Casting off the blanket?

I’ve got a real resistance to moving into the light of the lengthening days you know. This is unusual for I am a terminal optimist and I normally love that swing from Yule towards Imbolc. But this year, it feels like it’s come along too soon. We’ve not had enough cold weather (save the last few days) and the garden isn’t properly asleep yet. I also feel a great sense of needing to stay in the dark and quiet, even though the calendar says otherwise.

A friend came over yesterday and we decided to try to give the wheel a shove by doing a dark and light Yule ritual. I had a sense that there was something I needed to let go of but did not know what.

We set out a simple Alter upon a white cloth with unlit candles and covered this with a black cloth. 1 unlit black candle, sitting upright in an iron cauldron was set on top.

We cast a dark Yule circle. In came tornados and wracking coughs, consuming and transforming flames, the crashing fury of torrents and tidal waves and the silent crushing rocks and torn earth. The deep voiced drum boomed slow and ponderous then faster and furious. We entered stillness, cold, sorrow, dying and decay, travelling to the centre of the silent rock, back to all we would die to and leave behind.

I was flat on my face. There was a deep pressure crushing me. My arms and legs were pinned down. Something unbearably heavy pressed between my shoulder blades and also into the base of my spine. It hurt but yet it was contained. It was hard to breathe.

Screwing up my face and gritting my teeth, I began to breathe heavily, to feel a great roar growing in my chest. I wrestled with it until, with a final effort, with the crashing of the drums, I opened my throat and howled. My limbs were free; I moved and was back in the room.

We lit the black candle and gave to it the things we wished to die to. The paper, upon which we had written these, curled and flamed until the whole cauldron was a hissing, pungent boiling rage which we gave to Hecate because we knew she was strong enough to hold it all. Catching a chant, with the drum beat, we cast out that which we no longer needed. Picking up the flaming cauldron we dumped it in the kitchen sink and doused it with water until it was silent once more.

Throwing off the black alter cloth, we lit coloured direction candles. We called in gentle winds, caressing breaths, flicking, licking sensuous playful fire, loving gentle flowing waters, and the firm embracing earth.

In the light of the flickering candles, we affirmed something beginning, lit a white candle for Persephone and committed to a goal, lit a red candle for Demeter.

The energy shifted again and we began dancing and singing, in a gentle joyful way. And as I jigged about, I felt the blanket slip from my shoulders.

Into my mind came the comment a friend had written to me the day before; “I guess darkness has a whole load of really unique meanings for you …” Until I began this journey with the Goddess, I might have been irritated by such a notion –assuming it implied that all blind people live in actual darkness. As I thought about my reluctance to allow the return of the light right now, I knew there was something more to explore about how I as a blind witch related to the wheel and I silently thanked him for daring to voice the thought. Mentally I folded up my blanket and put it to one side, ready for when I needed it later as I knew I would before Imbolc was with us.

And now it was time to close the circle and feast.

The Snow Well and the Winter Goddess

Ever a bit of a ritual trollop, I wandered along to a moot in Greenwich on Friday 22nd to walk the path of the Winter Goddess in company with like minded strangers. Rather ambitiously we had intended to journey to the Mother Stone fountain, gateway of the Crone, and the Snow Well, sacred to the Goddess Holda. Due to the usual things that happen when Pagans get together, we didn’t have enough time for it all so only made it to the Snow Well.

Stories had been shared about Holda as we sat in the café. Now we streamed out into the cold darkening day and began to march up a rather steep hill. My companion, a wheel chair user, womanfully struggled with the ever increasing incline. I panted and heaved after her, lungs burning, wondering if it was too soon after my illness to yomp up a one in four hill and whether I would live to tell the tale.

AS we walked, the wind nipped at our cheeks and (according to my companions) the mist shifted in and out of the trees and amongst the paths in a suitably wintery way.

Somewhere near the top of a hill, we gathered in a circle around a dip in the land. It rather reminded me of a sunken belly button in the mounded flesh of a huge woman. But this was the Snow Well. All that is left of it is a little dip.

One by one, we took it in turns to stand in the dip. My lungs were spasming as a result of the exercise and I was seized by a paroxysm of coughing that left me unable to breathe, shaken inside and out by the wracking spasms.

I stepped carefully into the dip and balanced there, using my stick to help. Immediately, something stilled me and the coughing stop. I felt like I had been put on a cake stand and was being inspected. Then I felt myself slowly rotating, as though turned by a great unseen hand, and as it seemed to me, for the better to be examined! Meekly, I submitted. I sensed that it would be unwise not to.

When we had each stepped into the dip, we sang songs, dressed the well with offerings and lit candles. AS we honoured the well, several large dogs appeared out of the mist, making as though to join us.

