Each time I come to write, to sit down at these keys with a cup of coffee, whatever plans I had previously made are no longer relevant. What was poignant in one moment is trite in the next, and the glimpse into the workings of the cosmos has faded.
What then? What is the purpose of writing here, which I have constantly struggled with yet am called to do? Is it better to speak from a sense of self, of personal reflection, when I seek – have been told to seek – humility and quietness in life? Surely the alternative is worse; to pontificate from a sense of authority that I do not have, avoiding the use of I and my to decentre the author but instead centre the opinion as fact.
Consider all that is written here as a kind of memoir, as a snapshot of one moment in one life. What is true now may be less true in the future, and certainly was less true in the past.
As an unusual woman, I have always struggled with the concept of belonging, an elusive idea that I rarely feel but am very aware when it is missing. If I cannot belong with humans, how then can I belong with the divine? Where is my place in the cosmos – if any – and how do I find it? Being aware of one’s aberrance is isolating and embarrassing; a catalogue of past mistakes colours all future interactions.
This is why I like ritual, and ritual rules. They proscribe a way of living in the world that makes sense, that is laid out clearly, that governs interactions between beings. This is why I am good at liturgy, and terrible at peopling. I was once a public priestess and I never will be again, both by choice and not. There are far better people to speak in a way that is understandable, to guide others through the changes of life, to soften roughness and speak with the right words.
Is writing here a public priestesshood? Somewhat – the beauty is that you, the reader, decide how much to imbibe, and I do not have to see your face when you taste it and grimace. You can close this window, unsubscribe, never return here again, and I will never know.
When we are called to do something, perhaps by someone, how do we determine who is calling us? For Christians and other monotheists called to religious work, there is no question: the answer is God. What God may have one do will differ according to temperament and opportunity and other factors, but it is always God. Not so here, but it would be easier sometimes if it were.
Instead, we have to sort through signs and clues, read stories, divine, make our best guess, get it wrong. We have to peel away layers of mystery both internal and external, removing ourselves from the expectations placed upon us by the society in which we live but also from the expectations we place upon ourselves. What are we, and what are we meant to be? What are we looking for, and how do we fit in? And what few places exist for us in an already tiny and fractured group of communities where everyone charts their own way?
What have we ignored for years, brushed aside as our own fantasies or maladaptive thoughts, but instead contain truth? We come around again with each cycle, hesitantly looking at what once was placed in front of us but we avoided. Now we see it again with clearer eyes, as everything around us has rotted, fallen away, returned to the Earth.
We are bones now, stones, the core of stars: witches die, anchorites die, queens die. Put on your crystal crown and pick up the distaff with rotted hand; hail a forgotten star and make it your guidepost, your lantern that hangs from the firmament.
star & stone 
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