Good Little Heathen Girl

I would make a poor monk
for their credence would be lost on me. 
“Desire is the root of your suffering, dear girl,” they would say.
And I would shake my head fiercely, 
feverish from the dreams of lust and transcendence beaded on my forehead.
And I could not, I would not, rub the sleep from my eyes to their satisfaction. 

For my desire for my God burrows into my flesh
like sharp talons into my naked shoulder.
A pain so delightfully endured.
Don’t you see, my love? 
Without longing, there would be no union. 

And do you not crave to be one with your God?
To be one with your Queen? 
Oh, desire can be the holiest of experiences,
should you let it, my love. 

Let go of my desire? 
No…
No, you misunderstand. 

I am far less agreeable than a creature of peace, you see. 
A witch’s bones are molded with a paste of ash and spit
and threaded together with white flame.
The creation of wanton wreckage
and the meandering wildfires of a woman’s will,
anchored to the ancient volcanic rocks of the earth
with sinew, sex, and the cleansing tears of the crone.

Oh, I crave that union. 
I crave the danger of the perilous nuptials
in the valley between the sleeping gods and the waking beasts.
I want to walk into the bear den
on the far side of the crooked mountain, 
my milky thighs dripping with sticky honey,
because I am prepared to be your meal. 
Because I’m a good little heathen girl. 
Because I desire my desire for you.

I built an altar of stones for you
because I know you will love it
and reward me handsomely upon it.  
I bite my own lip to taste the blood
that opens the door to your kingdom.
Your kingdom of rapture, of stormy seas, 
of tangled hair and gleaming Nordic armor. 
I rub the dirt into your back with every gasping breath. 
I drink the tonic of longing,
the one my grandmother’s grandmother brewed in secret,
because it’s bottomless. 
A sugared shadow.
A shade of a being, safeguarded in the dark.
No, don’t worry my love, no one shall see us. 
Your desire is safe with me. 
If only we could meet in the light of day.

If only…

if only…

maybe only for today.

How to Love the Scorpio Moon

Are you the prey or the predator?
The hunter or the hunted?
Scorpio Moon asks you to be both.
She demands your submission, but respects your power.
Her strength in depth is a living web of contradiction and paradox.
Come to her, and you will see everything you've ever wanted to see,
and everything you wish you could un-see.
Fear her and love her as the terrible Queen she is.
For her womb is a black hole, and her domain is rebirth.
Refuse your own courage, and she will close the portal with a vengeance.
She doesn't entertain cowardice.
But she rewards fatal bravery handsomely.
Her love is swift and stinging and full of pleasure.
Deny her at your own peril.
For we're all going to die.
But with her, you are reborn.

In honor of the Scorpio full moon and my own moon in Scorpio, I also wanted to share some of my favorite altar items for spells and intentions surrounding these themes of shadow work, rebirth, dark sensuality, and peering into the unknown.

Black Candles
You can't honor the mysterious Scorpio without a black candle. Literally lighting a flame over the dark, black candles represent the hidden shadows that the scorpio can peer into so naturally. If you're uncomfortable using only black candles, feel free to balance it out with white candles.  

Shark Teeth
I like to use a mortar and pestle to crush a shark tooth into powder for various spells and potions. Shark teeth can be used for protection, boundaries, cleansing, forward motion, and I enjoy a little bit of predatory energy in there. I spent hours combing beaches for these teeth, which makes them all the more potent. Personally collected items are always more powerful. 

Snake Skin
What's more representative of the shedding of skins than an actual shed skin? Serpents are often vilified in myth, but they are powerful creatures of transformation. They are also associated with Lilith and with Kundalini. The serpent started showing up in my life as a symbol of the Goddess before I even knew what it was there for, and I still dream of being bitten by snakes when I'm undergoing spiritual initiations. 

Water from Lake Superior
I collected water from Lake Superior, as it has the same icy depths as a Scorpio moon. Collecting water from your favorite places for magickal works is incredibly powerful, and different places have different energies for you to utilize. 

