By Nick Murphy
Owning the truth of my Paganism came with a price. I lost the acceptance of family, respect for my mother and the unwavering faith of my grandmother. Only the last loss hurt. When she told me her heart was broken, and laid the super¬stition and lies of the Christian world at the altar of my Gods I was struck clean through. The passing years and miles left the wound scarred, resentment turn¬ing me indifferent and callous. I held back the bottle of my love, pouring sparingly, so as not to waste on thirsty, ungiving ground. Mostly though, I just missed my grandmother. I felt cut adrift, in sight of the shore, welcome to visit and ever judged. The staccato attacks of her ignorance blended with the litany of love so that I was never certain when to flinch. I had lost access to her through the door that to her mattered most, and with it a part of my childhood.
The full article can be found on page 76 of The Witches' Almanac Spring 2018-2019: The Magic of Plants