The Witch, Dark Matters and Magick.
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The witch, she disappears into the night and deep into her imagination. Ever creating her life from the stuff she’s made of, the tears, fears, joys, anger, grit, the dirt under her nails and the dark matter deep within the womb of the Universe.
Before she was frozen light, she was shadow and the rays emitted from the smallest particle. She was/is the explosion and stardust hurtling through time and space and the darkest energy behind all of it.
A Time in the Dark
And the dark descended. There was no room to breathe. They said, “Breathe and all would be well,” but what happens when you can’t, when there is no space between you and death? I stood before the Mother of Us All and knew she would take me if I wanted to go. There was only my decision between me and her womb.
Dream becomes nightmare galloping into the sunset, to be born again and again. The same day over and over, a stampede of wild horses gathers speed and I slowly bleed onto the page. What I see are patterns and shapes shifting, my shifting endlessly from shadow to light to shadow again. Confusion sets in and I just want to drift into oblivion.
What is behind the night, my eyes, when I close them and disappear? Do I step into dark matter and form myself? Is my subconscious a second womb, ready always to create, gestate and gather all the parts of myself? Do I reform what my waking eyes seem to see, reformulate in the night so that I may rise in a new way and meet a new day as life’s ever unraveling gift?
A Light on the Horizon
The sun rises. Another day that could be just like the last, or will I make it different? The fog seems to be clearing. Though the sky is gray, I know the sun is here. I know I am too.
For now, I wait in the dark of uncertainty. I bless this pulsing energy, the blood of the Universe coursing through my imagination, rising up from the subterranean Mind. I gather and guess, repress and allow it all to just be. Here in the dark, when I just am, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t matter. I’m fluid, no longer frozen light but endless waves lapping at the ocean of being.
The witch she becomes is becoming, rising out of the dark. I’m blinded and cannot see that all is light. And yet all is dark. Energy is what we make it, otherwise it just is.
I step to the threshold. I don’t know what’s on the other side. And I don’t have to know. I only have to learn to breathe again and rest in the silence before I cross over. I put the past behind me. Yesterday has become just as ancient as childhood.
The witch is beyond time. She hovers between now and what will be. I step over the threshold and feel chills. Awareness dawns, and I rise into the uncertainty ready to use my magick. What comes next is what the witch wills.
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A poet and writer, Joanne Elliott calls herself a Word Priestess. Since ancient times, women have been healers. Some heal with their hands or herbs, some through counsel, some with music, and others, like Joanne, with words. To her, words are powerful magic and medicine. Though she is mainly a writer, she also works in the world as a Priestess of Ma’at in the Fellowship of Isis and a Licensed Practitioner through Centers for Spiritual Living, home to the Science of Mind philosophy, faith and way of life. Her mission is to encourage and inspire creatives to fully embrace their creative power and intrinsic value. You can read and learn more about her work at her website.
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