Mystic Writing

December 16, 2019

By the idol namesake of clove lipped cedar boughs, I light this waxen tor under the belly of the crones moon. This instant where darkness pools like the milieu of snowflakes, held only now by the flame which crawls its way into existence and then dances maniacally, severing shadow from sight. There is thick cinnamon and burnt orange peel laced into the billowing smoke from the woodstove.

I hear her wrinkled voice too, woven into the contained clouds, chanting some such wisdoms from the shrine of death. It is that most auspicious time when death mourns for itself and at the snowy grave a new life is born. The yule log is flecked with holly and crimson pointsettas, lit up by the impending arrival of the new born Sun. The icicles r...

December 6, 2019

The Scriptures of Sovereignty: Part Two

What does it look like to trust yourself?

What does it look like to reign reverence upon your own paved road, to honor the suffering as much as the saintliness, the aching imperfections and the deliciously autonomous moments of sovereignty? 

To rest your eyes for a moment on the pages which you never before dared to read. The ones which became blurred by dust and dogma and righteous ambiguity. The ones of those most potent books held in the haunted hellfire and liquid alchemy and blazing prophecy of your enchanted inner sanctuary. 

It has to be that it looks like the incredible beauty and the blooming rose with its erratic unpredictable thorns and alluring capacity for growth. It has to be...

September 19, 2019

The beckoning moon mother cradles you in the fine flickering glaze of her benevolent aura. The harvest holds you with ripened majesty bearing a fruitful guardianship as you ground into the enriched soil.

Decorated with crimson hues of disheveled dahlias and ivy fringe, your golden crown sparkles with flushed rubies and your gown smells of burnt amber and patchouli rose.

There is a quiet opening through a torrent of wild winds and the days dwindle while nighttime billows over you with its hooded cloak. You are tousled by the long-armed embrace of the vulnerable trees and the sideways stare of a lurking squash spirit.

These ubiquitous convulsions of birthing into crone-hood sound like rattling bones on an old oak door. You are partin...

July 13, 2019

Sister, you will know when it is time to bear witness to the one that slithers under your skin and weighs like a thick fog over your eyelids declaring worthlessness. You may be sitting in the bathtub sweating and praying through tears hoping that it will just evaporate from you. You may be screaming into the void of tortured memories of this life or another, and misplaced emotions trying to fit in place that fragmented piece of self. This is a poetic exorcism, a metamorphosis so excruciating that your heart must break over and over again, your ego must be humbled, and your soul must rise until all that is left is that sweet devotional nectar of divine unconditional love. This is the greatest awakening, to come home to your true...

June 18, 2019

This is the time of the Sun God, as he bares his naked chest upon us, the light of his heart blinding. This is the point when we become so wrapped up in his light that the day itself seems extended, all so we can remain held as long as possible in his passionate embrace. This is Litha, also known as Midsummer and the Summer Solstice.

We dance around the fires and stare deeply into the dancing flame of an inscribed candle. The cauldron holds yarrow, vervain, fern, st.johns wort, and rose petals… The moist leaves of the morning are brushed clean of the sweet dew to be blessed on the altar as holy water. We honor the sacred elements. 

We honor love, marriage and divination at this time as well as the blessing of wealth that is o...

May 27, 2019

Prosperity magick is often a process of discovery and deep healing, for there are many layers and recognizable symptoms as to why so many remain in a state of lack and poverty. It asks that we not only do the ritual but embody the ritual in our daily life as well. Accessing prosperity requires incredible trust, focused will and the ability to recognize opportunity as well as harness creative inspiration.

Shame (see my recent article), guilt, conditioned beliefs of unworthiness and lack of motivation are often contributing factors. Imbalanced masculine and feminine energies which keep us inactive, indecisive or blocked in accessing intuitive and creative energy.

The Witches Pyramid can be referenced here as a practice of cultivatin...

May 13, 2019

"Morrigan ancient crone of war
I see your face, I'll cry no more
Morrigan ancient crone of war
come lift me on your wings"


If the Morrigan walks with you too sister, it is time to receive her sacred teachings. 

When the Phantom Queen rises, the unseen becomes seen and she wraps you in her shimmering black wings, as you are flecked by the memories of death which naturally claimed your innocence and began to awaken your inner warrior. She is the Morrigan, ancient crone of nighttime and war, of magick and prophecy and of the inner oracle which gifts you with flight and the ability to see. She with raven hair and vast potentialities perched on her shoulder forever more. She graces you with the ability to see between worlds, bet...

April 27, 2019

I am the mistress of the red door, which sits in waiting in the quiets of the vast desert. There embedded in the wild rock, a portal painted over through centuries. Over and over it has dried under the blazing sun light and cracks appearing like antique arteries reveal themselves.

I am the weaver of braided veins, a ribbon among those voices which rise into unison. I spread like the roots of the redwood through the most precious parts of shared ground. Each layer of bark falls away with the fidelity of time’s cryptic indifference. There are secret markings in the tracks of the footsteps I follow.

I am the red river in the moonlit hollow. There are carved symbols of planets and coded poetry along the length of the polished branch....

April 13, 2019

Deep in your womb lives a spiral, goddess. It is the subtle movement of memory where love made its first impression on your inner maiden. It is the curling rhythm of liquid life in the cauldron, moving through the thickness of years inwards towards understanding. This space is held sacred in universal memory as the goddess temple, when the shadows of sisters were dancing silhouettes against flame lit walls. The shedding of fragmented feeling falls away as the eroding walls of the oceanic cave. Each inspection revealing thrusts of mighty waves where memory is held like treasure in the dark of the dragon’s lair.

Deep in the spiral, sounds of chanting move in motion with hands held and wisdom interspersed with decided safety. Yes, y...

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