The Body is the Altar: Winter Solstice Musings on Reclamation
Earth my body, Rain my blood, Wind my Breath, the Night my Spirit
The longest night approaches. The signs are present, growing by the day. By the time I get home from work, the half light of dusk casts its magic over the land before true darkness descends. Sometimes, the sky is blanketed in thick folds of cloud that seem to pull the darkness to it so that day ends sooner. At other times, the last of the light clings to the day, one last bright slash of orange and pink that hugs the horizon before deepening to purple.
The blackbird cries out its warning cry or moves silently between the now bare branches of the cherry and linden, their leaves but a memory of autumn months. Only the cotoneaster, with its deep green leaves and blood-red berries stand bright in the growing gloam. The ivy measures the changes of the year against its evergreen foliage. The sparrows are quiet within its depths, safely roosting until morning, but the robin's delicate form can be seen among the gnarled branches of trees, or perched on the fence or lamppost.
Christmas lights dance and flicker in gardens and windows of houses. From the garden they seem what they are, our attempts to push back against the longest and darkest night, the cold of winter and the gloom that crowds our own hearts and minds. They seem distant and cold, like stars shining bright in the dark depths of the night sky. For some reason, it feels apt for the moment.
Here in the garden, we await the long night and the solace it brings, along with the whispers of the land and the spirits that reside there, and within ourselves.
My body the altar; My blood the river; My breath the air; My heart is the flame.
Lately, my mind has been turning towards reclaiming, towards the idea of our bodies and the land as altars at which we set forth our intentions and manifest our desires. Where we do the work.
The year has been difficult, with one small thing after another, with some larger things thrown in for good measure. It has been a journey of personal reclamation, one that has not been easy. I’m sure I’m not alone in this, and I know many, many more struggle against larger, deeper woes.
The reclamation of self includes that of spirit, of disentangling the inner self from the material conditions thrust upon us. It is a work that takes time and effort, during which our mettle will be tested. Of reclaiming our bodies, even from our own mindsets and negativity. These are the bodies that carry us through the good times and the bad. They carry us even when the mind and will waivers, in those times we think we just cannot continue. They are a microcosm of the land. As within so without. The ancestors are the genius loci of us, carried in the body, blood, memory and mind, shaping the physical landscape of the body just as the spirits of land and place are anchored in the landscape and imbue it with feeling and character.
I am no political thinker or writer, offering deep insight into the horrors that humans inflict upon one another to varying degrees at home and in far off places. I offer nothing new and at times feel crippled by helplessness as I watch wars and humanitarian disasters through the box in the living room, issues so vast I feel not only dwarfed by them but feel as small as the cold and distant stars. I read other writers and wish I could speak with such knowing eloquence and understanding, but I cannot and should not. There are voices other than mine that carry authority and should be maximised.
But in all this talk of reclamation, of bodies as altars, as sacred spaces, I only know that this extends beyond my own body, my own place in the world. If indeed the body is the altar, then surely this means we must turn towards one another, those close by and in far off places, that we must see the sacredness in them and in their places. If our bodies are the altars, our hearts the flame, active things that demand action, then what action can we take to help? Is this the true work of the witch? A quiet voice within whispers the truth of this. The process of reclamation is about the self, for sure, but it is also of our communities, both near and far.
Our bodies the land. the long night our rest. The returning light our will.
Emma Kathryn
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
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