If after death I walk as a shade across an English ghostscape, I shall choose the old paths, the ancient ways. I will navigate by hollow hills, tread a haunted hodology. My living map of folklore will be the territory I'll tread. Harrowhounds shall pad beside me. – #CLNolan
Those lonely churches, near feral, half-swallowed by the land, cannot help but become folkloric nexii. Tales of tunnels used by smugglers come up under their altars. Their boneyards are patrolled by baleful Grims, their crooked spires are navigations for witch-flight. – #CLNolan
The witch walks the woods not just to fill her garnering bag, not just to talk with her favourite Wood Sprites. She walks to enter the trance of green communion. She walks to shade and silence her mind of all the accumulated bullshit beyond the woods. – #EmilyCBanting#Witchcraft
🤍🐈⬛🤍"I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through."
📖Jules Verne.
#BookWormSat#InternationalCatDay#Caturday
Thresholds may be the witch's engine of sorcery, but the wise among us learn to recognise those that shouldn’t be traversed. Not every gate has to be opened. Not ever border needs to be danced across. There are times where we only need acknowledge they are there. – #EmilyCBanting
🐾 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 – 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟔
While bombs continue to fall, our team is still entering high-risk areas to rescue animals left behind.
Every mission is dangerous.
Every life saved matters.
Today 𝟑𝟖 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐬 were rescued from heavily bombed areas-
• Providing travel crates for families fleeing with their animals
• Entering war zones to retrieve animals left behind
🙏 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩
Please consider fostering, volunteering, or donating to support these rescues.
🔗 Links in bio
Exhausted by the news, the Fox of Greenwich Village had gone to see an exhibition of watercolours by Thomas Moran at the Met. He walked listlessly from painting to painting, his mind churning over the morning paper, the violent rives torn daily in the fragile veil of democracy by men so monstrous that their very souls had fled their mortal frames. Wiping away a sudden tear, he reached the final landscape and was abruptly, unexpectedly, spellbound.
A fiery sunset over the ocean, a study so slight and yet so skilful, so beautiful, so ephemeral, it sent shivers all the way to the end of his white-tipped tail and his long elegant whiskers.
He moved closer to read the faint pencil inscription, suddenly desperate to know which sea, which eternal sky had been captured in those delicate washes of paint.
And there it was, in the artist's clear and distinctive hand: "T. Moran, 1883. The Gulf of Mexico."
Sisters, a little advice please? Cutting cord ritual, his candle went down first but the cord itself is still burning, as is mine but less so. His black candle wax reached out but didn't breach the salt wall too much. Does this mean the connection is still strong? #soulmate
The salt hag's paths are rarely easy walking. They trouble and tire muscles, test balance. Element exposed, wind-bullied even on calm days, we clamber them because the sea calls us. Our paths an initiatory trial before even our first wave. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchWednesday
There are parts of the River Crook wise anglers don't fish. It's not out of fear of Stay Belows, Necks or Red Maidens. It's from a knowing that it has eddies where curses have collected. Places where all the trauma of the land has flowed downstream. All you can catch is ill-luck.