Hecate's Hearth

     I imagine myself slowly pulling on my warm, bulky sweater and stepping out into the night.  Then I make my way down the sidewalk to the end of the street where a cul de sac borders a vacant lot that still has its trees.  I don't hesitate.  I know where I'm going.

     I walk across the lot and although it is an ordinary lot by day, on nights like these it seems vast and endless.  The few trees become a great forest that towers overhead and crowds my path.  Tiny rivulets made by the rain become tumbling brooks and gurgling streams I must cross by way of slippery stones.

     Finally, I come to a small clearing in this now mighty forest and to a small, round hut.  In the window is a short, fat candle burning, sputtering in its own hot liquid, set within a roughly made and chipped pottery bowl.  Around the modest yard is a wicket fence woven in and out with willows like a wicker basket.  Lining the fence are healthy rambling plantings of deliciously fragrant flowers and herbs.  Vegetables grow along the side of the house.

     Slowly, carefully, I lift up on  the gate slightly and push it open.  Setting it carefully on the ground.  I already know somehow that it squeaks if I'm not careful and will alert the old woman inside the hut.

     Moving surely and carefully so as not to bruise the precious plantings I approach the window.  There's the candle; it's a little shorter than it was the last time I was here.  I peer through the window into the hut.

     I can see old, frail Hecate, sitting at her hearth.  She sits there in a darkness illuminated by the candle in the window and warmed by a small, crackling fire.  As this lady Crone sits, she hums lowly to herself.  It's a familiar melody I can't quite recognize but know I should.

     I feel haunted.  I yearn to be there with her and involve myself in what she is doing.   For Hecate is always busy at something of great importance.

     Sometimes she spins, just sits and spins; along her thigh or with a drop spindle.  Sometimes she weaves, on a belt loom or a frame loom.  At other times, she plucks and cards the soft wool that sits in a basket at her side.  Still, sometimes she winds skeins of spun yarn into big, fat balls of potential. 

     What is it she knows?  I wonder.  How is it that she came to be so content and absorbed in such work?  Shouldn't I want more than a small, humble home that receives few visitors?  Oh, how I wonder.

     It's always like this, I raise my hand to tap at the window.  Each time I start out I promise myself I'll knock at the door but I never do.  I end up quietly turning away from the window and the tiny house with its small, ancient mistress.  I turn away and trudge back to real time, real house, real husband, real everything.

     It's a good time to be alive.  It's a good house we live in and he's a real good husband with a nice strong back to snuggle against on a cold dark night.  All in all, my life is really good.

     So why, on such a night do I feel as if though I have been lazy or cowardly?  Why do I feel I have missed an opportunity?  What might have happened if I had stayed one more minute or two or tapped on that small pane?

     There were times when I thought I would never know the answers to those questions and never understand why I longed so to visit Hecate's hearth.  As the the years went by and life became busier still, there were fewer opportunities to slip away.  Then, the occasion would arise and I would run as fast as I could go through the great magickal forest, terrified she might be gone.  But she wasn't. 

     With every visit now, the candle is a little shorter.  And lately Ive noticed that some of the flowers in her garden have gone past their prime and are wilting.  On my last visit, there was more room at the window than usual for Hecate had harvested the vegetables.

     Now I know, it's just a matter of time before all my work in my real life is done.  When all my tasks are complete, I will walk slowly up that garden path to the sturdy little door.  I'll knock once, maybe twice, then I'll turn the latch and open it.  

     Hecate will already have paused from her work.  She'll smile slowly and nod her grey head once.  Then she'll rise and pour me a cup of tea.