When I was growing up, I was always reminded how important friendships were. My mother was still friends with the people she was friends with in grade school. My grandma still talked daily to “the girls” that she spent time with in high school. Friendship and devotion were ingrained in me from an early age. I am still friends with many of my exes simply based on this philosophy that was constantly spoon-fed to me.
I still think of a group of guys I used to meet on a weekly basis, just to have coffee and mull over the happenings of the week. I am still friends with the whole group. We may only get to communicate via phone or Facebook now, but we do still communicate.
I was thinking about my friends and acquaintenances in the pagan community. I have a large circle…but those that I am closest to are like my own kin. In my immediate circle of men and women is a group of those that I trust implicitly. It is with those people that I share parts of me that no one else gets to see. Among those friends are also four leggeds.
I have long been a wanderer. I guess you could say that I am quite a bit like a hound dog. My nose leads me. As I walk, a new scent will distract me and head me off into a different direction. Today as I walked with Friz in the light mist of rain that encompassed the condo complex, I caught a whiff of something familiar, but wild at the same time. I pulled the leash as I made my way around corners and through small groves of trees, up to a small patch of a garden. I looked down and was surprised by what I saw. One of our neighbors had planted a small batch of marigolds. That familiar stench had wrapped its way around my nostrils and taken me back many years.
I remember sitting at the edge of my dad’s garden with my best friend from grade school. We were playing and decided that we needed to cover our own scent with the smell of the marigolds my dad had planted throughout the garden. We gathered the bright orange, yellow and burgundy heads from everyone of the small flowers and ground them into our skin. That smell still takes me to the verge of vomiting today. It was that smell that your hands hold after a full evening of catching lightning bugs…..that wild musky rank sickening smell. I laughed as Friz got close to the blooms and then recoiled at that stink.
When we got back to the condo, I curled up on the outdoor sofa with Friz by my side and looked around at everything showing its springtime faces and blooms. Many of my witch friends came to mind as my thoughts drifted toward herbs and flowers. There have been many a night when I have danced through the courtyard knowing that the energy of my friends was dancing with me. Some of these friends I have never met face to face….but I know better than I know some of my own family. Some of them I have met and giggled with and hugged and it was wonderful! It is in my darker times that I close my eyes and can feel those hugs and the giggles singing in my ears.
I remember a spell that I spoke out into the universe as a witchling long long ago. I was sitting out by the chicken coop on the farm playing with one of the baby goats….I whispered into the air, “I never want to be without friends.” At that moment in time, I was specifically talking about the four leggeds, but Goddess is far more faithful than we can imagine.
I know that it is very easy in a moment of loneliness to sit around and say, “Nobody cares….nobody loves me.” You have no idea. You have absolutely no idea how many people in the span of minutes have let you play through their minds and memories….thinking of how much they care about you.
I danced in the courtyard again tonight. I saw the faces of those who danced with me. My darling Donna, Jerry, my little fireball Heather, Jason, my dear Jackie, my sweet Maluna….but the one who danced the hardest, laughed the loudest and sang with the most abandon was the Lady herself.
Come sisters and brothers, take my hand.
Dance with me across the skies.
Two-leggeds, four leggeds join in the song.
From this, our beginning, our spirit flies.
The brew, without you, is not complete.
Lend your voice to this, our spell.
As we cry, “So Mote It Be.”
The work is done and all is well.
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