Seasons of Moon and Flame. Danielle Dulsky

she was, but her routine kept her warm for a time. Each morning she woke; sipped her tepid water; nibbled her bread; then lit her candles for a lover that never came, a poetry that was never spoken, and a Goddess she never met. Her days were spent staring at the altar and willing it to share its secrets, and her nights were spent speaking to the dead High Priestess as if her heart were still beating. Over time, she started to see the ghost of the elder in her own face and hear her voice when she spoke.

      The years flowed along like a slow-moving stream that wound about in a circle, always spinning ’round again to spring, unbothered by the unmet dreams of the flame-tending Priestess who never left the temple. Left alone with her thoughts, Bride began to wonder about the nature of time. She wondered if she had truly aged, or if she had merely remembered herself old. Her childhood memories seemed to be more fantasy these days, after all, and who was to say all of time wasn’t an illusion? Without anyone to argue in defense of linear time and the value of those boxes labeled “past,” “present,” and “future,” Bride slipped into a state of timelessness and grace, a holy void of sorts, that would have swallowed her whole were it not for her precious patterns.

      One day, a day that began just like all the others, the Priestess woke, drank her water, and ate her bread, then began lighting her candles. Just as she lit the candle for her absent lover, a knock came at the door. Now, some of the shy storytelling grannies say that Bride heard the knock and ignored it, while others say that the Priestess, without any reference for what a knock sounded like after so many quiet years spent in solitude, could not hear the knock at all. She didn’t answer the door, in any case, not then and not when the other two knocks came as she lit the candle for her poetry and another for the Goddess. The rest of her day dragged on as it always did, and the knocks never came again, not really.

      Something had changed inside that temple, though. Some wild energy entered the place and refused to leave after that day when the knocks came. That central candle in the holiest of holies burned a bit brighter, nearly returning to the glory with which it glowed when the High Priestess was still living. Bride began dreaming the most fantastical dreams, waking in a cold sweat and calling out to the old grandmother’s ghost. A year or more of these dreams went by, and the Priestess began to slip even more out of time without sleep to anchor her.

      One such night, just at the Witching Hour, after a few hours of particularly fitful sleep, Bride began moving about the temple, as she often did. As she passed the hallway mirror, though, she stopped dead in her tracks, for there was most certainly the old High Priestess come back to life.

      “What are you doing with yourself, child?” the reflection in the mirror said. “Day after day you light those candles for your wishes, then you don’t even answer the door for a visitor? How will you know if a lover has come? Who will hear your poetry, and how will the Goddess find you?”

      “A knock? Well, I — I don’t recall —” she protested, but the grandmother interrupted her.

      “Next time someone comes to the door, Priestess, let them in. Put your routine out for the dogs, and leave me in the ground where I belong.”

      The ghost kept looking back at her through the mirror but said no more, and the Priestess returned to bed. When she woke in the morning, she moved to sip her water but stopped herself. It was for mere moments that she stared at her glass recalling the spectral crone’s orders, but that small window of time was space enough for her to hear a knocking. She recalled the grandmother’s words and moved, not without caution, to the door.

      Half her heart was expecting a lover, but what she found was a wild-hearted woman who had heard from her own mother about the holiness of this place. The Priestess was hesitant, but there was something about her way that made Bride invite her to stay. The next day, another wild heart arrived, and then another, then another. In only a few moons’ time, the temple was full of Priestesses again. When early spring rolled around, the old Bride-Priestess found herself face-to-face with a strong-jawed creature who, she thought, seemed much like she used to be, chained to routine and ambition, fearful of all things unknown.

      Like we all do, the elder had become the very teacher she had needed when she was younger, and she told the woman, this new seeker whom we’ll call Brighid, in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster, “Soon, you’ll know nothing at all for sure, though you know much now. Even so, you must never lose hope, and you must keep opening every door — for you, for the elders, and for those yet-to-be-born babes who, someday, will look to you for wisdom.”

      In time, the newcomer fell into a ritual, lighting candles every morning for innocence, courage, and spiritual discernment. She was overly attached to Bride, that young one, always following after her like a loyal puppy and thirstily soaking up every bit of the elder’s wisdom. Every morning, she lit her candles for innocence, courage, and spiritual discernment, and every night, she prayed to the old gods for the High Priestess’s health.

      Light three more candles now: one each for innocence, courage, and spiritual discernment.

      Alas, death visited the holy place once more, as it always did, carrying Bride into the ether, where she joined those ghostly flame tenders who knew her best. The other altar keepers slowly left the temple for their many reasons, and Brighid found herself alone in the fire keeper’s temple, waiting for knocks that, in time, did come. The lover with warm hands was first to arrive, followed by a poet’s tongue, and the Goddess herself, and as time wound ’round like a circular stream, the Priestesses returned to the temple, the fire tender aged, and a wild heart who looked much like she used to look in her youth found herself there. “Soon, you’ll know nothing at all for sure, though you know much now. Even so, you must never lose hope, and you must keep opening every door — for you, for the elders, and for those yet-to-be-born babes who, someday, will look to you for wisdom.”

      The budding Priestess, this new wild heart whom we shall call Bright, lit candles for the sacred trees, for good stories, and for those hearth-holding Witches who, when all is said and done, keep hope alive for those who have yet to know true belonging.

      Light the final three candles now: one each for sacred trees, good stories, and hearth-holding Witches.

      In time, it was innocence, courage, and spiritual discernment that came to the door, followed, of course, by more altar keepers and a wandering Priestess who would call in beauty, magick, and grace, only to be found by sacred trees, good stories, and the hearth holders.

      Some of those bashful grannies who share this story end it with a song, others with a prayer, and some just a knowing nod that silently says, Yes. Yes, you understand. I, however, will end it with pertinent questions:

      What have your forebears lit candles for that, at long last, has come to your door? Will you answer when the knock comes, and will you keep the fire burning for blessings destined only to find the yet-to-be-born?

      The Garden Hag does not wait for you to answer but stands, leaving you with the nine candles burning and these words: “Well, ponder these questions now. Meet me by the forsythias once you’ve dressed, and we’ll go to the Elders’ Altar, where nostalgia meets activism, where the deeper wounds meet the healer you’ve become.”

       Opening Practice: Flame Tending for the Yet-to-Be-Born

      Materials: Three small, squat candles, one for each “cosmic egg” spell jar

      As the new moon dawns at midspring, place your small candles on top of your cosmic egg jars. You might choose colors that correspond to your dream visions, or a simple tea light will suffice. When ready, affirm that you are in sacred space, feel into your body, and light these candles, one at a time, in the name of a less wounded, more whole world. As you light each candle, call to mind a vision of children in the future gifted with a dream similar to the dream you are calling in for yourself. If one of your cosmic eggs represents you rooted and secure in a new home, for instance, perhaps you envision future generations, the yet-to-be-born, swaddled and secure, as you light the candle. If you are calling in travel and spaciousness, perhaps