Black Velvet or Lace
Put it on your altar, wear it, put it on to take it off (hehe), just enjoy it. The Scorpio moon loves that dark sexy aesthetic. 

The Tao te Ching
The original grimoire of the power of paradox and poetry, Lao Tzu's Tao te Ching is full of inspiration. The Scorpio moon loves poetry and is always looking for new ways to dive in and understand the Self, and every time you open the Tao te Ching, the passages hit you in a new way.

Feathers
To represent the rising of the Phoenix from the ashes. Eagle feathers especially, as eagles are a symbol of Scorpio. 

Ashes or Bones
A special nod to the death/rebirth cycle and immortal consciousness. I have a small bottle of the ashes of my animal familiar, my handsome wolfy dog, that passed a few years ago. Ashes also represent the sands of Time. 

Mirrors
Whether a black scrying mirror or a standard mirror, this is the perfect time for you to gaze into your own reflection. But look at yourself honestly...you might be surprised. 

Now go put "I Put A Spell On You" on repeat and seduce yourself under the light of the moon.

The Path of the Pathless Witch

Mine is a power that will not explain itself. 

No sources revealed, no maps drawn, no keys given. 

I am neither an authority nor an imposter.

I am only as true as the restless wind. 

Will you be the judge? 

To be witch is merely to be. 

to be blood

and sensual juices

and flesh and spirit. 

To be whore and hag with an eager heart on both accounts. 

I follow no rulebook, I answer to no priest. 

I don't buy into buzzwords. 

Only the slicing of the sickle through illusion. 

But please, don't buy into me either, for I will surely change with the face of the moon. 

Again and again, you catch me, and I slip from your grasp. 

Always fading into the wash of the sky.

I am not exempt from destruction.

I burn often,

as the embers remain glowing in my womb through the generations. 

The liquid fire in my veins kills me,

sometimes slow, like sweet burning molasses,

sometimes quick as silver. 

Over and over, I die for the Nameless.

I rage.

Sometimes carelessly, creating chaos for the sake of itself. 

To breathe as the dragon does. 

To take down a village with a yawn.

Sometimes consciously, to dismantle the inner landscape of injustice.

To protect the beloved from the below. 

To exact holy revenge and righteous balance.

I weaponize my words, and the way my body curves. 

My copper strands of hair carry out my wishes.

And I am alone in the dark,

with only and always the hope of the stars. 

How exhausting to be so much at once.

How exhilarating. 

To always be a prism of undying elements,

all at once compassionate and cruel. 

But this is the path of the Pathless Witch.

Marie DuBois

The chamber was empty. 

One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.

One, two, three, one, two, three, swing. 

“Best of three,” she said to Señor. 

Marie DuBois sat, legs outspread beyond the seat of the single wooden chair, in a fashion that would have displeased her upbringing greatly. Of course, Marie DuBois was not her real name. No, of course it wasn’t. Marie DuBois was a moniker she awarded herself for her freedom, and to prevent herself from being found by searching eyes. Her husband must have been looking for her, desperately clinging to the hope that the mother of his children would return to her familial duties. He must have known that his hope was, in fact, desperate. It had been five years since he had last seen her face, and four and a half since any of their mutual relations had. Last anyone knew, she wandered off towards the sea and never returned. Swept away by a riptide, they wagered. What a horrible tragedy, they thought, since she had just recently learned to swim. How could anyone imagine the wife and mother of an upper class Southern family deserting them intentionally in 1901, unless afflicted with some sort of malicious madness or feminine hysteria. 

One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.

One, two, three, one, two, three, swing. 

She counted the chambers silently in her mind. The silver cylinder stopped spinning, and Marie DuBois fingered the mother-of-pearl inlaid handle gently as she swallowed her breath. She held the revolver up to her temple and looked over to the white rabbit with a single patch of black over his right eye, a rabbit she simply called Señor, sitting calmly in the dirt in the corner of the Mexican hut. His whiskers twitched slightly. She thought not of her husband, but of Robert. She pulled the trigger. 

