Witch Clan: Matriarchs, John Stormm [great reads txt] 📗

would appear that the present evil paradigm that holds the world you know in thrall through paper talismans with occult symbology, otherwise known as “paper currency” that has no other value at all, are still indeed quite damned and for the most righteous of reasons. Note also how men and women today have been separated and disconnected from anything natural in this world:

Instead of the beauty of a healthy body and a generous soul, women are subjected to tortures of unnatural footwear that destroy their feet over the span of years. Constricting corsets, brassieres, waxings, paintings, meaningless social niceties. And the men are taught from youth that to be strong they must measure their strength in what they can destroy or what they can buy. Everything in this evil paradigm that has any value, has a warlock value in dollars and cents or it is considered worthless. If you don’t believe it, the next time someone asks you in a social setting what you do for a living: tell them you flip hamburgers at McDonald’s, or Walmart, or mop floors and watch how fast they gather around someone else. Even the so called justice system hinges on those same talismans for power. Every crime or infraction has a listed dollar value. And as poor as they treat people of color, even a black man can quite literally get away with murder if he has the money to pay. If not… he’s a dead man! No question. The system is designed so that ONLY the elite can become wealthy and succeed in this material plane. But even so, they are losing out on their power too, and can ONLY maintain it as such as long as you believe those talismans will give you power and keep your focus on the lowest plane of existence: the material plane.

I am a Danaan “witch of the blood“. I am not a religious man, but I am a spiritual man. I do not seek to proselytize you all into witches like me. I seek to help you break their chains and shake them off for yourselves. I can’t do it for you. You must evolve and grow on your own steam and find your own power. I can only point out the fence that has been holding you inside the box. Any physicist will tell you that an atom is 99.9999% empty space. Since you and everything else in the universe is comprised of atoms, with like charged particles that by rights should fly apart rather than hold together: it is apparent that the TRUE substance of the universe is not matter or material things, but consciousness. God is not a cranky old white man sitting on a throne somewhere.
KJV Colossians 1:16-17
16. For by him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers: all things were created by him, and for him:
17. And he is before all things, and by him all things

consist

.

Take away the mystical, religious double talk and see that consciousness for exactly what it is. Having a consciousness of your own, step up to the universe and take your rightful places as sons and daughters of the omnipresent Creator in spite of anyone’s paltry religious views and find your power. Because the powers-that-be in this present evil paradigm can only bully you as long as you believe they are better and more powerful than you. All those paper talismans or signed edicts put together add up to nothing but your own slavery to the falsest of gods. The Lakota Sioux have a saying: Mitakuye Oyasin! We are all of us related! The substance of this world is only an illusion that you are destined to rise above or be crushed beneath. You start choosing your own path and destiny for yourself and let no man rob you of your own divine power to do so. Quit thinking of truth in terms of religious doctrine and dogma. I have shown you where it came from and no good can come of it. Reach out of the box and out of yourself and touch that consciousness that holds the atoms together within you and cry out: DADDY! Or MOM! As you will, but know you belong to something and someone far greater than a petty tyrant! I am your brother, John Stormm.

Ella's Story

August, 1939

"Let me tell you a story about an ancestor;" Ella Mae began, her conversational tone belying the storyteller's magick that made the teller and the told all one.
Although Emma had heard this family tale a thousand times. She gazed on her mother's aging form, how she held the tea cup, closing her eyes and drawing up the tale. The humble enamel topped kitchen table faded and from the shadows emerged an ancient court, the linoleum floor transformed into the thresh strewn flagstones, the window that offered a glimpse of the backyard garden melted into the heraldry of the court that Emma knew as well as she did her well tended kitchen. She closed her eyes, succumbed to her mother's magic.

"A king, the High King in Ireland," she went on, "in Tara, the seat of the Earth. Had no male heir, but three daughters. Three cherished daughters."
In Emma's mind's eye the daughters emerged, resplendent in green and yellow kyrtles, one with hair of raven's wing, one of henna red and the last the palest blond,gleaming from the powder of limestone she had washed it with. Emma never knew why they looked that way, her mother had never said such a thing, but it was how she always saw them.

"So you may imagine the relief when the prince of foreign court came visiting," she continued, "professing his love for the youngest of the damsels and how the King, knowing the true measure of love, granted them to wed. It would be some time, they would be long married, before they found just how foreign this prince truly was."
Emma always had a hard time seeing the prince, the older she got, the more shadowed his face, first a dark and swarthy youth, reminiscent of Clark Gable, but no, a lad, hair pale and blond and eyes that at a flash of thunder went from gray to blue to gray again.

“In the course of married life, the prince’s secret was found out. He was not fully human, as his mother was foreign royalty and his father was even more so, of the court of the ancient Tuatha Danaans. These were a supposedly divine race of beings that the early Celtic settlers displaced in the land, mostly at sword point,” she said taking another sip of tea.

“As it happened, the prince was not a bad sort of fellow. He genuinely loved his princess bride and they raised children. To be precise, they raised daughters. His contribution to the royal family line was no small affair, as these were very wise and talented women, to be sure. But as the number three is a potent number in Celtic magic, it also happens that every third generation produces an adept of exceptional craft and power. Thus, a tradition of matriarchal succession has come down to us in this clan. The reigning matriarch usually being an adept born with this inherited trait.”
“Our next matriarch will probably be born of one of your daughters, Emma,” she concluded. “If we’re wise, we’ll prepare for her to improve our clannad’s station in the world.”

“Are you proposing we marry one off to a foreign prince?” Emma laughed.

“Not exactly…” Ella Mae said. “I’m saying we should consider the things that make us what we are, and do all we can to enhance our chances. At several points in our lengthy family history, our clan was all but wiped out by witch hunters. But, in this liberal modern country, where women vote for presidents and own property, the right woman, in the right place, at the right time can change the world. With the right mate, we can insure that our next matriarch comes out perfect in every way. Just imagine the effect of an alluring, blue eyed, vision of loveliness, with the power to move men whither so ever she will, in a country with all the promise of modern America,” she expounded. “Imagine, one day, colleges formed, where men and women go to learn not just knowledge, but wisdom. Imagine the changes they make to their worlds, when they take it home with them.”
It was late August of 1939 as Ella Mae sat at her daughter’s kitchen table having this discussion while making jam and canning tomatoes. Emma’s youngest daughter, Lorry, was helping her mom and grandma by sweeping the kitchen floor.

“Be careful so near the stove with that broom handle,” Emma called out.

On top of the wood burning, kitchen stove, a variety of pots bubbled with grape jam, and tomatoes stewing for canning. As six year old Lorry looked up at her mom, the broom handle she wielded hooked the handle of a pot of boiling grape jam, and it toppled over, spilling its entire contents over her. The women gaped and jumped as Lorry shrieked her pain and danced hysterically around the kitchen in front of the stove. Ella Mae, as matriarch, was quick to take matters in hand, and with a stern word to Emma, she did the unthinkable.

“Do as I do, and the child will be fine,” she said. “I know this.”

She took Lorry by the shoulders and began turning her in a widdershins circle and blowing on her, chanting between breaths. Taking her cue, Emma did likewise while speaking words of comfort to her daughter. It seemed an eternity, and they were getting light headed from all the puffing. As her grandchild’s sobs subsided, she pulled off Lorry’s shift and took a cool damp towel and began daubing away the sticky jam from