Spring and war go together like red poppies blooding a field. The land feeds on blood, and death, we know this as witches. The Crows are circling and they touch me with their soft wings. Spring is in the air, and it smells like change.
Spring rain washes away all of the old and outworn things that are dry, dead and desiccated, and brings new growth. Spring has always been my favourite season… I plant seeds, the jasmine blooms, breezes are sweet, and the spring storms are electric.
It is a new beginning; it means I can try to start again. It means even though I have not forgiven myself, I can at least try to start the process of liking myself again…one step at a time, like a seed coming through the soil.
It has been a hard and bitter winter, and due to certain circumstances, I have not been able to fully process the emotions in my own time and space. But maybe it is better to feel the pain when there is someone around to keep me from harming myself. It has actually been a relief to know that I can be safe from my darkest obsessions with suicidal thoughts and self-hatred during this period.
I have been able to sop up some of the blood, some of the anguish, but the wounds are still there, open and bleeding, and they aren’t all mine. That is the worst thing…my own pain, my own suffering is something I have learnt how to live with over the years, but being the cause of someone else’s pain, that is what tortures me the most.
When I moved into my current home, I felt a sense of wonder and enchantment, but like the mould peeling the paint off the walls and the cracks in the wall which allow me to see outside, those feelings have turned to disillusionment and bitterness. My home has this thick muck clinging to it, and it will take a lot to rid it of these feelings.
“This isn’t going to go away with incense and floorwash you know!” I am reminded by the Spirits. “You let it in, you need to get it out”.
I have been preparing with charms and items of protection during the last month to prevent more intrusions, but now I need to deal with the stuff that has been leeching and growing over the years right under my nose. This muck isn’t from an outside spiritual attack, it is a pustulous growth of my own vexatious thoughts and words clinging to the window frames and tile grout. This is going to be a bit like Fight Club- Tyler Durden has nothing on my Demons.
Crow is Lord of War, and my companion in this task. On this night, I pray to Crow, for protection, for peace and for strength.
What do I gift my Lord of War-
Blood red roses
Thorns as sharp as death
Obsidian as black as His own eyes
And whispers as sweet and dark as His wings