I step out of the shower and towel off. Then, having first (as does every Minnesotan in Winter who aspires still to have skin left by Spring) rubbed down with body lotion, I take the little goddess pendant from where she hangs beside the mirror, kiss her, and put her around my neck. She's always first on, last off, every day.
For pagans, kissing is an act of worship. When you wear something sacred, you naturally kiss it before you put it on. For me, it seems logical to kiss the side that touches your skin. In the case of this particular little goddess, I note with amusement that this means that I'm kissing her butt.
Ah, witches: known for the osculum infame, that infamous act of anal adoration that we're reputed routinely to give the Horned, or whatever you care to call him. Supposedly a sign of moral degradation, it's always struck me, rather, as an atavistic act of mammalian intimacy instead. (Think of dogs greeting one another.) There has to be trust here. You don't allow access to your butt to just anyone.
When you think about it, it's big. Upper mouth, lower mouth. The story of the food cycle, with all that that entails.
The Goddess, of course, doesn't turn up much in the trial transcripts—the guys with the thumbscrews mostly wanted to hear about the Devil instead—but I think of Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie confessing to kissing the “Queen of Elphame's arse.”
“All parts of the Master are sweet and good.” That's what witches say. With the Lady, how could it be any different? For us, the body is hero.
I smile, shake my head, and climb into the rest of my clothes.
Bone Mama pendant,
carved from naturally-shed elk antler
by Oksana