Song of the Ancients

There is a part of the trad Craft that no one talks about, that no one shares with you beforehand.  Those who came before me knew it well and shared it not. Those of us who now walk its winding and rutted roads know of what I speak.  I tell this in hushed tones. Let the wise hear.

It is that sense of loneliness that pervades our workings-that solitary nature that can influence our whole existence to be that of an overly eccentric recluse, denying ourselves communal interaction and superficial social mores; the purpose being having more personal time to focus our will, time and energy towards more mystical pursuits.

Aggressively exiled by the Forces that pull us, that yearning for quiet, for the written word and for meditation and silent reflection quietly overwhelms us. There are times when anything else seems superfluous, frivolous and casual, where even the briefest sharing of quick thoughts with mouth and tongue is a burden too much to bear.

There have been many times in my life where I have not left my home for days and days on end-sometimes, even weeks. I take a leave of absence from work and hibernate. Oh, how I relish those luxurious times. I turn off the phone, draw the blinds, lock the doors and reinvent myself. My heart, soul and mind start to mend.  I listen not to music with words, but only soft instruments, as words now crush and harm my muted and rended Spirit.

At these blessed times, I read, I contemplate, I write. I commune with my Gods and those Spirits who wish to share Their knowledge with me. My Familiar is always at my side, His ethereal presence a reassurance that even in times of shadow and heaviness, I am being watched over.

I cast workings now. I speak to myself in utterances I do not even understand. I let down my hair and become what I was always meant to be and what I have now fully embraced; a solitary Worker, a Follower of the less-travelled path, a mystical hermit, a pagan and an idolater.

I am an unconventional, deviant crone who cares not what others think of her or what their desires for her life may be. This is my finest hour. Selfishly sprinting from civilization and with tired feet and rapidly beating heart, I keep running, running, running for Home.

If I had my way, if the World was my oyster, my imaginary home would become tangible; my reverie would become my reality. I would never have to leave the confines of my tiny cottage, nestled deep in a hidden forest, miles and miles from culture and civility. In this wild, beastly place, I would have my own Crafting home; shaded and shadowed and hallowed by Her name.  My herbs would dry from the rafters of the low ceiling, my few cooking pots glimmering in the evening candlelight. I would have spare, wooden furniture of the simplest design.  Tiny windows looking out upon the deepest green would always be open, allowing the noon and midnight breezes to billow through. My fireplace would always crackle and hiss, my soup always on a gentle simmer.  I would have a dirt floor, swept clean and tidy from debris. A single rectangular, wooden table would sit in the middle of the room, laden with oils, potions, soaps, and mixtures yet unnamed. Their scents would blend one into the other, where they become even more enchanting just by their close proximity to each other – the air singing and vibrating with their united Spirits. My house would heave with the continual presence of Phantoms, Ancestors and Gods.  My garden would be lush, my countenance bright and my total existence wrapped in the sensual and spiritual glory of serving only Her.

It is hard to be as I am in this current time. I feel so much older than I really am. My Spirit is weary from people; their  demands on my time and their demands that I hear them. There is hardly anywhere to roam without crashing into other 2-leggeds. Even in the darkest forest, the deepest jungle or most hostile desert, there are continual evidences of others just like me, those seeking solitude, just like me. And in our quest for seclusion, worldly withdrawal and knowledge of self, we thunder into each other in the dark and become angry, seeing ourselves in the other and recognizing the desperation.

This is the secret that no one tells you. This is the path of most resistance that brings strength of will and brokenness of Ego.  Alone, we are shattered and remade, cast in Her image and brought forth for Her good works and the fulfillment of Destiny.

Although my journey is a solitary one, there are those that walk along with me which I do not see. They seek their own truth, they follow their own Gods and search for their own treasure.  I wish them the very best, from one hermit’s cracked heart to another, but I do not wish their companionship.  I have enough Friends of the other Realms, the dark and chthonic, the infernal and celestial. I require none else.