Her mother-in-law called her Satan because she proclaimed herself to be Wiccan. A Witch. The mother-in-law said, “You brought evil into our lives, into my house. All of the bad things that have happened in our lives are because of you!” The WitchWoman cried silent tears. She did not want her mother-in-law to hear.
It is because of this and similar stories that the WitchWoman has trouble sharing her spiritual journey with others. She does not want another cross held up in front of her face. She does not want another person to tell her Jesus will save her. She does not want another loved one to tell her she will go to hell. She does not want to be called evil. She does not want another survey, “Should witches be allowed to have a club on campus?” printed beside her smiling picture.
But, the WitchWoman is brave. She is courageous. Many times she has looked fear in its face and loved it anyway. So, today, she takes her fear by the hand, holds it close to her heart and begins her story.
She was born to a fifteen-year-old girl named Karen. Karen was the daughter of a White man and a Native woman. When her baby was born she was alone. She only saw her baby once, nine days after it was born for half an hour. She learned she had a daughter. Then, like the mother of Moses, she placed the baby in the reeds and let her go. But, she did not forget and neither did the baby.
The child was found by a young couple who thought they could not have children. They took the little girl home and called her Daughter. They placed her on the black earth of an onion field and surrounded her with grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Soon, they also gave her a brother.
When she was a small child, her parents read stories to her from a hardbound, blue covered children’s Bible. The daughter loved this book. She loved the pictures. Her favorite stories were of mothers and their children.
Daughter went to church with her family. She wore her favorite pink tights and Mary Jane shoes. She sat in the pew and drew pictures on the back of tithing cards. Hymnals and Bibles served as her desk. She looked up at the pulpit and admired not the wooden cross, but the white frosted glass behind it. The lights made the glass glow and she dreamed of angels, mothers with wings, to hold her tight and love her deep.
Daughter went to Sunday school and liked the crafts. She made a well out of a baby food jar, popsicle sticks and tiny blue silk flowers. She liked the rooms in the church. Hidden in basements and attics, caves for her imagination. She liked church then. She wanted to sing in the choir and dress up in costumes for holiday pageants.
But, she got older and things changed. The art became less and the talking became more. They said, “You have to thank Jesus every night for dying on the cross for your sins or you will go to hell.” Daughter was scared. She feared God. She would lie in her bed at night whispering this prayer in a panic. Over and over, it became her mantra, until, exhausted with fear, she either fell asleep or ran crying to her parents’ bedroom for comfort. They did not like being awakened in the middle of the night. Night after night. But, she was scared and didn’t know what else to do. They were supposed to make her feel better.
Daughter did not want to go to church anymore. She liked school and reading books. She liked imagining she was a doctor or teacher or mother. She played games with her brother and cousins. She learned she could be anything she wanted to be. She found out girls could do anything boys could do. She learned girls were just as smart as boys. This made her happy, but sometimes got her into trouble. She reminded her brother and Dad that they should help do the dishes and clean the house. Dad would say, “But I worked all day!” And Daughter would say, “So did Mom!”
Daughter became sassy, but she was also smart. She grew into a teenager and read Seventeen magazine. She found an article about witches. There were girls, only a little bit older than her, who imagined their bodies filled with light, believed plants and rocks could help heal, loved Halloween and the full moon. Daughter was reminded of all the times she pretended she was a fairy. She remembered she loved flowers and leaves and would pretend to eat them. She remembered her fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Martin, collected rose quartz, agates and amethyst. She remembered full moons big and orange, dragonfly wings shimmering in sunlight. She remembered the coolness of black mud squishing between her bare toes. Mostly, she remembered how happy these things made her and she wanted to be a WitchWoman too.
She told her friends, “Witches are real!” She told her family, “Witches are good!” She was beaming, she was happy, she was excited. She felt in her heart, her bones, her skin, her hair, her teeth, her guts…this was right. Her family said, “No.” Her friends said, “Don’t believe it.” Her family said, “It’s wrong, it’s dark.” Her friends said, “It’s Satan.” She loved them. She didn’t understand how something that felt so good could be so bad, could be so wrong. She trusted them, she believed them, and so she let it go. But, the Good Earth would not let go of her.
Time went on and even though the young woman would not say it out loud, her religion was becoming the wind, the trees, the sunlight, the mountains and the oceans. Then, one day, as she was settling into her senior year of high school she met a young woman like her. Victoria. Who, along with her sister, was publishing a teensy magazine about witches and runes and the Goddess. The young WitchWoman opened her heart to her new friend and told her everything she knew about the goodness of witches and the goodness of the Earth and that she believed her church was in Nature. The two friends were in creative writing class together and needed to write a paper. The young WitchWoman wrote about God as a woman. Her teacher was happy and told her about a Woman’s Bible. The young WitchWoman could not believe her ears! She wrote her paper and received an “A.”
At Christmas dinner that year, the young WitchWoman’s grandmother asked, “What are you studying in school?” And our brave, sassy heroine said, “The Goddess.” The grandmother said, “You don’t believe in a Goddess?” And the young WitchWoman smiled and nodded, her mouth full of turkey dinner. Our heroine had been inspired by the knowledge that many people knew about the Goddess. This gave her courage. She began praying to “Goddess” instead of “God” and once she got used to the word on her tongue…it felt sooooo good!
WitchWoman went to college were she met other witchy women. Teachers and students. She explored the Goddess in her reading, through her writing and in rituals that honored the moon, the elements, and the Divine. She began dancing the sensual movements of the Middle East and learned these belly dances were dances by and for women.
She prayed and wrote and danced her way to womanhood. She encountered many, many people who were afraid of her witchiness. And while their behavior hurt her heart and made her cry, she would not deny this essential part of herself.
She got married and her husband said her witchiness was fine, but then his family found out and he changed his mind. Her marriage had not been good. He lied and stole and was very, very angry. The WitchWoman had been scared, but one day Pele, the volcano goddess, erupted and she threw a witchy candle at his head. She missed, but The WitchWoman was victim no more. She got a divorce.
Sometime between marriage and divorce, The WitchWoman found a book called “Peace is Every Step.” It was a small book in pages, but an enormous book in content. It introduced her to Buddhism. It sparked an awareness in her that once ignited could not be extinguished. Sitting meditation became a part of her life.
By the end of her marriage, WitchWoman realized she needed to add a Buddhist Community to her Community of Witches. She found Bodhi Path and a lineage of Tibetan Tulkus. They began to teach and she began to learn.
She learned she had the courage to board an airplane alone and fly to the New Mexico desert where she found the Goddess, her pen, her Native family, a meditation cushion and a silence so deep she was able to put all these elements into a cauldron and stir. She added her pain, her suffering and her courage. She let the brew sit, until, one day it was ready. When Cerridwen’s transforming elixir touched her lips she found herself in a Master of Divinity program transforming her life.
"It is our quiet time.