Click. 

The chamber was empty again. 

One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.

One, two, three, one, two, three, swing. 

Sweat glistened on the swells of Marie DuBois’s breasts, exposing entirely too much skin for her breeding in her thin ivory peignoir, now stained by dirt and sweat. Her ash yellow hair and fair complexion were a sight unseen deep in the Mexican village she hid herself in. The village was somewhere between Mexico City and Puebla, at the base of an active volcano. She thought she might have felt some connection to Robert, being in a place that had called him away from her years before. Presumably, she would have felt the same allure of the opportunity and adventure that he had, but he had been gone from this place for quite some time, and all that remained was the merciless heat clinging to the walls. 

“Still one more,” she said to Señor. She wasn’t offended when Señor didn’t seem to care for her plight, but then again, that was typical behavior for him. 

She stroked the silver of the revolver, which was far too clean and shining for the scene. Surely her husband would be missing one of his prized revolvers, though he never would have thought it was taken by Marie DuBois. The rambunctious neighbor boy, perhaps, or even a dishonest maid, but not his devoted wife. 

But he didn’t know her well. She thought Robert had, or at least she thought he had gotten a brief but genuine glimpse into her soul in their time together. He betrayed Marie DuBois by recusing himself from her affection, as he refused to grow accustomed to her untraditional ways in their unaccommodating lifestyles. She could hardly help it, though. She had completely wiped the sleep from her eyes, and remained—painfully—awake. Day in and day out, her spirit flickered like a flame against a breeze. It burned hot and bright, maddening her resolve to be an independent woman, free of constraint in constricting times. Moments later, it dipped into the dark agony of being utterly alone and presumed dead, the weight of her decisions, her responsibility, crushing any lingering liberation. The agony left as quickly as it came, and this is how Marie DuBois lived. 

“But has the pleasure been worth the agony?” she asked Señor, beads of sweat hanging on her upper lip. His white ears seemed to rise a bit at her attention, but Señor could not be tempted to move closer to her. He sat quite contentedly in the dirt in the corner. She had thrown him some bits of lettuce earlier in the day, and he seemed happy to keep watch over what remained of them. 

A bead of sweat finally dropped from her upper lip into her mouth, and she remembered the feel of his kiss. She touched her lips with her fingers, chalky from dirt. They were warm enough to be comforting. She remembered the shiver down her spine, following the touch of his hand. She remembered how their bodies felt like the art she created during her days of liberation, when her spirit burned hot. Marie DuBois closed her eyes and slowly threw her head back, allowing herself to feel the ecstasy of a long-gone memory. 

A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. She saw a shadow through the slats of the wood, and reluctantly rose from her chair, the revolver hidden at her side. It was the Mexican man who had rented the room to her. He surveyed her through the crack of the door she had opened, his eyes reflecting compassion and perhaps even worry for this strange woman adrift. His young daughter stood behind him, eager to get a look at the American woman in bare feet and dirtied peignoir. The daughter was too beautiful to behold, with her shining raven hair and the glimmering hope of youth still in her dark eyes. How dreamy to be so young and beautiful, Marie DuBois thought as she obliged the man and his daughter with a smile. She thought she saw the man flash his eyes towards the revolver at her side. 

The man smiled and spoke in Spanish, motioning to his daughter and their home behind them. 

She didn’t speak the language, but she understood enough.

“No, no, gracias,” she muttered as she slowly closed the door on the disappointed pair. She saw that the Mexican man knew too much already, she could see it in his eyes. She knew he would sway her from her dangerous game if she had joined them, and her game was nearly over. 

She returned to her seat, kicking up the dust on the floor as she walked. 

“This is it,” she said to Señor as she held the revolver up to her temple one last time. Señor stood on his hind legs, looking to Marie DuBois as she smiled gently at him. 