We stood in the brisk breeze, high up in the park. As our candles warmed our hands, I thought of the frost and the sun and how they would be companions for a little while yet. The sun was returning but the winter still had many weeks to make its presence felt. There was still time to rest and conserve.


Walking down the hill, I began to plan my route home. Dreaming of a hot bath, a warm duvet, a steaming cup of tea, I quickened my pace, eager to be honouring the winter goddess in my own warm way.

Dancing the River

Invisible mist nibbled at me as we climbed down onto the grubby old river beach. It was barely six thirty on a cold late December morn but a blackbird was singing cheerfully in a nearby tree. As I listened to his song, I let his liquid fluting wash me clean in honour of the solstice.

The beach was roughly cast with bits of concrete, matted and lumpy sand, loose slithering shingle and occasional other pieces of unknown and unrecognisable city detritus, some of them probably unspeakably disgusting. My feet slipped dangerously as we walked to the water’s edge.

Although it was not yet dawn, my companion told me that it was light enough to see the water, the rocks, lumps of concrete and the opposite bank and the angular and jagged city-scape. A mist moved slowly around the buildings, oozing in-between us, as we stood quietly casting the circle.

I listened to the river. Almost silent, it lapped politely, ladylike, genteelly rocking and slowly stilling to almost nothing, neat and decorous in its stillness.

I was held in its enfolding arms. It waltzed me resolutely along, caught me in the inexorable movement of it’s invisible tide. Unable to resist, I allowed myself to be danced by its coolness.

In the distance, a rumbling grew louder and louder. A police launch, occupants quietly scanning the shore line, pushed through the water.

Suddenly, the river danced, cheerfully flinging up its skirts and skipping for sheer joy. It tossed itself back and forth, tumbled and rolled, gabbling and tinkling in an excess of unladylike capers. I smiled to hear it and felt the heavy blanket slip slightly.

Two crows called hoarsely to each other across the quiet river. The city groaned and began to heave itself awake. The mist nipped at my nose and ears.

The water sucked insistently at my feet. Behind my closed eyes, the image of a muddy-eyed, tangle-haired, thin-faced woman of indeterminate age gazed at me quietly.

Silently, I thanked the lady of the river, and opened the circle. My companion and I then walked carefully back across the beach, up the uneven concrete steps to the already bustling morning street, to tea, toast and scrambled eggs.

Night Yule Garden

All was silent as I stood quietly in the sleeping garden. It was 5:30 on Solstice morn and I had planned to greet the dawn on the banks of the River Thames at Wapping. It not being time to set out yet, I took a moment to be with myself in the stillness.

The city mumbled sleepily. From time to time, a siren wailed its lament, sound ricocheting from east to west across the silent sky. Yet no one seemed disturbed by the sudden explosion of noise and it’s as rapid dying out.

My slender ladylike Rowan tree pointed bare fingers across the garden. I stood beside her, gently touching her smoothes bark, as I made my morning prayers. She and I watched without seeing, all there was to know here in this quietness.

Technically, solstice had begun at just after midnight. We were already moving towards the return of the light. But something inside me wanted it not to come just yet. Something inside me wanted to rest in the dark and quiet, in the stillness for a bit longer. I wasn’t quite ready yet. I needed to allow that sadness in my chest to be acknowledged like a blanket of heaviness that I was not ready to fling off yet.

And as I thought this, I heard footsteps approaching along the pavement on the other side of the house. Two voices, raised in drunken laughter bounced into the quiet. The dawn was chasing two dirty stop out revellers to bed! I smiled to hear them, acknowledging their eagerness to party, party, party in celebration of the light’s return.

I reached down and picked up a heavy, smooth stone from my garden alter. Caressing it gently in my two hands I breathed quietly and softly. I was waiting. The rock was waiting. Offering a prayer of thanks to the Lady for the nurturing darkness, I too allowed myself to dream of the light’s return.

The NEVERN Bleeding Yew

Nevern, or Nanhyver as it was known in early Celtic times is an ancient church which stands in a wooded valley a few miles from Cardigan on the north coast of Pembrokeshire. As you enter the church gate, the path leads down an avenue of ancient yew trees said to date from about the 5th century AD. One of them bleeds.

Legends abound. One says that the tree will bleed until a Welshman sits on the throne in Nevern Castle; Another says a man was hung from the tree and it's been bleeding ever since; A third, a Christian legend about the tree says it bleeds every year in sympathy with Christ. Others say it is thought to be the fluids from the dead buried in Nevern churchyard, and the Pagans say that the tree is an embodiment of the Great Mother Goddess in Her Virgin aspect.

