Growing up in our house, I got used to seeing pentagrams and various strange designs and symbols. Every bed had it’s own “dreamcatcher” made of specially chosen colored yarns and organic herbs hanging from the ceiling. There were always fragrant spices and gnarled roots in the garden that were brewed or boiled to produce homemade remedies and charms.
The Summer Solstice and Halloween were a festive time of family gatherings and celebrations featuring bubbling concoctions and obscure incantations that lasted until sun-up. Dances and trances abound.
We spoke of Wiccans and Mother Nature with the same ease as Santa Clause and Christmas. Rituals that co-insided with the changing seasons and religious beliefs that had sacred icons and mystic figures were natural to us, but we were advised to keep our beliefs to ourselves.
From an early age I watched people of all types come to our home and show great deference and respect to my mom. Offerings of odd plants and weird tokens were left at the parlor entrance and visitors were often visibly pleased just to be granted access to her. My mother, sometimes laying hands on sick or unfortunate souls was regarded as a blessing. She was quietly referred to as “Priestess” or “Mother Circe” by our extended family.
The practical applications of these experiences were seldom seen, but the supplicants were deliriously happy or relieved afterward. They were devoted to her. To us, the forces of nature could seem to be harnessed or atleast urged to help. Every creature and plant had some utility and we were taught and encouraged to live in harmony with our surroundings. The world and it’s many complexities were to be embraced and held in awe.
We learned from an early age to engage and act in sync with the environment. As children, my older sister and I had all the toys and games that we could want, but rarely were these store-bought items. These games were mostly explorations and puzzles. Dolls were homemade and of natural fibers and exotic woods. Parts of my playtime would always consist of old, leather-bound volumes or adventures explaining our relationship to the natural world. I had pets of all types and was encouraged to emulate animals and study their movements and “speech.” I could mimic anything. Our basement playroom was like an artisan’s workshop. I was tutored by elders and shown how to make any space , my personal place. I could leave my aura in a room and feel peace there, while no mortal would ever notice.
We called ourselves Naturists, and though we did not lounge around the house nude, we were raised to admire the human form in all its shapes, and to not be embarrassed or ashamed of anyone’s appearance. As such, my parents and other senior group members wore gossamer gowns and slinky, sheer wraps that revealed their bodies, when conducting ceremonial rituals, but that was mostly after the young ones were asleep.
When I reached the age of seventeen, my father left home. I discovered then, that his position in the clan called for him to seek out a new “family.” I had reached a level of education and training that is best taught by the “priestess.” For the next Earth Cycle I was to be instructed in the ethereal arts, so that I could lead the next coven.
I practiced the skills involved with herbal medicine, mixing potions, communicating with creatures and casting spells. I learned how the outside world looked askance at these skills. “Witchcraft” has an evil connotation, but this was “white magic.” Cats and birds were known to us as “familiars” and imparted their secrets to those they trusted. They were our partners with the Earth, not some poor sacrificial beings. And spells were cast to heal, and to bring good fortune, we did not stick pins in dolls.
By the summer after my eighteenth birthday, I was to be ready. The time had come for my “Rite of Accession.” We celebrated birthdays and weddings like anyone else, but we observed unmarked or casual rites of passage also. At age ten, I was presented with an odd ring, that I wear to this day. And on my transformative birthday, I was outfitted with a unique, ceremonial robe; much nicer than the cheap, paper one I wore for high school graduation.
When the middle of June arrived; the house filled with relatives and guests to usher-in the longest day of the year, and announce my “arrival” to the family. I was congratulated and bowed to; vials and cruets with smoky or chameleon-like colors were presented, and vows of trust and obedience were pronounced. That evening is when I was first admitted into the “sanctuary.”
Our old Victorian house had a large, thick stone foundation. Most of the old coal-cellar was cordoned-off and locked behind a heavy, studded, Oaken door. For years, members of my extended family would retire to this enclave in the late hours of night on special occasions. The house would grow quiet and still, except for low, eerie chantings and the aroma of incense. I would sometimes catch a glimpse of my folks or other participants leaving the basement in the early morning, looking sweaty and disheveled.
Tonight I was escorted into the sanctuary by my grandmother, known reverentially as Queen Brea. She used to scare me when I was younger. She could seem to appear out of thin air or to read your thoughts, she was always silent and unsmiling, though protective of us. And I never saw her legs, I swear she floated on air. She never made a noise when she moved. I circled carefully around her and watched to never disturb her. On this night, when the solid oak door was slid open; the first thing I noticed was a circle of thick, cylindrical, white candles on six-foot tall, iron stakes. Gathered infront of these, was about twenty ghostly figures, all in satiny, white robes. Their faces hidden by deep hoods, with twisted ropes or colorful beads, tied at the waist. I could only guess at their gender by the difference in heights. Behind a high altar at the far end, and totally in shadow, was a lone figure draped in blood-red.
I had been requested to bathe in perfumed oils beforehand and fed some strange fruits and a mulled wine. I dressed in my new, pitch-black robe. It was studded with colorful gems, had a gold-tassled sash and an ornate five-pointed star ablaze on the chest. I was led to an antique-looking, high-backed throne in the middle of the circle. Queen Brea was seated on a velvet stool to my lower left.
The fragrance of steamed herbs filled the room and the flickering light seemed to dim, leaving us in a bright spot of light with anonymous voices singing or humming in a low tone. My head was swimming, my senses were overwhelmed, but I tried to concentrate on my bizarre surroundings. Goblets of a strong mead were passed around and the air became stifling with intoxicating smoke.
Lamentations were offered and the Queen advised me to just sit quietly and observe. I was feeling abit light-headed and extremely nervous, and my eyes and ears started at every odd sound in the darkness. After the lights were mostly extinguished and the attendants were swaying and moaning in a sort of trance; the leader, swathed in crimson, stepped lightly down and strode to a small, woven rug at my feet. Though camouflaged behind layers of red silk, I knew instantly by her curvy physique that it was my mom.
My mother was a young woman though she took-on more responsibility than an ordinary woman of 34 years. Heck, her mom, Queen Brea was not even fifty. She was not Samantha from TV and did not just twitch her cute nose to levitate objects. She had long, crow-black hair worn parted in the middle and down almost to her waist. Full red lips were centered under liquidy, brown eyes, and a sharp, prominent nose. She had a shapely figure which I had seen often, but was now noticing for the first time in a non-maternal way. I had never seen her completely naked, but she often flitted around in sheer gowns or other forms of flimsy dress. Her ponderous breasts were heavy and full, probably a double-D. With every step they bounced and wobbled, and the dark nipples were constantly firm and projected through all the thin materials. She had a rounded, jiggly belly though she was not fat, and solid legs with a tinkling anklet that highlighted her every movement. She shaved her legs and underarms but there was always a trace of lip hair, and her thick, black bush showed, even through the dark, red fabric of her gown.
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