In dreams, the spirit finds me.
A woman stands at a distance. Light pulses behind her and a shadow obscures her face. She emerges from a spinning vortex, taking slow steps through fog, wind and rain. There are familiar sounds: of dogs baying at the Moon, of blackbirds cawing at the sky. A chilled hum pervades the narrow space between us. Gradually, she reveals herself to me.
First, I see the flames that are her hair. Next, the smooth pallor of her neck and breasts. My eyes take in her crimson lips, the swift glisten of her tongue. A serpent, coiling in motion, wraps itself around her shoulders. She is beautiful in her exotic way, compelling and strangely seductive.
I stand still, waiting. Words escape me.
The flames dancing around her face grow brighter, and suddenly her full form is illuminated. Where there once was unblemished skin, I now see faint traces of blood. Scars riddle her hands. A deep gash mars her chin. It is as though she is wounded and healed in the same moment.
She stares, unflinching.
Finally I find my voice. "Who are you?" I whisper.
"You know who I am," she replies. Her voice is soft but firm. She spreads her arm out wide, showing me her breast and the perfect contours of her body. In the shifting glare, her physique hardens, the muscles of her torso deepening, her chest widening. The serpent slithers down her side and stands erect, like a phallic symbol.
A mans form? Yes. The spirit is both feminine and masculine. The spirit is without gender.
"Are you the Goddess?" I ask.
"No". comes the reply. "I am the Psyche of the Goddess and God, the heart and soul of the Witch both past and present. Look at my eyes: they are the color of the ocean and the soil. My hair is the heat of the Sun and the fire that once ravaged so many. My body, chiseled and strong, is without shape, a sculpture of the All. Behold the serpent: it moves in a circle around me, like the knowledge of Earth. My scars are the pain of those who died, but my beauty is the resurrection of an old way reclaimed."
"Youre everyone," I say.
"I'm everyone and no one. The Witch has been persecuted, shunned, and killed. But she has also been revered and celebrated. Above all, the Witch has never been forgotten. She is a staple of consciousness, a part of every culture. Today, the Witch is both male and female. She is scarred and untouched, public and private, enthusiastic and somber, fearless sand frightened, exalted and oppressed. I am the Witchs mind in all its incarnations."
"It has been said that the mind is a labyrinth, an intricate web of thoughts, memories, sorrows, and triumphs. Each of us is a weaver. The treads may be thin or thick, studded with diamonds or torn by rage. But from them comes the seeds of stories. It is in the words that true magic dwells-the timeless power to move and mark and mystify. When all else dies or disintegrates, only the tales survive. Thus, the human psyche and the Goddess are inexorable linked: each acts as a vessel for spiritual fulfillment and change."
The spirit hovers close to me. There are flashes of light, images at once disturbing and bold.
I say, "Tell me your story"*