Our circles are small when we live our stories, though we cast them wide for the telling. In our most cherished legends and dreams, we are ordinary goddesses: powerful, capable, woolly-caped and bold, and everything we touch turns right.
These are the stories we share not to make others chill and shudder, drawing their musty pilled cardigans close around their shoulders, thinking of where they'd rather be, and other pressing obligations as the tea grows cold and the soup congeals in greasy bowls; not to vent our frustration at never finding the right door in an endless sweat-soaked dream, the clock ticking ever faster in its urgent, nagging, persistent voice; not to wail in grief or dessicating bitterness at our wasted efforts, unborn children, ever-expanding girth and irrevocably lost opportunities.
These are the stories we share to draw others close, the stories that bind us together harmonious with the spell-craft, the ordinary strength we share as mothers, sisters, aunts; the fortitude to reach down and draw our little sister, our daughter from the bottom of the muddy lake where she fell, not even feeling the cold sting of the water, the ache of pounded muscle or the burning of oxygen-starved lungs; the ability to revive this found child, an everyday miracle, from the spell of the foamy water with a single breath. These stories are best served alongside some fresh-baked bread, yeasty with currants and cinnamon; piping-hot tea made with garden-fresh herbs; a cheery fire, long tight hugs and belly-warming laughter.
These are the stories that bind us together. And when we are together, we know, we feel it deep down, that everything is going to turn out alright.