This was a beautiful, hard, dark Christmas—for us, and for many.
If you were fallow and quiet, I'm glad.
If you were rocked by sickness, fear, and death, as we were, I'm holding you in a small circle of light on my altar, beside the picture of my grandmother, who died suddenly on January 6.
We had a norovirus Christmas. Quarantined in the basement. Visiting my parents, aunt, sisters, and a new baby upstairs at a distance—masked—then returning tired and queasy to our bed-in.
In the months before, I crocheted a shawl for my grandmother. Rounds and rounds of rose pink, teak brown, winter white. I started it while I was in hospital for a week over Halloween. I finished it and gave it to her on Christmas Eve because she was cold, and because I was so full of love and pride in a garment made by my hands that I couldn't wait.
She loved it. We laughed about how she shouldn’t get it wet. When I blocked it— which involved getting it wet then pinning it to stretch the wonkiness of different wools into a nice shape— I learned my organic white wool smelled unmistakably like a barn. When dry, it smelled like warm hay fields and rose oil. She said she'd avoid taking it dancing in the rain.
I knew that someday soon it would return to me as memory. Of a person who taught me unconditional love. Who held me in awe when I felt adrift as a child between separating parents. She was my most beloved person. She is my most beloved person.
I feel her most clearly now in the early mornings, smiling, calling me my darling.
Reflection
Some days, when the house is empty, I let the sorrow take me. I howl. I keen. This grief is the shape of my love—of losing her embodied sweetness, her sense of home, her constant presence. We took all our vacations together. She was always with us.
There are photographs of her and my mother at my house parties over the years. Of her chasing my great uncle with a bubble gun at my wedding.
When I let sorrow fully rise, it sometimes tips into rage—at a grieving world. I speak the names: Renee Nicole Goode. Keith Porter Jr. Geraldo Lunas Campos. The children and adults disappeared by illegal, fascist ICE. The sorrow rises to meet me in the brittle ice wind that walks in huge steps across the lake, that howls and resonates from it's depths, the lake that holds unnamed griefs of its own. This land was loved and cherished for thousands of years before the layered devastations of settler colonialism. The lake mourns in winter time. The lake is angry.
To be a witch in the world—or to be awake at all—is to feel the enormous current of rage and sorrow beneath the masks of getting on with things.
And yet, though it does not feel like it when the wave takes us, this attunement is a path to power.
Hast thou attuned thyself to the suffering of humanity, O candidate for light?
— H. P. Blavatsky
To be tuned like an instrument to suffering is painful. It is also how we are gifted sight—how we escape the mental trap that insists we are alone in these frail body-minds.
We are not alone. All of humanity—and more, much more—all of existence suffers and knows joy. The lake loves us too. I don't know why but I know it's true.
Today is the anniversary of Mary Oliver’s death. She rests on our altar as a queer, agnostic, animist angel. I am holding her like a life raft this season—letting the beauty of the world make me cry and dry my tears. Trying to let the soft animal of my body love what it loves. Trying to truly be here with you, while we are alive, in love and sorrow, crafting—stitch by stitch—our hope for a gentler, more just tomorrow.
Prescription
Call your Old Ones.
I spoke to my grandmother the day she died because I called her often. Not often enough. We laughed. I was, just by accident, the only one to call her that morning.
Make a list, put it by your mirror or your computer or on your fridge. Call them all the time, your loved ones, your old ones, call them so much you will be able to smile at the ache of regret that comes when they are gone.
If your Old Ones are all gone, find New Ones.
...
Light a candle for someone who loved you into being.
Speak their name out loud. Talk to them.
Let grief move through your body without correcting it.
Listen in the quiet hours for how love still speaks. My darling.
Offer your sorrow to the wider sorrow of the world, and receive it back braided with beauty. Get saved by the beauty of the world.
Don't rush yourself toward resolution.
Don't mistake numbness for strength.
Be attuned.
