I’ve been reading and learning the past six months about the role of the traditional village wise woman.  There’s a lot of myth, some confusion, some fear or anger in what I read, but in essence I find that were people, often women, who held this role for their community.  Not perhaps formally, not perhaps with a sign outside the door, to invite censure or suspicion.  But there. The midwives and herbalists, those who read the weather, or the people, who made the timely introductions or knew how to cure sheep.

I have been wondering who holds this space for us now? Who provides us with this common sense connection to our souls and bodies?  And how we can rediscover this wisdom in ourselves and embody this tradition?

Witchy, it seems, is the new cool and the “tools” of the craft are freely available in the high street or through ubiquitous online retailers.  But it seems that what is needed can be found where we are.  Our foremothers wouldn’t have been out shopping for crystals and incense (even though I love both).  They would have turned to what they had to hand to create simple rituals, to pray for healing or protection.  It would have been in the ordinary that they wove their magic, in what was there.  What have we got, at our finger tips, to create ritual, to bring blessing and hope?  What is easily found, uncovered, borrowed?

Thread, twine, scraps of ribbon.  Stones and shells.  Acorns or conkers, in the right season.  Herbs. Twigs and flowers. Pennies. Salt and candles.

I wonder if I can seek the simple way to re-connect, to re-enchant.  Watching the moon, the weather, the birds; marking the seasons.  Finding my way back into the roots of this earthly wisdom.