Sunday, October 10, 2010
Married to a Witch
Perhaps bit of both. But, I think he likes being married to a witch. He’s my husband.
I know hubby has taken quite a bit of ribbing being married to a witch. Standing around the barbecue pit with his buddies flipping burgers, I heard him asked, “So, like, does she put spells on you?” followed by a bucket full of manly ho, ho ho’s. Husband just smiled. He knows that indeed I did put a spell on him shortly after we met – with his permission of course. In fact, he supplied me with a snippet of his hair. “Go ahead, put a spell on me,” brave-hearted potential lover said, and then dubiously eyeing the anthame (witch ceremonial knife) added, “A good one.”
I didn’t use all his hair on once. First, using a few strands, I cast a spell that he’d be happy, healthy and play good golf. Then after a while I coveted him (like truly yum yum), so I wrapped the remaining strands of hair around my finger like a ring before carefully slipped it off to soak overnight in Cleopatra oil. When the moon was lustfully plump and bright one Venus night I knelt before my altar and chanted (actually cooed) words of love to him. When I mentioned the love spell he laughed saying , “Cool” whereas a sister witch declared “Oh my goddess alive! You'll never get rid of him." And, to this day, I never do want to get rid of him. That's another spell anyway.
Before marrying legally (muggle way) we had had a handfasting ritual, and although my wedding day was superb, the handfasting was magically beautiful with lots of laughter during the holy affair. It took place in the early crisp winter morning of New Years Day 2001 in a wooded countryside with the wedding party and guests in their sleep attire covered by down jackets and complete with woolen gloves. The bridesmaids were several Barbie dolls dressed up in glittery costumes like Fairy Princesses, which I'm sure they really were.
The deep green winter clothing and earthy scents created a lively energy to the ceremony. The rapid running of the overflowing river was our music. A circle was drawn around the area where our personally written vows would be exchanged. The officiating priestess-witch donned in flannel nightgown and woolen leggings read the vows aloud before binding our hands with a red ribbon signifying we were as one. It was a fun, loving, enchanting event.
As time came passed we had to decide to renew the vows. We did. He likes being married to a witch. He can handle it. That’s what he tells the guys.
Handfasting is an ancient ritual for a couple to agree to live together for a year and a day. During the ceremony the couple's hands or wrists are bound together with a ribbon or cord wrapped snugly in a figure eight hence giving the ceremony its name. Today “tying the knot” comes from the tying of the cord or ribbon. The vows were similar to modern day marriage. If all went well the agreement was renewed. If not, I guess they divided up the furniture, goats and chickens. It was a common practice amongst the ancient Celts for many centuries and remained a legal union in Scotland until 1939. Although there are a few ideas of the purpose of handfasting - an engagement or actual marriage contract - it was a time to decide if they’d make a good life together. There are other handfasting rituals, such as drawing a circle around the ground where the wedding party stands symbolizing a power place where only good can enter there in. And with a marriage that’s all we still hope for.
Handfasting and spells are mentioned in my novel, “The Skye in June.” June took up the comb untangling a couple of strands of hair. She tossed them into the ashtray and set them on fire with the red candle. Smoke smoldered up and the smell of burnt hair mingled with the incense.