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I'm sorry, but I don't want to hear it.
(Actually, I'm not at all sorry, and I really don't want to hear it. But this is, after all, Minnesota, and that's just what we say.)
Self-pity is sentiment unbecoming a witch.
That's why witches don't whine.
Witches never whine.
Whining = air pollution. Whining poisons the air around you. Whining poisons everyone around you.
Whining poisons you.
Witches don't have time to whine; witches are too busy doing.
About half an hour before moonrise, we meet up at the coven bench in the park, big enough to hold a whole coven. Well, almost.
We catch up, laugh, dish a little. It's August, almost September, so zucchini bread, curds and apples circulate along with the wine.
When bats begin to wheel, it's time to make our magic: down the hill and around the lake, still high with summer rain, we go. We stride purposively, silent with intent. Cowans clear the way without realizing it. Frog after frog hops along our path as we walk: tens of them, scores of them. Clearly the frogs have magic of their own to make tonight.
We circle, right shoulders to night water. We meet up again where we started, where the three paths join. By Bat, by Moon, by Frog: So mote it be.
Winter is starting here in Wellington New Zealand, and has been heralded by a weeklong southerly storm. The Cailleach, she is not far away and can be felt in this the first of the winter storms. Offerings are already being made by unsuspecting people who were silly enough to bring umbrellas as protection against the strong southerly winds.
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