Witch Wound
For me healing the witch wound is coming more into the collection consciousness perhaps that’s just where I’ve been recently, the communities I’ve been with, the circles I’ve sat in. The events I’ve been to over the last 12 months or so. Having sat in witch wound webinars with Imelda, the Sacred Familiar Doll Course talking of the witch wound or witch mark. Having been to the I am Witch Exhibition and prior to the Exhibition stitching my witch’s name on the collective bunting, attending the Ceremony at Samhain. And something that became very apparent for me in one of the webinars with Imelda where we created art, healing, words, for me it became apparent, I received a very strong message in a journey that it isn’t just about the witches, the women, it is also about the land, the land carries the wounds and the buildings carrying the wounds. The indwelling spirits of the buildings where the witches were imprisoned, were jailed. The lands upon which they were burnt and hung, the waters in which they were drowned. These too carry the wounds.
Perhaps it’s more palatable for us to think that the witch wound we carry, the witch mark we carry within us is because our ancestors were witches. Herbalists, midwives, wise women, the healers, the seers. But the reality is the witch wound, the burning times, ripples out far and wide. What if our ancestors were one of those jailors? What if our ancestors were one of those that created the burning stake, that lit the fire? That built the gibbet, pulled the rope? What if our ancestors were out of fear the ones that gave in, snitched, grassed on their neighbour, born out of fear they gave up names. What if our ancestors were one of those that were tricked and lured into giving up the secrets. What if our ancestors where those that did the tricking and the luring, the interviewing, the corralling of the witches?
Something that I hadn’t really thought about before, until the I Am Witch Exhibition what about the men – the husbands, the brothers, the sons that lived in fear of their wives, their sisters, their daughters, their mothers being found out. The husbands that were widowed, the children that were orphaned. Remembering that although witches were primarily women there were men too it wasn’t only women. Remembering the girls, they started their apprenticeship at a young age, perhaps at the tender age of 12 or even younger they became the witch’s apprentice. A man living in fear for his wife and his daughter, knowing that he stood to lose both of them. And all the time they knew that the magic they created was innocent magic it was magic of the land, of the plants, the plant medicine. They were the midwives they were the doulas, they were the people that bought people into this world and saw them leave this world.
Perhaps is far more palatable to believe, to hope, to feel that our ancestor was a witch not a jailor, not a hangman, not the man riding the horse across the moors to arrest the witch. This is the unpalatable truth of the Burning Times. This is the unpalatable truth of the witch wound.
Let’s not forget that watching the burnings, the hangings was a trip out, they were witnessed by young and old. How has that carried within us. The trauma of witnessing the deaths, the public deaths of these women whom we no doubt had called upon. Had been on the receiving end of their wisdom of their plant medicine magic, of the healing of the animals of the brining of life into this world. Knowing if the crops would grow, knowing what ailed the livestock. We had called upon these services, their services, they had sat at our table in our kitchen we had fed them and watered them and here we were watching them, watching their end.
From Imelda’s witch wound webinar’s the seed was planted for healing, paintings were created that have gone into my magical boxes, words were written that I have put out into the world and I decided to call myself a witch, a water witch and then the I Am Witch Exhibition. My first visit with friends so incredibly powerful, the raw emotion and as we all stood on the beach at night listening to the sound of the sea and the beat of our drums we knew, we knew that for us it could not stop here, it could not end here. More was needed. And so I returned, I returned and this time I found words.
Then a chance meeting with a friend, she too was bubbling away within her cauldron with ideas brewing. The Yorkshire Witch Way was born. A dream of reclaiming the witch, reclaiming the medicine, reclaiming the witches of Yorkshire acknowledging them. Acknowledging our shared wisdom that we still hold deep within our bones and deep within our DNA. Running through the very core of us. The knowledge of the plants, the plant medicine, the seers, the healers within us. To shout out loud that we are witches, to share our medicine, the medicine of our souls and our lands.
Poems
Healing the Witch Wound
Hagal shines brightly
The rune of the witch
The rune of the hag
She rebirths herself again and again
I stand as Hagal
I stand hand in hand with Freyja
I will fly across the night sky
I will gather the souls of the dead
I will gather the souls of the lost ones
I will hold them
I will nurture them
Nourish them
I will stand side by side with all those
Executed, persecuted, ridiculed and jailed
Women, children and men
I will stand by them
I will declare my love for them
I will declare the truth for each and every one of them
We will stand by the fire
We will stand by the stake
And not be afraid
We will walk into the cell
Knowing that door will no longer close upon us
Together we will open cell doors
Unlock all shackles
Together we will teach the old ways
It won’t be me alone for they will stand with me
They will teach me the old ways
And I will teach you
We will teach the ways of the plants
We will teach the ways of the secrets of the stones
We will teach the magic of the water
The water is to be embraced
Not to be feared
The water will hold us and float us
Together we will float down the river
Leaving a trace of truth behind us
Leaving our knowledge along the way
Gathering the plants, the rocks
Talking to the spirits of each and everyone
Knowing that together we begin to make
The world safe for the witches
Together we will stand tall and proud
With you at my side
Your hand in mine
I will stand tall
And proudly declare
I am a Water Witch!
I Am Witch
Today I returned and still my words are lost, as if stolen from me
Emotions began welling within me as the train approached Lancaster
I went and stood within the castle walls, feeling them there
My face recognised from before
Thank you for remembering me amongst all the faces that have passed through
Another red thread, tired carefully and reverently around my wrist
“You know what you’re going into” she said
With her kind words I burst open
My tears spilled out
She wrapped her arms around me and thanked me
Held me as my body shook
Her shoulder drank my tears
An invitation to just sit, be, to ground myself.
I sat amongst the spoons and names
Tears quietly falling down my face
Healing, cleansing sacred tears
For me, for you for all of them
My tears wash you clean of the shame
Shame that is not yours to carry
Not mine to carry
Not ours to carry
Invitations to reclaim ourselves
Our own wild selves
Welcoming us home to ourselves
Reminding us we are welcome in all that we are
That we are perfectly complete
The work is only just begun
Inspiration fills the air
A well of potential
A wound carried within our souls, our bones, our DNA
A wound carried by not only us
By the land, animals and plants
Feel the pain within the stones of the towers
Within the wood of the gibbet
My everlasting words of “it’s a lot”
A lot
Overwhelming emotions
Processing
A profound and deep experience
Living with us all
It ripples out forever
Thank you Silver Spoon Sisters
Thank you for all that you have created
Thank you for all the healing you have done and begun
Thank you from my hear to your hearts
From my womb to your wombs
Thank you Paula for holding me today
Honour and Share From The Witch Wound Series
Honour and share
All that you are
All that you weave
All that you carve
Honour and share
Who you really are
Honour and share
Your truth
Follow your path
Not that of another
The medicine of the lands
Honour and share
The sacred plants
Honour and share
The rocks and bones
Honour and share
All that you are
And all that you do
Don’t hide
Don’t shy away
Step over the turret
You will find
You are not alone
You will find
That you are many
