I spent the last week in Salem, Massachusetts. It was a bucket-list trip for me. Walking through the museums, I was a bit disappointed. The life-sized animatronics and wax figures displayed the events of the Salem Witch Trials but there was something deeper missing. It felt like a Disney-land tourist trap made by men. And as a woman, I was longing for the real story. The story that refused to blame the events of Salem on a few small girls. The story that placed the blame on the religiously fearful. The story that honored the Hag.

 The town was also heavily focused on the dark arts. Witches walking around town all in black. Entire magic shops shrouded in black fabric, black feathers, black crystals. I could feel the vibration in my body. It was not for me. This was not a place of healing. The focus was pain, trauma, suffering, stuckness.

 But on my last day in Salem, I took some time to explore the town on my own. Away from the crowd, away from my fellow travelers. I walked to the water and sat in the sun. I picked up small stones and feathers left behind by the gulls, the geese, the ducks. Picking small flowers along the path. Feeling the ocean breeze in my hair, the sun on my skin. The thought echoing again and again in my mind: you are the light-worker.

 I do not identify as a witch. But I can understand how a woman like me might have been condemned by the religious. Because I have been condemned by them. I have a deep faith and a strong connection to my Source. But I do not often find that in the Bible. Since I was a small girl, I have found it in the grove of my cornfield. I have found it in the tree where I would read—her branches holding me. I would whisper my secrets to her. She was a good listener. 

I am tied to the earth. My emotions tied to the weather. The animals guiding me, the herbs healing me.

 I am an Ovate, a healer. Heading into my Hag years, my Crone years. Gladly. 

Come with me. Let us heal the earth together. Let us all be light-workers.