The Involuntarily Solitary Witch

 

“We’re not gatekeeping. We’re guarding the flame.”

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We Remember the Gathering

There was a time when witches gathered under moonlight not just to worship, but to work. We built altars out of nothing and communities out of even less. We led public circles in open parks with nothing but a boom box and a dream. We hosted festivals where the magic in the air buzzed louder than the drum circles.

Our elders—gods, our elders—they taught us. They shared sacred rites, hard-earned truths, and whispered secrets over campfires, morning coffee, and cigarette breaks between workshops. They were messy and magnificent, flawed and ferocious. They were real.

They handed us a tradition, and we were honored to carry it. Not just the spells and the rites, but the values, the discipline, the understanding that magic is a craft, not just an aesthetic.

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Why We’ve Gone Quiet

But now?

Now we’re solitary—not because we chose to be, but because we’re burned out.

Burned out from trying to build circles where no one wants to stand still long enough to cast one.

Burned out from trying to teach people who think sprinkling herbs on a candle and calling it a vibe is “witchcraft.”

Burned out from students who want to self-initiate into fifteen different paths before learning how to ground and center.

Burned out from watching people abandon the work and call it “boundaries” while hiding behind “I’m just such a Gemini.”

This isn't bitterness. This is grief.

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We Still Want to Teach

Gods help us, we still do.

We want to sit in a kitchen with a cup of something hot and strong, telling the story of how Raven Grimassi taught us what true lineage means. We want to tell you what it felt like to ferry Dorothy Morrison to and from the airport, absorbing her wit, her wisdom, and her warrior heart.

We want to describe the gravity that rolled off Phyllis Curott as she spoke truth to power in a living room with a handful of seekers. To share the sacred hum in the circle with Ivo Dominguez Jr., where the air itself crackled with will and wonder.

To tell you how we watched Wendy Rule row across a stormy lake in a top hat, becoming a myth in real time. To whisper the memories of conversations with Scott Cunningham, already partway into the next world, yet still full of Earth-loving magic.

These aren’t name-drops. They’re invocations. These are the ancestors of our tradition, the ones who lit our way. And yes—we want to pass that flame to someone who’ll carry it with care.

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But It Has to Be Real

If you want this, you have to want this. Not a shortcut. Not a brand. Not a social media aesthetic.

Come with hands that know how to wash chalices and sweep floors before you ask to call quarters.

Come with ears that listen, not just lips that speak.

Come to sit in circle, not as the center of it—but as a part of the whole.

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We Are Still Here

We are the involuntarily solitary. The ones who never wanted to go quiet, who never wanted to be alone at our altars. We wanted to teach. To serve. To share.

And maybe we still can.

If your bones ache reading this, if something in you stirs awake, then come find us. Quietly. Respectfully. Reverently.

We’re tired.
We’re grieving.
But we’re not done.

We’re still holding the thread.

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🜃 So light a candle. Whisper a name. And listen.

The witches are still watching.
And we remember everything.