She remembered what it felt like to rise from the sleep of her lover’s arms. She remembered what it felt like to trace his shoulders, her fingers stained with paint and charcoal, as her unfinished work lay on the floor. She remembered the ultimate freedom of solitude she felt when he left her that day. She remembered the crushing loneliness when she realized he would never return. She knew that her life would be forever tainted by the burning fever of sensuality and the complete misery of burning as an island. The seductive voice of the sea would be the only voice she would hear as she burned into nothingness, as her passion turned everything she knew and loved into ash. 

She pulled the trigger one last time. 

Click.

The chamber was empty. 

Marie DuBois breathed a sigh that was half longing, half relief, and rose from her chair. She scooped Señor into her arms, kissing him on the head. 

“Today we keep going,” she cooed to him as she walked into the Mexican night, leaving the shining revolver in the seat of the chair.

Beltane

I came upon a clearing in the wood

where the beds of pine needles turned into a path of mossy patches and stones 

that led me to a small unmarked building.

And he was there, in the corner, the majestic stag, 

horns seeming taller than the heavens. 

He waited for me by the door. 

He was expecting me.

I entered into a dark, narrow hallway.

The stag entered after me, only he was changed through the doorway.

No longer a stag, but a man, with ashen hair and wild eyes,

following silently behind me in the dark.

At the end of the hall, I found the room that housed the hot springs,

heated by the fire at the center of the earth.

Without being asked, I removed my clothes, piece by piece, 

aware that each piece was an element of myself that I shed. 

I was naked. Fully naked. 

Vulnerable and strong. 

Exposed and protected. 

I slowly stepped into the bath, the hot water purifying my aching soul. 

I held my breath as he did the same. 

He stood behind me and washed me gently, 

pouring water across my shoulders, 

sending waves of shivers through my body as his fingers grazed my neck. 

I turned to him, meeting his eyes for the first time. 

Without words, he asked me if I’d like to come with him.

I nodded silently. 

I rose from the bath as a phoenix might, 

smoke and steam rising from my skin. 

He watched in awe and respect

and showered me with adoration.

I was his queen, he was my knight. 

I was his goddess, he was my consort. 

He carried me to a room filled with golden afternoon light and white silks, 

and laid me on a bed of moss. 

He smelled of cloves, earth, sweet oranges, and all manner of wild things.

He set out on a pilgrimage, his lips the travelers, 

following the path of my freckles as if they were maps of the stars. 

And they were. 

Our bodies were constellations,

each moment, each breath, its own star, 

dying in the night in bursts of flame and white. 

I was neither self-conscious nor hurried,

Horned god Cernunnos from a 3rd century BCE cauldron

I was simply held in ecstasy,

as each cell of my body absorbed the light and transmuted the fire,

as each cell of my body cried in rapture,

as pleasure took root in my very existence,

until the cosmos exploded into black holes and blinding white light.

He brushed my hair and dressed me, kissing me tenderly. 

The golden light was just underneath my buzzing skin now. 

We left the bathhouse silently, 

and as we reached the edge of the forest again, 

he was once more a stag, 

and we parted ways in anguish and devotion. 

As I walked back towards the place I came into this world, 

I thought to myself, “I should meditate more often.”

The Day I Was Claimed By Kali

"Why are you afraid?" I asked him, the words sticking together strangely in my mouth, as if they weren't my own.

And they weren't. I'm not sure how it happened. Moments ago, I was clutching my chest in pain, my heart breaking from something my lover had said to me. I don't even remember what he'd said, only that we were lying next to eachother in bed, my spirit receding deep into my body, away from his hurtful words. I crumpled into a ball like a small child, sinking further and further away from my bedroom and from reality, until I found a dark little hole to hide in, in the echoing caves nestled in the back of my heart.

It was then I felt the presence of someone strong, someone much stronger than myself, stepping in. She pet my hair softly, gently whispering, "I'll take it from here if you'll let me." I whimpered my permission, eager to stay hidden in that little hole, eager to be the child protected in the dark a little longer. 

