Loose Labels

When does one get to call themselves ‘a Witch’?
What about ‘Pagan’? What does it take to be these things? Who gets to decide?
You?
Me?
‘Them’?
I don’t think it matters.

Something I personally feel that needs work in the Pagan Community is how quick some of us are to label someone else, then immediately tell another that they ‘don’t deserve’ their title.
Does it affect your practice?
Are they hurting anyone?
Then who gives a shit.
If someone has done the work, put in the time, effort, and honestly feels like they are ‘a Witch’ then they’re a Witch. It is not anyone else’s place to tell them they aren’t.
My Craft is different than yours, and much different from the next persons, so who’s right? Who’s the real Witch?
The Woman who has read everything she can, keeps a house full of beautiful plants, worships Goddess and works from an elaborate Altar, she’s a Witch.
The boy who hides his stones in plain sight from his parents, who has friends check out books for him at the local library and obediently bows his head silently for the Blessing at Dinner, he’s a Witch.
The Man who fights every day to beat his addiction, who carries Amethyst in his pocket and does a new Moon cleansing each month to rid himself of the temptation of his addiction, he’s a Witch.
The Mother who shows her children which herbs soothe tummy aches, who sages the room before bed to git rid of ‘the monsters’ so her little ones sleep peacefully, who lovingly takes spiders outside rather than squash them because every soul has purpose, she’s a Witch.
We’re all a part of something bigger than ourselves. This Family we’re all a part of is so beautiful, so amazing, so sacred, and it’s really time we start acting like it.

When the Balefire burns out

My home has been The Covenstead (gathering place for a Coven) for over two years. We have had more people in and out of my doors, more plates of food shared, more laughter and more earth shattering moments of acceptance and healing on my patch of the Farm than I can confidently count… and now it’s still. No buzzing Witches popping in with arms full of wine and crockpots full of buffalo dip (Skye, I miss you dearly… and I really REALLY miss your buffalo dip). No shuffling of chairs so we can all scoot close together and laugh deeply on the porch after eating our huge buffet that covers both table and counter space of my kitchen. No Coven husbands gathering firewood while our kids squeal and play in the grass by the chicken coop. There’s no Balefire in the firepit to light the night sky and carry our worries away with it’s ashes drifting through the sky like shooting stars. Silent are the woods that surround our Sacred Circle, no candles lit to guide our way through the leaf covered darkness to our meeting place where we share our most profound moments, our deepest magicks bursting forward to dance in the candle light; and for this, I weep.