Fool – Tarot Card of the Day: Sometimes we just need to go for it and take a risk. Today is one of those days. Make the big leap, try the new thing, go on that grand adventure. We can’t live our lives waiting for things to happen, we have to make them happen. So,
Tomorrow is Samhain, for some, the Witches’ New Year. This is the time when I review my previous year’s goals, reflect on what I have accomplished, and those that remain incomplete. It has been an extremely good year, with many of my goals checked off. Still, there were a couple that remained unmet. Those goals
In honor of Halloween, I have opted to re-post a narrative poem I wrote in 2017. The poem itself is a bit darker than I usually write, but it fits right the mood for the season.
As Samhain approaches and the veil thins we often become introspective. We muse on the things we have accomplished in the past year, and ponder what we wish to accomplish in the next. We think of the turning of the Wheel of the Year, the endless cycles of birth, death, and rebirth. Our minds contemplate
It’s Samhain, the Witches’ New Year. Let your heart take you places you’ve never been and allow the Universe, the ancestors, and the Gods show you what you are capable of. Remember, new year, new witch.
In the spirit of the season and all things that go bump on a Halloween night, I wish to share one of my own personal ghost stories. It all began simply, with a house. At first glance it was intriguing, and completely run down. Overgrown bushes and trees obscured the floor to ceiling windows at
On Samhain Eve many of my fellow Witches and Pagans will sit down to participate in the tradition of the Dumb Supper. To honor their ancestors they set a place at the dinner table then invite to their ancestors to join them. They then sit in silence and eat, waiting for the tingle that signifies the
The Race By Terry Lynn Pellegrini ©2017 From the crossroads I run Bare feet striking hard packed dirt, Jarred bones, ragged breath, arteries pumping. I crash through the waist high weeds at the roadside heedless of the stinging of the nettles, the thorns stabbing my legs. They follow. Fetid breath upon my heels, bone