Like Rebecca, I have been rising very early all Winter to luxuriate in the morning dark. I make my coffee, and take my medicine, and cook myself the same breakfast that countless Southern women have cooked, and then I sit under an afghan, shawl on my shoulders and socks on my feet, and I do my morning meditation. The Winter dark surrounds me like a lover, like a safe blanket, like the arms of the Goddess.
I’ve been traveling for work this Winter and, so, I’ve sat wrapped within the loving arms of Columbia, St. Francis, the Angels. And wherever I’ve been, I’ve grounded, cast a circle, and called the powers, and spirits, and beings of that place, and done my morning magic — same as if I’d been home. Because we Witches, we’re only at home in our own landbase and we’re always at home wherever we go.
I introduce myself: Hello St. Francis and thank you for welcoming me to your place. I come from Columbia’s District and I am her devotee. Please let me work my magic in your place. Here’s some crumpled camellia leaves and a bit of dried rosemary from my bit of Earth, made of the Potomac River, just outside of Columbia’s space. May my offering be worthy. May my offering be accepted. May my offering do good. Here’s why I’m here . . . .
And then I head off to the federal court surrounded by mosaics of Goddesses, to the 20th floor of an office in the financial district where I am the only woman at the meeting, to an airport beside the bay, to dinner with clients at a restaurant fed by Buddhists, to my computer to write.
Through it all, a devotion to The Bramble Bush unites everything that I do and perhaps I need to write more about that.
May it be so for you.
hecatedemeter 