The tree we went to find is a young one (700 years old) for its species, and the recessed orifice looks like female genitalia. It exudes dark red / brown exudate that looks like menstrual blood.

“I feel the need of a bleeding yew” I said to the PHD as we walked back to the car. “Let’s go visit the one at Nevern.”

The stream bubbled vigorously as we walked into the churchyard. It sounded large and loud, more like a roaring river than the stream it really was. Walking down the path through the yew avenue I felt watched over and protected. Expecting to find a huge hollow tree, it took us some time to decide which one we should visit.

It was the one which definitely looked the oldest , but she also had roundness in her beautiful thick branches that invited me to hug her. Drawing close, I stroked her roundness and knew that I had to sit in her branches and that then I would be happy. The PHD gave me a leg up and soon we were setting up the alter upon one of her thick branches where I sat, legs dangling and at rest, like a contented small child.

The circle I cast was a gentle one, appealing to the softness of air, fire, water and earth. As I called, the tree shifted comfortably beneath me, lightly holding me for I was no Burdon to her. I leant my cheek against her rough bark and closed my eyes.

Soft amber light danced behind my eyelids. I was somewhere enclosed, in a chamber perhaps. It was dark, except for a softly glowing red orange fire in the hard to see hearth in front of me. There were shadows all round, but I felt safe.

I sat still, just being, not waiting for anything, and just enjoying what was. After a while, the shadows in front of the fire seemed to shift and move. Something was moving slowly and carefully towards me. The firelight behind it made it hard to know what it was but as it got close, it reached forward with what seemed to be a great old head and placed it heavily on my knee. My hand crept forward tenderly and touched its velvety bony head and as I stroked it, it let out an involuntary grunt of pleasure.


Here was my lady, the she-wolf, old and arthritic, yellow amber eyes dulled by the cataracts that had blinded them, her head on my lap, trusting, loving and protecting. I felt tears prick my eyes and my chest thicken and was filled with an overwhelming sense of being unconditionally loved, loved in perfect love and perfect truth and I was humbled.

Not daring to move, lest the spell be broken, we sat like that for a long time. Adoring and being adored, savoring the moment, yet knowing it would soon be over and wanting to feel this way for ever. I felt my heart would burst with the joy of it. I caressed the old head and she shifted and moved back.

Silently, I thanked her as she padded stiffly back to the fire. The crows cawed and the stream bubbled cheerfully beyond the church. The temperature was dropping and it was time to go.

I opened the circle and reluctantly climbed down. Stroking the old trees bark, I traced it to a place where it had started to hollow, a vulva shaped place of stickiness, a bit like soft peat and something else that my fingers did not recognized but which I did not fear. Dipping my finger into its moistness, I brought it close to my nose and sniffed softly. A tangy resiny timbre, laced with something else. Tenderly, I touch the tree in that spot again, whispered my thanks and turned to go.

In my dream, the voices of curious children and two adults had penetrated. They ran up and down the avenue asking each other, “Which one is the bleeding tree”, getting more an more insistent. They circled our tree and grew quiet, seeing that it was this tree and crept away till, a few yards on, they burst into merriment again as they scampered back down the avenue.

We visited all the other old trees. Circling them, stroking them, saying our greetings to them. We peeked at the old and crooked gravestones lying under the trees and moved slowly back to the car and to the busy world outside. I felt sated. The NEVERN Bleeding Yew

Nevern, or Nanhyver as it was known in early Celtic times is an ancient church which stands in a wooded valley a few miles from Cardigan on the north coast of Pembrokeshire. As you enter the church gate, the path leads down an avenue of ancient yew trees said to date from about the 5th century AD. One of them bleeds.

Legends abound. One says that the tree will bleed until a Welshman sits on the throne in Nevern Castle; Another says a man was hung from the tree and it's been bleeding ever since; A third, a Christian legend about the tree says it bleeds every year in sympathy with Christ. Others say it is thought to be the fluids from the dead buried in Nevern churchyard, and the Pagans say that the tree is an embodiment of the Great Mother Goddess in Her Virgin aspect.

The tree we went to find is a young one (700 years old) for its species, and the recessed orifice looks like female genitalia. It exudes dark red / brown exudate that looks like menstrual blood.

“I feel the need of a bleeding yew” I said to the PHD as we walked back to the car. “Let’s go visit the one at Nevern.”

The stream bubbled vigorously as we walked into the churchyard. It sounded large and loud, more like a roaring river than the stream it really was. Walking down the path through the yew avenue I felt watched over and protected. Expecting to find a huge hollow tree, it took us some time to decide which one we should visit.

