Thanks to Brigit

When I used to imagine what it would be like to have the time and courage to witch out a little, I always envisioned myself in some cottage in the forest, where I could say things like, "This morn I walked in the wood and wandered the path of green" or some such crap. It might look something like this:

It's taken me a while to realize that that cottage in the forest is an ideal and that the goal here in all of this lifey muck is to create that cottage where I am, to be where I live, and to give that ideal some legs in my real life. So instead of waiting to move to the Cotswalds to wander my gardens in a gauzy white gown with a wreath of roses in my hair, I will do what I can where I am. Take the kids to school, clip coupons, switch the laundry, and then, in the middle of all that, say a prayer beneath the full moon, or stir the cauldron in the kitchen while I'm making Sloppy Joe's for dinner.

I don't think I understood this fully until I visited Brigit's chapel this past summer in Kildare. While there, I wandered the grounds, prayed inside the fire pit behind the church, and felt on a very deep level that I had been there before a long time ago. The message I took home with me was this: I may have once been a devoted follower of Brigit, and may have served her in a life of spiritual austerity, but this is now, and being Pixie Girl in the here and now, I can still serve her in the time in which I am living. My service to the magickal might not seem as sacred in a house with aluminum siding than in a thatched roof hut, but that's all just a matter of perception.  It's all one.