There was an exchange as I felt her step in. My fearful child self was hidden away safely now. A strange tingle, a surge of electric fire, circulated throughout my body as I bid her farewell for the moment. I was no longer me; my mysterious protector took over, allowing me to feel what was happening as she observed my world through her eyes. I rose into an upright position on the bed, turning my head slowly to feel the movement. It felt heavy and delayed in this dense physical space. How delightful to be in this physical body! I smiled devilishly, feeling taller than a mountain and more dangerous than a hurricane.

Another feeling rose up in my throat: bloodlust. 

For the first time in my life, I tasted blood in my mouth like it was wine. I craved violence, I craved destruction, I craved the fresh kill. And more specifically, I craved the fresh kill of my lover. My eyes were locked on his as I let this lust soak into every cell of my being. I rotated my head and neck, over and over, as if there were serpents inside of me. They were waking up, preparing to strike. I felt my eyes blacken and glisten in the night, a hint of that electric fire surely glowing behind them. My new eyes observed my lover, challenging and taunting him.  I noticed the exact moment his expression shifted. He knew. He knew it was someone else. I saw fear reflecting back at me. He no longer recognized me. 

And I savored it. The raw power, the indestructibility, the fear I inflicted by being in power. It was intoxicating. It was pleasurable. It was glorious. No one would ever hurt me. No one would dare take me on. Oh, but I would love it if they did...

He got out of the bed. He walked to the door, keeping his eyes on me, as if he was slowly backing away from a tiger who'd gotten out of her cage. 

"Why are you afraid?" I asked him. 

"I'm going downstairs..." he said in an odd tone. I tilted my head in response, like a predator curiously observing her prey. 

When he left the room, I sat comfortably on the bed. I rocked and gyrated like the serpent inside of me. And as much as I wanted to describe the energy inside of me as “slightly demonic” at the time, I was not afraid. Never had I felt so safe, so protected. When the feeling subsided, I sank back into my bed. I was comfortable and warm in my blanket. The bloodlust was gone. The raw power and destruction was gone. I felt like a child, yawning and smiling, satisfied by the bedtime story my mother had read to me. 

My lover told me later that he saw someone else in me in those moments. But it wasn’t until months after we broke up, after he’d cheated on me, after I watched him fall in love with someone else, that I understood what had happened. 

Many months later, I dreamt of a gathering of people in my childhood home. A friend of mine from LA was there, someone dear to me who was spiritually tied to me in the Dreamtime. I was suddenly outside, looking towards the heavy gray sky. A single black wing fell from the clouds, dense and slow. It landed on the roof of my home. A filter of power and destruction instantly enveloped the earth, and yet I wasn't afraid. The entire world became heavy, deliberate and still, and I jerked awake. 

Traditional depiction of Kali.

I called my friend to tell him about my dream. 

"We did an invocation of the goddess Kali here in LA last night," he told me. "She’s been called The Black One, which would explain the black wing. It sounds like you were tuned into it, too.” 

I buried myself in research. I was terrified by what I found. Kali, the Dark Mother, The Black One. A sword in one hand, a severed head in another, a string of skulls for a necklace, and a skirt made of human hands. I recognized the energy from the strange night with my lover. The bloodlust, the violence, the horrifying protector. I got chills thinking of her, knowing our connection, feeling the truth of it. Had she chosen me? Why? Had I chosen her? Why? 

I dreamt of her for many nights. In one such dream, she appeared as a giant, burning cities to the ground and destroying everything in sight. She wore a beautiful blood-red dress with edges in glittering gold. When she approached me, I cowered in fear. Seeing my fear, she crouched down to me. 

 

“No, no,” she cooed softly. “You have nothing to fear. I am here to serve you.” 

