witch is wolf

August 18, 2017

He is the first thing to come to mind upon rising. And has been in every journal entry for the past three weeks. Yet no intuitive or energy worker has ever “seen” him. He never comes up as significant. He doesn't exist in my life beyond the symbol of him. So what aspect of myself is speaking to me through this avatar? The part that is pressing to be heard and seen. The darker, weirder, shadow me. The cave-dweller, the witch.

I remember when I started doing the “integration work.” Guided meditation down deep. I go to the underworld, my own Hades, my own river Styx. And I find her. Dark hair, wet, draped over her face, skinny, she hadn’t maybe ever eaten, and dangerous as fuck. By the entrance to a lightless tunnel on the bank of the black river. I feel visceral fear. And repulsion. I called her “witch” then. And gave voice to my fear. And here resides perspective level #1: 

The Witch is scary because she is the one who survives.

I take this to mean: in the darkest and most terrible moments she magicked and alchemized our way through. I see her as separate, and I don’t yet understand the power we’re talking about. Maybe right now is the first time I’ve considered the real name, her identity.

She is me.

The kernel of the wild soul born into this flesh body. The seed of truth. And she gestates and grows and dies on her river bank, and when she dies her seed finds the blood and she comes back to grow and push, with the help of the rising waters against the insides of my flesh, she grows large and fills me up and speaks through my mouth and swells my belly and drinks the water of my sweat and tears and makes me see myself. She survives on salt water. And her harvest is sight, clear and sharp like the water she drinks and then she dies for the thousandth time, she shrivels, never culled, my flesh again spacious, the hijacked control panel in each cell back in the hands of Order. The Known Way. The seed buries into the sandy grey soil of the riverbank and the blood comes and washes her deeper, the blood plants her, there is no one to cull, no hands, no steel tools to dig or reap. It is all done by saltwater and by blood.

Perspective level #2:

The magic and alchemy of my survival is not an act performed by some compartmentalized facet of my psyche. It is not a latent talent that “I” possess, and could consciously cultivate by “integrating” the Witch, by transferring her to digs in “the main house.” The magic and alchemy of my survival is not specially ordained by an extra-dimensional team, or star-guides, or cosmic family, or angel guardians… or charts or cards or fate. The magic and alchemy of my survival is the process of mystery that guides every movement in creation. It is the rending and the binding, the pulsing, the spin, the physics and science and metaphysics and bullshit and truth and pain and pleasure and what only passes as both… the magic and alchemy of my survival is the cycle of the Corn Witch, it is just the Way. It is Kali Durga. It steers me like luck. I cull the harvest of clear sight IF I CHOOSE. Otherwise, the bounty feels like fear. It feels like burden, an excess. Feeds nothing and is left to rot. It is the decay that makes the riverbank soil so repulsive! The rotten bounty of decades, layers of truth and memories too painful, too scary to reap, and still the seed sows itself, the blood flows, the waters rise, the sunlight somehow finds a crack high, high above, the moonlight dances on the top of my cave, the floor of some other place or the surface of my skin.

Witch is Wolf is Seed is Vision is Me.