Dance Barefoot Around a Fire, and Keep Unleashing Your Special Magic.
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As autumn unravels with all of its tricks and treats, ghouls and goblins, remember the divine power of the Feminine.
Do not let the naysayers and the purists strip you of your oddities, or convince you that your character is anything other than fierce.
Your kind of wildness can frighten people. They don’t know what to do when you expose your warts, brandish your broom, and consort with your coven. But please do not let the fact that you are uncommon, untamed, and unsanctioned scare you from yourself, and the women’s’ work you are here to do. If others know not what to make of your complexity, consider that their trial, not yours.
Unleash your special sort of magic. Don’t you dare fear being burned at the stake. You can’t be. Your sorcery is too big to extinguish. It will come through the trunks of poplars, the haze of the morning sky, the halo around the moon. Swallows will sing your incantations, and your enchantments will unfurl alongside the night blooming jasmine.
Your cackle conjures the night music of the crickets, and your tongue tells centuries of truth. Your breath breathes life into the dead, and your eyes hold the wisdom of the ancients.
You are a shapeshifter. You understand the need for metamorphosis, even when the mutation seems long and hard, and hurts. Other times the changes are quick and deft, and painless.
You accept both indiscriminately acknowledging that the ambiguity is equal parts thrill and scare. Will you show up as innocent maiden or savage she-wolf? Will you smile sweetly, or snarl and show your incisors? Do not worry about deciding. Your intuition is sharp and discerning. It will advise you what form is appropriate when.
You’ve grown proficient at potions. You mix the pieces and parts others carelessly throw away because they are too ignorant to see paybacks in the ugly. You possess the ability to take the dirty, the disparate, the broken, and the beastly, and stir them into new form with new function. You are a maker of mysteries and miracles. An oracle for wise old ways. Healer and high priestess.
Some will want to make you forget. To strip you of your cloak and hat. Turn sacred symbols into sacrilege. Mock your musings, medicines, and merry-making. Remember that you are wise and well. Of and in the Universe simultaneously. That you court the elements, and they in turn respond with gifts of blazing beauty, stunts of serendipity, and dreams made manifest.
And if, by some chance, you do happen to forget your spell’s syllables and sequence, dance barefoot around the embers of a fire in the middle of a forest, inhale the salty air of the sea, speak your prayer at a makeshift altar that smells of incense and tobacco, and I promise you this:
The words will come back to you, all in right order.
*For you, kitten.
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Kristina Ambrosia-Conn is an incurable romantic who should never have hyphenated her name, but whose greatest love came out of that union. Quirky and self-punishing, she is a sympathy crier who dreams of possibility, avoids reality, and then wonders what possibly could have gone wrong. Part gypsy, part suburban ex-housewife, and total true-blue Pisces, she is an exhaustive extrovert who talks (but should more often write) to process… anything and everything. She suffers from lack of boundaries, but finds beauty in maelstrom.
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