She appeared to me many times, building a relationship with me. Not based on hierarchies, not as a goddess to a mere human, but as a team. As mother and daughter. As sisters. As lovers. As reflections of one another. She taught me the power of the cycle of destruction and creation, of death and rebirth. She showed me what it looked like to fiercely protect myself, to fiercely love myself, and how to extend that protection and love to others. We've shared in that power together for years now.

Yes, she is dark, but so am I. 

She accompanies me through the depths of my shadows. 

She is the protector of women.

She is the fiercest mother of children.

She is the insatiable, uncontrollable lover.

She is the mistress of destructive fate. 

She is karmic justice in its least subtle form.

She is the reason I thrive in chaos. 

She is pure fire, sparking my rebirth and creativity in every moment. 

She is the dancing serpent, rising towards heaven with her darkened eyes and lolling tongue. 

She is why I revel in the moments my life crumbles into ash and dust. 

She is burning cities and blooming gardens.

She is me. 

And she is you, too, my beloved Wild One. 

Cry of the Millennial Witch

I feel a divide growing within the spiritual movement. 

It has been growing slowly, almost imperceptibly. Like a frog swimming in a pot of gradually boiling water that hasn't realized the danger he's in.

Here it is, dare I say it: The realm of the mainstream spiritual has become shallow and dogmatic. 

In an effort to reach divinity, enlightenment, and guru-status, we’ve banished and demonized the “negative” and the struggle of the human experience. We’ve lost touch with the glorious bittersweet medicine that our pain and suffering offers when truly acknowledged by the Self and the community, and subsequently integrated with compassion and love. 

I tried. Fuck, I tried. I did the meditations, I did the training, I did the work. I focused on the positive, I focused on the light, I focused on letting go of my darkness. Just release, they said. Don’t even bring attention to what it is, they said, just release it. I advanced in my healing skills, in my awareness, in my intuition. I worked deeply with clients doing soul retrievals, secretly reveling in the shadow of the underworld. I knew that there were those in my spiritual community who did not approve of my work. But I worked anyways, because I saw how deeply I could connect with my clients. I saw and acknowledged their pain. I focused on the integration of their experience, rather than the denial of it. I cried tears of joy when I heard of how much my work was helping them heal themselves. And at the same time, I was jealous. Why wasn’t the work healing ME? Why wasn’t I feeling better? Why wasn’t MY shit releasing? 

That growing awareness backfired. More and more, I felt I was wading in the shallow pond of the world while my spirit was so deeply imbedded in the dark muck of the earth, in a place no one wanted to look. I was not offering the same sense of acknowledgment to myself that I offered my clients. I was still trying to uphold the notion that I was supposed to be a certain way, that I was supposed to be zen and happy all the time if I was going to be a healer. But nothing was in balance. I didn’t feel real. I didn't feel authentic to myself. I was trapped between the the worlds...I was too spiritually minded to be a muggle, but I wasn't the right kind of spiritual for the actual spiritual community.

So I said Fuck it. 

I am part of a generation of witches rising up to say Fuck it. A generation of witches that has been burned too many times, and refuses to silently wither away in the flames again.

Don’t bring your attention to the fire, they said. Just release it and let it go, they said. 

But not this time. This time, we are taking those flames inside of us, acknowledging them and respecting them and feeling their searing pain, and letting them transform in our bellies so we may breathe out the fire of an awakened dragon. As awakened dragons, as millennial witches, as priestesses of the moon, as unpredictable beautiful bitches, as wild wolf women, we have a list of demands and decrees: 

-Our sexuality will be honored as spiritual, sacred, divine, and primal. It is communication with the divine, it is a link between heaven and earth, it is pleasure for pleasure’s sake, it is the human experience. It is a force all its own and won’t be controlled or belittled. 

-And yet, our spirituality will not be sexualized, fetishized, or infantilized. The Priestess is not a fetish.  The days of gurus sexually manipulating and abusing the Goddess are SO over. We’re not buying what you’re selling. No one gets to tell us how pure or impure we are, and what makes us that way, and whether we need to change that or not.

