W i t c h

A coven of witches–– thirteen, actually––gathered at the sound of the flute and the drums by the light of the setting sun, waiting and watching for the rising of the full moon. Thirteen. On Friday the 13th. Thirteen years since the last time a full moon appeared on a Friday the 13th. Before Freddy, before chainsaws and ski masks, but not before suspicion and fear, the coven gathers. 

Thirteen moons in a lunar year. Thirteen cycles in a woman’s body. Eggs fertile for the seed to become life, thirteen days into each cycle. Female numbers of reproduction. But peel back the curtain and see the divine feminine––in him, in her. Wild, fluid, nourishing, nurturing, intuitive, emotional. Pointing to the ways all things are connected, to the purpose each provides the other. 

This moon is the Harvest Moon. Time to celebrate, acknowledge and enjoy the fruits of the seeds. Yes, tomatoes and green beans are mature for harvest but so are the hearts ripe for transformation. The town is juicy with hope. The children are open to learn and express. These are the fruits of this witch’s harvest. 

She calls out so all will see the dragonflies dance above their heads, so as not to miss the lightning charging in the distance, nor the pumpkin orange moon squatting low on the horizon. 

She, the witch, pauses to watch the dragonflies. To thank them for their message of transformation. The long kind. The kind of transformation that, through years of slow arduous undertakings, under the surface in the unseen and unknown world, the dragonfly moves from one realm to another. From the nymph of the waters to the insect of the sky. With its quick and graceful speed it is seemingly in two places at once. The dragonfly is rich in its clarity of the deeper meanings of life. The iridescence of their wings reflect the many faceted ways to see--changing depending on how you look at it and how the Light reflects. This night, thousands of these creatures of hope danced above the witches’ heads.

She, the witch, pauses to invite the coven to recharge. This season which is ending is one of the sun. The masculine. Her counterbalance. Productive, hardworking, logical, rational, knowledgeable. Both are needed, so it is time for the sun to dip down. It is time to recharge. Time to welcome fluid harmony--dark to the light, feeling to the thinking, and ease to the effort. Erase the hard lines between them. Allow space for both. Releasing resistance to the flow of refreshing waters, it is time. Time for healing waters to soothe the calloused hands and sweating brow. Time for nourishing waters to refresh the parched tongue. Time for repair to be found, suspending the tired body in the buoyant support of the ocean. Job well done…. Now it is time to slow.

This is the work of the witch. Noticing, gathering, pointing, inviting, planting, feelling, harvesting, celebrating, healing. Before Freddy, but not before fear. She is misunderstood, unpredictable, mysterious, wise, wild, untethered, unregulated except by the laws of Guidance and nature. And by those who don’t understand her ways, she draws the eyes of suspicion.

But we need her. She who dances, who nourishes, who encourages, who has compassion, who holds, who cradles, who lifts, who laughs, who loves unconditional, who sees beneath and through, who is wise, who feels, who stands at the center of the majestic lightening, the growling thunder, the fleeting dragonflies, the prolific sun and the sensual moon and knows her humble place among them. She (man or woman) is you.

aubrey bates