Six years ago today you burst forth from the waters of the womb, my merchild who swam before she took her first breath in this world. My glistening, shiny seal pup with your rooting mouth and wrinkled fingers. It felt as if I did not put you down for the next three years, and I needed that as much as you did. I dreamed of a daughter who was wild and free with a strong voice and will, you followed me in spirit for months and I felt you settle down in my womb five days before any blood was due. You have always been good at getting your own way. To raise a girl who has always been adored by everybody around her. To raise a girl who stamps her feet and tosses her head like an untamed mare. The joy of seeing you floating in the sea singing to the spirits of water and air. The way you listen soberly as I answer your questions about life, death and nature and you keep the answers safely tucked in your heart. Then the next minute you are laughing and teasing, five years old again, except now you are six, and who are you becoming?
Mabon
Mabon and the windows are steamed up in the morning, the children have hot chocolate before school tucked under blankets. My legs are no longer bare to the wind and grass, there are now rows of sodden coats drying slowly in the hall. The cottage is warmer inside than outside, still holding summer in the stones, but soon I will be gathering wood in my baskets to bring indoors instead of flowers. This time of year I was heavy with child both times, holding my bundles to me at Mabon and Samhain. This year there is no belly and no bundle, my arms are full of eggs and kittens and my husband's warmth. The icy breath of the goddess moves across the land, drawing lovers back to the hearth and I love her for it. Birdsong and the whispers of the dead. All return to her.
Hair and Braid Magic
When did women lose the braids, when did we stop singing prayers into each other’s hair, weaving with clever fingers? The grandmothers knew this to be ritual as they readied themselves for the day strand by strand, then unwinding their hair and releasing as the sun set. A tighter weave for protection, and action. A looser braid for peace, rest and receptivity. Scraps of ribbon inviting abundance or clarity. Women’s magic is the most simple of all, woven into daily life as the heart of our communities, as mothers and daughters and friends. What are you sweeping from your home, what are you stirring in the pot, praying on your beads, braiding in your hair? This morning I was gazing back like Lot’s wife and feeling myself about to become immobile as stone. My hair was not pliable and soft then, was hard and scratchy as if to say “don’t come too close”. It was bound and could not be unbound and I hung my amulets from it and felt its reassuring weight. Today I am holding my grief in my hair to keep me moving and as night falls I will unwind it and shed a tear and sing of mother mountains and a woman who was beloved by them.