatanemptyroom:

writing-prompt-s:

During your childhood, you believed that the moon was following you while you were sitting in the backseat of the car. As you grew older, you passed it off as a product of your wild imagination. Unbeknownst to you, the moon has actually been following you your entire life. You are the child of the moon.

I stared at the moon and I knew that the moon stared back at me.

Cold, tired, a tiny body bundled up in the back of a car. Quiet music on the radio fails to lull me to sleep, and so I stare at the silvery light, happy to feel bathed in the moon’s attention. It never moves further away, and so I imagine it’s following me. I am safe and protected as the moon watches me fall asleep.

I smiled at the moon, and imagined that the moon was smiling with me.

Older, smarter, but still young enough to dream silly dreams. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, dancing in the backyard still wearing my pajamas. I spin around and smile up at the sky. I whisper hello and pretend I hear it whisper back. I laugh and tell jokes and hope the moon stays close. It’s quite a bit later in the night when I finally crawl back in bed.

I screamed at the moon, but knew the moon couldn’t answer.

Too old to believe the moon could hear me, but young enough to still wish it could. Angry words, awkward feelings, with no one to talk to but the silvery globe whose light seemed to dim with sympathy. I want to stay angry, to keep venting my rage, but without a target it soon fizzles out. I finally walk back inside, slamming the door, shutting the moonlight out behind me.

I cried to the moon, and dreamed it could cry with me

Older, slower, everyday actions suddenly insurmountable tasks. I tell myself I’ll get better, and those around me nod and cheer me on. But out of the corner of my eyes I see solemn faces, and wet eyes. I pretend I don’t see, hiding away from the knowledge they hold of how little time I have left. I sneak out with weak, poorly balanced steps. I sit outside and look up at the moon and finally let myself cry. And in the quiet, in the dark alone. I can believe that the moon cries with me.

I smiled at the moon, and knew that the moon smiled back.

Too weak to stand, a small frail body bundled up in a hospital bed. Quiet music on the radio fails to drown out the noise of the bustling hallway. I’m too scared to close my eyes. I look up out the open window, bathing in the silvery light that the moon shines down. It seems close enough to touch, I reach out and grasp empty air. I smile brightly at the sky, feeling safe, and know in my heart that the moon is smiling at me too. I am safe and protected as the moon watches me fall asleep.

I said goodbye to the moon, but the moon just smiled and welcomed me back home.

😢😢😢

:c

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I’m actually crying

1,000-Year-Old Illustrated Manuscript of Herbal Remedies Available Online

hedgewitchgarden:

“Each entry in the manual lists the plant’s or animal’s “name in various languages; descriptions of ailments it can be used to treat; and instructions for finding and preparing it.” And while it’s debatable as to how practical the guide really was—it includes plants like cumin that would not have been available in England—it’s a curious work of art in its own right.

If you’re having trouble making sense of the Old English, there is a 2002 translation available for sale.”

1,000-Year-Old Illustrated Manuscript of Herbal Remedies Available Online

jabberwockypie:

patrickat:

bernardperroud:

Utroba Cave in the Rhodope mountains, Bulgaria. Carved by hand more than 3000 years ago (?), it was rediscovered in 2001.

Archeologists
hypothesize that an altar built at the end of the cave, which is about
22 m deep, represents either the cervix or the uterus.

At midday, light seeps into the temple through an opening in the ceiling, projecting an image of a phallus on to the floor.

When
the sun is at the right angle, in late February or early March, the
phallus grows longer and reaches the alter, symbolically fertilizing the
womb before the sowing of the spring crops.

These people were drawing dicks on the ground with the sun in 1000 BCE. All you fools messing with Sharpies need to step up your game.

“Hee! That looks kind of like-”

“Come on, self, don’t make it weird.  It’s just a cave.”

*reads article*

“Oh.”