To this, "earth—our heaven, for a while."
A Pretty Song
Mary Oliver
From the complications of loving you
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, no coming out of it.
Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?
This isn’t a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.
Therefore I have given precedence
to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods
that hold you in the centre of my world.
And I say to my body: grow thinner still.
And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song,
And I say to my heart: rave on.
Listen
Three episodes from the archives that feel right for this time:
Helena Petrovna Blavatsky – Our Voice Is Raised For Spiritual Freedom
Hast thou attuned thyself to the suffering of humanity, O candidate for light?
Mary Oliver: I Got Saved By The Beauty Of The World
Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.
You Are Beech Tree Kin: "Each Branch Reaches to Other Branches as the Gail Rises."
If you don’t know your grandmother or if she was not kind, you can borrow mine. She is tiny and humble and wears slippers that say Glam. She laughs easily and likes a little afternoon ginger and whiskey. She is cupping her soft pale delicate hand gently to your face and saying I love you, love you, my darling. She is medicine for the softest part of you, of me, together we will keep alight a legacy of kindness and empathy, we will be warriors for birdsong and tender saplings.
“Hi, this is great Grandma calling. I'm calling to tell you how wonderful my children are. I love all you people. I love all my family. Be brave. And accept things as they are. I love you all very, very dearly. Right to the end. I love you. You're so sweet, so caring, so loving. You brought me a lot of happiness in my day.
Have a long life, guys love you.”
You can listen on our website, or on Apple Podcasts, YouTube or any podcast platform.
Offerings from the Coven
"The Black Madonna Freedom School is nurturing courageous and compassionate people who are uprooting white patriarchal religious conditioning in themselves and their communities, and skillfully planting intersectional divine feminine wisdom.
Our first cohort begins February 1 and we’re enrolling members now. I invite you discover our learning journey and join us at our upcoming Open House!
Love, Christena"
Kate Belew's online writing school, The Bardo, is now open for registration. There is a special Missing Witches discount for 20% off the program, use the code MISSINGWITCHESCOVEN https://katebelew.com/thebardo
Coven Events
Plantkin: January — Houseplant Magic
Hosted by Jasmin (she/they)
January is a quiet month in our outdoor gardens, an invitation to turn inward and tend the magic growing inside our homes. Let’s gather in our plant-filled sanctuaries to share, dream, and envision our indoor jungles—past, present, and future.
Together we’ll explore:
- Which houseplant ally is calling to you for 2026
- How houseplants show up in your ritual or witchcraft
- What messages your plants may already be offering
🗓 Sunday, January 18
🕯 6–8 pm EST (7–9 pm AST)
Access Care:
This gathering centres care, consent, and accessibility. Personal introductions are encouraged (please describe yourself so others may visualize you). Ableist and sanist language is avoided. Any member may volunteer as Access Witch to support the chat. If you have access needs for the online meet-up, please reach out to the host.
So mote it be.
On Ice: A Dark Moon Rite
Hosted by Risa
At the dark of the moon in deep winter, we gather to work with ice as an ancient technology of protection, containment, and survival.
Under the Capricorn New Moon, we meet in low light and warmth to tend fear, rage, and vigilance without dispersing them. Together, we’ll shape a simple winter spell using ice, cold, and boundary—calling on the steady, structural power of winter to freeze what threatens life and interrupt harm.
We will also share warmth: blankets, breath, quiet witnessing, and small-group connection.
Meditation, pathworking and somatic practice will be led by our brilliant coven mates in this collaborative ritual.
🗓 Monday, January 19
🕯 8:00–9:30 pm EST
🌑 Virtual | Cameras optional
A short preparation list will be shared in advance. Nothing is mandatory. Care for your body comes first.
We gather to stay intact.
We gather to hold—together.
May memory be a living thing.
May grief remain porous to joy.
May the dead walk with us kindly.
May we keep singing.
BFB,
Risa + Amy
