We ventured out into the forest after dark, though darkness never came that night. The Hunter’s Moon lit up the land with a silvery glow, like a searchlight for those seeking…
We sought to right a wrong.
We came across the perfect spot: a memorial bench with vast views that stretched southwest across the county. The moon was in the east, shining down upon us through a leafless tree, guiding us, supporting us, protecting us.
We sat to settle and ground. Tawny owls hooted to each other through the stillness and clashing antlers could be heard from down the hill. Lights of distant villages flickered silently on the horizon. A very gentle breeze joined the clear night chill, then ushered in some friendly scattered clouds, though none too thick to hide our guardian, grandmother moon. An ancient chieftain of the land on which we sat came to call - tall and mighty, strong yet gentle, a striking female protector of the natural world around.
We cleared the air by letting go of events of the week that had sought to disrupt our flow, then gently, symbolically, swept the area with the age-old besom. The altar was set: candle to shine a light of remembrance, incense to smudge and send our voices to the wind, spring water to cleanse, apple cake to nourish and herbs to fill the bløt bowl - mugwort and rose petals, our moon-rite dreamers and sweeteners with seed to sow our heartfelt intent.
A flute was played to open our rites, a soulful tune of remembrance. Then we raised our drums and beat the bounds, a rousing rhythm to chase away all doubt and fear, a booming fanfare to welcome in the spirits of the land.
Then the words. We said our prayers to charge the bløt then words of remembrance. We remembered the events of centuries ago when countless innocents were preyed upon and tortured, many to death, in the name of the Christian god. Renounced as heretics, these were the wise women, the healers of body and soul, the midwives, the herbalists, the humble servants of Mother Earth who sought to bring relief to those in suffering. Deemed evil for the slightest notion such as shape of face or colour of hair, blamed for acts which by their wild invention could never be proven. We read their names - those recorded of our land - and acknowledged and honoured all those whose names are lost, for there are so many! They live amongst us still, their wounds longing to heal.
Tears were shed. Tears for the fear and terror, tears for the pain and misery, tears for the brutal injustice meted out by those who dared to torture and kill in the name of their merciful god. Tears for the innocents. Tears for the years of unfounded blame and guilt. Tears for the mockery and misunderstanding. Tears for the wisdom lost and faith denied.
Tears with a solemn oath to go forth, honour and remember, with regularity and ceremony, those souls who were ripped from their time by men with a cross to bear.
We scattered the bløt herbs to the wind followed by the water from the cleansing spring. We ate some apple* cake and left an offering. Then we beat our drums with force to drive away the sadness, to heal the wounds, to seal our oath. Our rite was done.
*apple: the fruit of temptation, of original sin. The high church held that sin firmly in the feminine, for it was Eve they blamed for the fall of man. So that belief fuelled fear in men and incited their dominance and force - even justified to them their perceived superiority and strength.
Yet apple is the fruit of love, whose center cut crossways shows a perfect star, cut down displays a yoni. She provides healing and sustenance, nurture and nourishment.
In Greek mythology, Dionysus, god of harvest, offered apples to win the love of Aphrodite, goddess of love and fertility. It is love and healing we send to the spirits of the past and onward then to the future.
“The Witch Wound is a collective, intergenerational, spiritual wound that keeps people afraid of their own magic and power.” – Celeste Larsen, Mage By Moonlight
Over the last few winters we have been blessed to study Ancestral inherited trauma, alongside beloved mentor and elder Bridget Nielsen, being a part of her community was such a gift, something that fused so beautifully within my work as Holistic Medium. Seeing the patterns and trauma that is inherited from generation to generation, and how it shows up in the here and now!!
We are often blessed to work with the oldest of souls, medicine folk, men and women that carry deep wisdom, yet alongside that deep wisdom is rooted trauma, some of which I have come to recognise as “ The Witch Wound” Do you dim your own light, shrink yourself, and hide your gifts?
The Witch Wound: What It Is & How to Heal it!!
Throughout the Month of October we will be exploring this wound in depth.. From the historical persecution of witches to how the Witch Wound shows up in modern times.
We warmly invite you to join our Community
Earth Journeys Seasonal Rites