It’s a blustery first of November. All morning, the cats have watched out the window as leaves fly by, wondering if the leaves are birds.
Hekate has been calling me back for reconnection. The mother of witches, she’s been with me since I was a young teen.
I didn’t know it then. I drew and painted then as often as I wrote, and one of my first big projects for my seventh-grade art class was a woodblock print. I made a traditional witch’s workroom—skulls, books, candles, cauldron. Out the window was a waning moon. In those days, any time I drew a moon freehand without thinking, it was waning.
Hidden below the horizon, it’s a waning moon now, time of release and darkness.
These days, to me Hekate doesn’t mean darkness itself but rather a path through the darkness. But when I first met her, I loved that she was dark.
The moon will wane to new, her traditional time. But I rededicate myself now, this Day of the Dead.