Queen of Swords

The world hangs in stillness. It is a tricky business becoming acquainted with one's ancestors at this time of year. This afternoon, Forest and I hung a skeleton on our front door, put a giant spiderweb among the beanpoles, a gravestone by the witch hazel. Now, it is almost midnight and this house is so quiet; it feels quieter than it ever has in all the years I've lived here. 13 years. Jupiter's orbit plus one. 

I am talking to my ancestors, I have discovered them. At camp I was given clues by the cards. A gift from my father’s mother's line: Words and insight. A woman of piercing intelligence who shapes with the cutting edge of her vision.

The queen of swords.

This card has been my significator for more than a decade. Maybe my whole life. Is this where I get it?

Before I left for camp I was talking with a new friend, a young woman- smart and  courageous, and committed to a campaign that I'm committed to also. We are working together. We are looking at the conditions of politics and the calling of our hearts, informed by our ideas and our experience and making decisions about what is next. I don't know her well but I feel as if I do and I tell her that I am a witch. She tells me that there is magic in her family and that she did a tarot reading about this campaign. She tells me the cards showed her someone who she would work with, a quick thinking woman who would be important to her.  "I think that's you," she says to me. "What was the card?" I say. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I know the answer before I even ask. "Was it the queen of swords?" I say. "Yes!" she says. "It was."

The weekend after I get back from camp, I'm on the phone with my mother. She is interested in genealogy, but I never have been before. She says that she just received a letter, out of the blue. “Guess what I found out? One of your father’s mother’s ancestors, a woman, went to Oberlin College in the 1800s."

This seems unheard of, a woman in college in that time...

When my mom comes to visit she shows me a picture of this woman. Her name was Lucina. The letter said Oberlin, but on the back of the photograph it says that she was at Hillsdale. In the photograph, she is in profile. Long, very thick dark hair hangs far down her back. She proud, almost imperious. She is one of the witchiest women I’ve even seen. I hope she is with me tonight, in this still house. Something is stirring. I cast my senses around the walls, around the trees that line the property. I cast them within. It is two days after Friday the 13th. 16 days until Halloween. The veil is growing thin.