Written on August 14, 1996. I was on a retreat with Deena Metzger on the south shore of Massachusetts. It was the Feast of Hecate, and we planned to do a ritual at night. This piece of writing is partly fiction, partly real.
She woke in the night. A hooded figure was standing in the room. It was the Feast of Hecate. It was time to join her sisters. She rose and dressed in dark clothing, purple and blue.
She took with her a rose hip as an offering, and a tiny bubble of a shell that she would plant, after the new moon, as a seed of a new beginning. The bubble shell had come to her as she walked along the shore, crying out to god about how difficult this passage was, and when would it be over. The voice said “You will always be doing this work. but — it gets easier.” At that moment she saw the shell embedded in a drift of seaweed and knew it was to be her seed for the ritual.
In the dark, her hood over her head, she walked down to the shore. The wind was blowing strongly from the north and she could smell the salt. A long pier stretched out into the water. She could see other hooded women standing and moving along the pier.
As she walked out its length, the wind blew more strongly, shredding her cape and tearing large patches out of her body. She felt pieces of herself ripped out and flying down the wind. The clean wind and the salt blew through the holes.
The sound of a flute brought her back. It was playing a song she knew and she began to sing “Tis a gift to be simple … to turn , to turn, it will be our delight til by turning, turning, we come round right.” And then “I danced in the morning when the world was begun … I am the Lord of the Dance said she.”
She moved past the flute to the open space at the end of the pier where women wrapped in blankets and shawls were gathered in a circle. Some were sitting , some standing, facing inward to where a candle had once burned but had blown out in the wind, or facing outward to the sea and the strange lights of night. The women were singing a wordless chant, voices rising, falling, overlapping. Sometimes a melody or a word would emerge clearly and then fade back into the continuous sound. Nika moved to the far side, her back to the sea, and joined her voice to those of her sisters. After a while she felt the need to go down on her knees. Across the circle a chant was taking form, almost Native American in shape. Nika picked it up softly, allowing her body to move back and forth. The chant grew in her throat to a repeated cry Eeeee — ah — oooo, o — o — way, o — o — way… Others joined her. The chant flared and faded and was done. The soft voices continued, calling the names of god.
Nika bowed her head down to the boards. She prayed for healing, for herself and for the planet. She prayed for help, that she might more completely embody gentleness, patience, and reverence in her life. She prayed for the energy of her vision to fill the bubble shell seed — a vision of a small green world, where people cared for each other and for the natural world with patience, gentleness, and reverence. Then she stood and turned outward to the sea. “Here is my offering, Hecate” she said and tossed the rose hip outward. She could hear the tiny splash over the voices of the wind and the sea and the women who were still chanting and felt that her offering had been accepted.
She walked back to the shore and down to the sand facing north into the wind. She chanted the names of the goddess: Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna, over and over. She had thought to toss the bubble-shell-seed onto the water, but feared for the dissolving and loss and drowning of her vision. She thought of planting it in the sand, but that seemed too cold and sterile an environment for something so fragile. So she walked back toward the house and went to the garden.
She walked in through the arched gate and bowed to the pool. It was dark and no stars could be seen. It took her a moment to orient to the directions. She decided to plant the seed in the east, the place of new beginnings. She walked across the grass to the flower bed and crouched down. Stretching out her hand she felt low leaves and tall thin flowers. She reached down to touch the soil and felt soft rich crumbly earth. Digging in her fingers, she scooped up a handful, placed the tiny fragile shell in the hole, covered it and patted it down. A safe nest, a soft bed. Be well, my tiny fragile hope. Carry my vision through this dark time and bring it to flower in some other world. She stood up to find the touch of leaves against her face. Lifting her hands, she stands in prayer while the tree traces a sacred symbol on her forehead.