It was the one which definitely looked the oldest , but she also had roundness in her beautiful thick branches that invited me to hug her. Drawing close, I stroked her roundness and knew that I had to sit in her branches and that then I would be happy. The PHD gave me a leg up and soon we were setting up the alter upon one of her thick branches where I sat, legs dangling and at rest, like a contented small child.

The circle I cast was a gentle one, appealing to the softness of air, fire, water and earth. As I called, the tree shifted comfortably beneath me, lightly holding me for I was no Burdon to her. I leant my cheek against her rough bark and closed my eyes.

Soft amber light danced behind my eyelids. I was somewhere enclosed, in a chamber perhaps. It was dark, except for a softly glowing red orange fire in the hard to see hearth in front of me. There were shadows all round, but I felt safe.

I sat still, just being, not waiting for anything, and just enjoying what was. After a while, the shadows in front of the fire seemed to shift and move. Something was moving slowly and carefully towards me. The firelight behind it made it hard to know what it was but as it got close, it reached forward with what seemed to be a great old head and placed it heavily on my knee. My hand crept forward tenderly and touched its velvety bony head and as I stroked it, it let out an involuntary grunt of pleasure.


Here was my lady, the she-wolf, old and arthritic, yellow amber eyes dulled by the cataracts that had blinded them, her head on my lap, trusting, loving and protecting. I felt tears prick my eyes and my chest thicken and was filled with an overwhelming sense of being unconditionally loved, loved in perfect love and perfect truth and I was humbled.

Not daring to move, lest the spell be broken, we sat like that for a long time. Adoring and being adored, savoring the moment, yet knowing it would soon be over and wanting to feel this way for ever. I felt my heart would burst with the joy of it. I caressed the old head and she shifted and moved back.

Silently, I thanked her as she padded stiffly back to the fire. The crows cawed and the stream bubbled cheerfully beyond the church. The temperature was dropping and it was time to go.

I opened the circle and reluctantly climbed down. Stroking the old trees bark, I traced it to a place where it had started to hollow, a vulva shaped place of stickiness, a bit like soft peat and something else that my fingers did not recognized but which I did not fear. Dipping my finger into its moistness, I brought it close to my nose and sniffed softly. A tangy resiny timbre, laced with something else. Tenderly, I touch the tree in that spot again, whispered my thanks and turned to go.

In my dream, the voices of curious children and two adults had penetrated. They ran up and down the avenue asking each other, “Which one is the bleeding tree”, getting more an more insistent. They circled our tree and grew quiet, seeing that it was this tree and crept away till, a few yards on, they burst into merriment again as they scampered back down the avenue.

We visited all the other old trees. Circling them, stroking them, saying our greetings to them. We peeked at the old and crooked gravestones lying under the trees and moved slowly back to the car and to the busy world outside. I felt sated.

Pentre Ifan

Pentre Ifan cromlech stands on the side of a little valley, overlooking Fishguard bay. It is thought that it was originally completely enclosed, forming like other cromlechs a darkened chamber in which Druid novices when initiated were placed for a certain number of days. It was called the womb or court of Ceridwen.

After a couple of miss turnings, we had found it. Climbing gingerly out of the car, I tottered beside the Purple-Haired Druid (PHD) as she marched purposefully through the gate into the outside enclosure. My legs trembled but I put one foot carefully in front of another and leaned on a walking stick. Now we were through the second gate and were now alone with the stones.

“Wow” Said the PHD, sucking in her breath. She described the scene in front of us, the stones themselves , enormous and solidly held and beyond them, the huge hill of angels, surrounded by smaller rolling hills, in-between two, the sea could be glimpsed, and guess what, it was blue!

We walked forward and as we moved, my legs felt heavier and heavier. The thought came into my mind, what doesn’t want me to go forward? As soon as I became conscious of this, it became easier and we walked right up and stood beneath the cap stone.

Reaching out, I touched the rough upright stones, walked around them, felt the bits of other stones leaning against them, as though roughly hacked out of one big stone by an unpracticed hand. We spread out the cape and duffle coat on a nearby flat stone and sat down. But something seemed to shove me off. I crawled away and stood, suggesting that we sit under the great stone instead.

Once settled on my plastic cape, my back against the solid great upright, I felt the restless serpent in my stomach still and grow quiet. The pain went and I felt peaceful inside. Quietly, I cast the circle, calling to the spirits of the people who had waited here before us to be with us now.

I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, being aware of how all my body felt, noticing that, for the first time in days, there was no discomfort. The PHD slowly moved and picked up her drum. Cautiously, she sounded it, a slow hesitant beat, growing with confidence yet still gentle. I traveled with the beat down, down and down.

