Danielle is a heathen visionary, painter, and word-witch. The author of Woman Most Wild and The Holy Wild., she teaches internationally and has facilitated circles, embodiment trainings, communal spell-work, and seasonal rituals since 2007. She is the founder of The Hag School, the lead teacher for the Flame-Tender Teacher Training, and believes in the emerging power of wild collectives and sudden circles of curious dreamers, cunning witches, and rebellious artists in healing our ailing world.
The just-full moon of the longest night is singing songs of ice and storm, and I, a weary witch without a dream, am taking to my cottage of stone. Here, may I meet those unseen Others who know me best, and may they drum the old year to death in a rhythm my deeper soul remembers.
Read MoreThe full moon found me wild-eyed with wickedness on my tongue, and I perched my spritely-with-spring bones deep in the hollow of a graveyard oak. She loomed large and loving, that thick-trunked beast, casting a long-armed shadow across the moss-masked stones bearing the names of my dead.
Read MoreThat relentless beast of a wolf moon was finally waning toward a certain black-hole darkness that haunted my midwinter dreams, and I picked at a fraying indigo thread called tenderness sprouting from the soft and spoiled place at the edge of my aching heart.
Read MoreThe new moon of wolf and snow found my body weary but my soul full of faith, and I left the warmth of my bed before dawn to smoke-sweep the stagnant energies left behind from a most cold-hearted year. I lit the berries and cinnamon to slow-burn on the mantle, and I set branches of dried pine and juniper to crackle and hiss with flame inside my blackest cauldron.
Read MoreThe season of pitiful suns had dawned, and I begged for a hopeful sign from an unnamed god. I prayed for some spectral song to grace my ears with heathen tidings before the eerie gloaming swallowed the sky whole and retched back the indigo-and-pinprick-star night. These were hallowed hours.
Read MoreThe season of pitiful suns had dawned, and I begged for a hopeful sign from an unnamed god. I prayed for some spectral song to grace my ears with heathen tidings before the eerie gloaming swallowed the sky whole and retched back the indigo-and-pinprick-star night. These were hallowed hours.
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