-We don’t want our spirituality to taste like candy. We don’t want rainbows and unicorns and sugary sweet confections of relentless positivity and the law of attraction. We want our spirituality to taste like dark chocolate; deep, rich, a little bitter, a little sweet, sensual and complex. We want it real, we want it deep. We won’t accept anything less. 

-Many of us swear. Like, we really swear. We fucking swear a fucking lot. Deal with it. What’s a witch who doesn’t curse? (Not to mention it’s good for your brain—google that shit.)

-We will not be shamed. For our sexuality, for our lifestyles, for our choices, for the shortage of fucks that we give. Our lives, our power, our choice. Get on board or get out.

-You will not tell us to simply “let go”, “clear”, or “release” our feelings and issues by way of ignoring them. We don’t just release; we integrate. We take our darkness and stew in it, letting our unique human experiences mingle with our divinity, creating a powerful form of alchemy that’s whole and complete. We know the light is only half of what makes us powerful. Once integration is complete, what is no longer needed naturally releases as a byproduct of the process.

-We do not live in binaries, so don’t categorize us in them. Don’t tell us what’s “good” and what’s “bad” because we know better than that. Don’t tell us to live in the light to banish our shadows. In fact, don't tell us what we are or what we should do at all. We are fluid and becoming more so. Gender fluid, sexually fluid, socially fluid, spiritually fluid. 

-We hold a deep respect for social and cultural issues. We won’t use “Namaste” as a substitute for “goodbye” just because it sounds spiritual. We won’t wear a bindi on our foreheads just because it’s cute. We won't discount another's experience and point of view just because it's not ours. We realize that our individual path is not more important than an entire marginalized culture’s. We listen. 

-“Omg I can’t say anything without someone getting offended and everything has to be sooooooo PC nowadays.” <—Nah. We don't see it like this. We see a generation coming into their own, attempting to own their view of the world and how they’d like it to be. Clearly, there’s a growing outcry for more sensitivity and change. You could stubbornly fight it or try to understand why it’s happening. Change won’t happen without conversation, so be open to the conversation, even if you don’t see it the same way.  

-Be aware when you respond to our feelings. There's a tendency, when someone admits they are feeling something other than complete joy or satisfaction, to apologize and suggest ways to be rid of that feeling. F that noise. The only cure for feelings is to feel them. Completely. Sink into them and allow their wisdom to wash over you. We don't wallow, but we do feel. Everything. We refuse to repress or push our feelings aside just because they make us (or you) uncomfortable. (P.S. We hardly think "You should meditate on it." or "Have you tried going gluten free?" are appropriate responses to anything. And this is coming from someone who both meditates and is gluten free.)

-The second you use any of the new age buzzwords— manifesting abundance, the law of attraction, meditation, energy healing, authentic, etc etc— our discernment kicks the fuck in. It’s not that we don’t believe in manifestation and meditation and energy healing, we definitely do. Manifesting is our middle name. But without the realness of our human and divine darkness acknowledged by our teachers, coaches and mentors, the spiritual movement becomes oppressive and dogmatic dressed as light and love. And not to mention, manipulated for profit when the actual authenticity is not behind it, considering the growing trend. We will search you, hard, before we will work with you.

-Maybe the most important of all, we know that Truth is found in paradox. If it’s not a contradiction in itself, we are wary. If we are not contradictions in ourselves, we are not real. 

We will not accept less than what we are. We will not be only partially ourselves because it's prettier or happier. We will be gritty and raw and beautiful and whole. We love fiercely. Love is at the core of our beings, but we know that sometimes love is the awakened dragon burning down the bridges that no longer serve us.

Sincerely,

the witches you love and fear

**As nothing is just black or white, I acknowledge and appreciate the spiritual teachers and mentors in my life that have never oppressed me and have always wanted me to be myself. You know who you are and I thank you from the bottom of my fiery heart. 

Check out my book, I Don't Want To Be An Empath Anymore, now available on Amazon!