The sharp wind was on my cheek. I lay on my back. Something pressed upon me. It was hard yet it didn’t hurt. I was glad to have the pressure. Its firmness seemed to hold me. It was dark, but I was not alone. I waited and waited and still the drum beat.

On my right, a little way off, I heard the distinct yet settle snuffling of pigs. I was glad to hear them. They sounded friendly and content. Overhead, wings fluttered and a piercing “chuck, chuck, chuck” of a bird who’s call I did not recognize sounded close to my left. I smiled at it, knowing it was happy.

Wind licked my cheek, cold and icily. Behind it, in the distance, a cow lowed. She sounded contented, feet on the ground, rich grass to chew.

And the drum beat faster and faster. “Caw” croaked a crow. Other birdsong lay across it’s roughness with silky tremulousness. I allowed it to bathe me and felt clean. A horse neighed and the sound was exhilarated. The horse was excited and having the time of his life.

And as I wandered if that was how I felt, I asked myself “will I ever feel well?” Hmmm, did that answer the question? I’m not sure. But the answer came, “yes, you will often be well.” And as this came into my mind, the weight lifted and I felt myself leaning against the stone, sitting on my plastic cape, under the capstone on a December afternoon.

Taking a deep breath, I silently thanked the stones, stretched and opened the circle. Quietly, we shared our experiences as we packed away the alter and got up to leave. This time nothing stopped us as we walked lightly from the stones back up to the car.

The Serpent of Pain

The metal hand gripping my right side squeezed viciously as a flat hammer hit the edge of my face. I ground my jaw and sharp pain split through my head from ear to ear. Shivering, I shifted position and tumbled out of bed onto the thinly carpeted floor. Something had begun to grip me by the cheek-bones, squeezing hard as though trying to pop my eyes out. “Oh my head” I groaned, as another paroxysm of coughing shook my whole body.

Emerging into wakefulness, I remembered where I was and what I was to do today. Rising stiffly but purposefully and heading towards the tiny bathroom, I realised I was yet again suffering from a Benalin hangover. Talk about a chemical cosh! My virtuousness the night before at my mate’s party in drinking only the cola hadn’t made me feel any better. But I had to move. I was in a strange place but I had an appointment with the goddess.

I had ordered sun and he was here! The sky was high, the sun shafted low across the hills as we drove, licking me cautiously through the windscreen as I lay huddled on the passenger seat. My companion this day, a purple haired druid, chatted easily as she manoeuvred the car along the winding lanes. Inside, a serpent of pain wrestled purposefully with the Linda McCartney Veggie sausages I had unwisely eaten for breakfast. My bowels churned and I wandered how long it would be before I was forced to dive behind a bush. If I kept very, very still, perhaps it would all go away?

The car coasted gently along, up, round and on. I allowed myself to sense the movement as though on some kind of never-ending roller-coaster for wimps. From time to time a certain drowsy safe sleepy feeling crept over me, only to be suddenly supplanted by another gut wrenching twist as the serpent turned and made himself more comfortable.

“We’re surrounded by holly hedges and oh, there’s a blackbird, ah, and a squirrel” the PHD’s voice broke in. “We’re nearly there”, she continued.

In Sickness and In Health

That phrase from the Marriage Service resonated strongly with me as I began to make my preparations for the next part of my pilgrimage to meet the Goddess. I was set to travel to Mid Wales to a friends fortieth birthday bash and thought I’d check out some sacred sites whilst there.

On the Monday before I was due to travel, in a moment of wobbly legged weakness, I fell over a pile of dislodged paving stones outside the gym. This heralded a set of physical circumstances which looked more and more likely, as the week went on, to threaten the whole trip. Cutting a long story short, by the next morning, my temperature was spiking and so was my temper! In a fit of peak, I cancelled the rest of my life and retired to bed to sulk.

By Wednesday morning n, the dreadful realisation dawned – not only had I contracted “Dyke flu”, but that it was readily manifesting itself into that most virulent of strains, “Butch Dyke Flu”!

Whilst not as serious as “Man Flu”, Dyke flu’s main symptom (aside from the obvious flu ones that is) is a deep sense of injury and much voicing in stout tones of outrage “but I *(never* get flu!” The sufferer refuses to shut up and submit to weakness for once. With the butch strain the sufferer is often seen to struggle out of bed and attempt to go about her daily business. Unfortunately this particular strain has a lamentable effect on the temper of the sufferer not to mention a rather peaky look.

By Friday, I was sufficiently well enough to contemplate the long journey without whining. I rose from my sick bed, packed and stumped jelly-legged off to the station and weaved my way unsteadily westwards.