Maud Fuller Petersham (1890-1971) & Miska Petersham (1888-1960), ‘Wind An Wave’, “Twenty-four Unusual Stories for Boys and Girls” by Ann Cogswell Tyler, 1921
brigid, the slam poet, working woman, and community medic. the firebrand who does it all.
the morrígan, watching, waiting. striking down corrupt rulers where they stand. rallying protestors in the streets.
manannán mac lir, wanderer who blesses those kind enough to spare a dollar. who blesses the fringes of society. who keeps us afloat in dark times.
the dagda, ladling soup from a cauldron that never runs dry- giving out water bottles in sweltering summer heat, and warm blankets to fend off winter’s chill.
aengus óg, blessing lovers’ bonds the world over. in brightly lit pride parades and midnight alleyways alike.
the tuatha dé danann have always been hard to grasp: we see them not always in the epics but in the turn of the earth. in land, sea, and sky.
they might not be all-present, but they have always been here.
Flidais, exploring abandoned buildings with trees growing through their roofs, leavin food and blankets for the people livin there and remindin them they are worthy of love.
Áine, makin a circuit and dancin at Beale Street Musicfest, Afropunk, Bonnaroo, Hangout Fest, Voodoo Experience, any Pride she can find, and everywhere in between, handin out flowers and educatin folks on collective liberation and ecological conservation.
Lugh, the new handyman in town who volunteers his time and teaches those he helps how to maintain what he’s repaired or done, from fences to taxes to hangin the neighborhood grandma’s new ceilin fan. He’s not Lugh Ildánach for nothin.
Scáthach, handin out fliers for the new martial arts instructors in town, hostin MMA watch parties, and encouragin folks to learn self-defense. Can’t be caught unprepared against the rising fascist element.
Griánne, scourin the shelves of Michael’s and JoAnn’s, bound and determined to find just the right shades of teal, fuchsia, and green yarn for the baby blanket she’s knittin for the neighbors. The baby needs to stay warm, but she won’t be the one to pin the baby into predestined gender expectations.
Badb Catha, the whistleblower who exposes the lies of those in power and inspires revolution in wounded hearts.
The Morrígan, who stood behind Native shoulders at Standing Rock, who fights for the sovereign rights of indigenous peoples.
Macha, who reminds the world that motherhood doesn’t soften but sharpens, that so-called ‘allyship’ is fucking empty without action to give it meaning.
Macha, who sees the glass ceiling above her and cracks it between her teeth with a slash of a grin.
Nemain, whose news headlines strike fear into the hearts of politicians and crack the foundations of their office.
Maeve, who champions the human right for access to safe abortions, who catches the poisonous words thrown by anti-choicers with shriveled hearts and hurls them back with snarling justice.
Brighid, who watches toxic water run yellow over her hands in Flint and remembers the son she lost in a foreign land for rich men’s senseless war; she won’t let any more children die for someone else’s profit.
The Dagda, who also runs a support group for male rape survivors when he’s not at the soup kitchen, who knows how to reach those who have lost their voice through the language of music.
Ogma, whose decades of experience tempers the idealistic naivete of the young into something passionate but deep that can endure the long, ugly fight ahead of them.
Airmid, who teaches the skills of foraging and wildcrafting and sustainable food co-ops, the dangers of monoculture, Food Not Bombs, the power of ethnobotany in forests ravaged by uncontrolled wildfires.
Ériu, who reminds the diaspora that their ancestors didn’t escape oppression in one land in order to facilitate it in another one.
Manannán, who drops by to give curious looky loos a real chance to get hit by the surfing bug. He lets you try his board out and helps you out. Waxes poetic about the sport and how long he’s been at it. Laughs and tells jokes. Fills you with an endless awe that will never, ever let go.
Lugh, who drops in on competitive gamers and gives bits of imbas. He helps open the way by hitting you with the hyperfocus needed to see those little frames and openings to pull out wins or recover from a failed trick in a run. It’s short and it can’t possibly last long given what it is but it is Just Enough if capitalized on.
Bríghid, who offers tidbits and videos to cosplayers in need, especially the ones mad enough to work metal itself. She’s the strange person with advice that you may never see again. She’s the one helping those who have it give it out to others. Perhaps it’s not combat armor, but it’s armor of a sort and one that can bring light not just to the wearer but to those who see them.
General Info: Hekate is the goddess of magic, witchcraft, and necromancy
Some Symbols: Keys, fire/flames, the moon, snakes, wolves, darkness, ghosts,magical things (like cauldrons and such)
Best Times to Connect/Reach Out: The witching hours, at peak moon sets, midnight to 3am
Lunar Influences: All but particularly during New/Full moons, blood moons, and eclipses
Some Potential Offerings: Honey, cakes (esp with candles), cinnamon, dark chocolate, roses, nightshade, bleeding heart flowers, bones, snake symbols/figures, citrus, dragons blood incense, keys, tea lights, fires/oil lamps
Special thanks to @witchcastors for this info! You all should go follow her, she’s lovely ❤
*These lists aren’t limited! Feel free to alter them based on your own practices. Also, the picture is not my own and the artists name credited in the picture.*
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with the music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of fig-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For my pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
She loves the serene brutality of the ocean, loves the electric power she felt with each breath of wet, briny air.
(Holly Black, Tithe)
Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.
Ocean's Meadow 