I want to be a lonely mystic
dwelling in devotion,
constantly dialoging with divinity,
drenched in wonder,
and doused with delight
in knowing my place
in the family of things.
I want to weave spells
from wind and wildness,
soak in solitude,
and excavate the depths
of my own soul.
I want great expanses of time
to be and to listen,
to feel and know,
each step a prayer,
ceaselessly walking with the goddess.
I crave the clarity of insight
dropping with a flash
into my open hands,
the clear space of listening
with no other voices in my head.
I want to pray with my eyes wide open
from sunrise until sunset,
never missing an opportunity
to commune with the sacred,
to feel myself enrobed,
ensconced,
ensorcelled,
enspelled
with divine wonder, curiosity,
awareness, and understanding.
I want to light candles
and speak spells,
weave magic from the ordinary
and listen,
always listen,
to the whispers of my heart.
I want a chamber of quietude
with only crows and owls
for companions,
the soft eyes of deer
in a wooded glade
my witnesses,
steam rising from my broths and brews,
weeds and roses twining together
into the medicine of my spirit.
I want to be quiet and contemplative,
waiting in the shadows to spot the magic,
to feel the power,
to see through to the threads of things.
I want to feel still and holy
grateful and graceful,
to be an enspirited beacon
embodying my prayers.
Instead,
I am a mama mystic
I nestle children against my shoulder,
my nose resting in blonde hair and needs,
mediate disputes,
knead bread dough,
make dinner,
fold laundry,
read books,
find filaments of magic
wound around the smallest things,
claw solitude from scraps,
and weave small spells
and bits of enchantment
from moments of magic
that wander by my full hands and head.
I gently coax quiet poems
from full spaces,
let prayers wind up over days,
nosing patiently into the cracks
between my deeds.
And, with my hands in the dough,
or my nose in the hair,
or the hand in mine,
I am drenched in devotion,
dialoging with divinity,
each step a prayer,
and knowing my place
in the family of things.
This is where the goddess dwells
right through the middle of everything,
in the temple of the ordinary.
Here, she says,
this too,
is holy,
sacred,
true,
and it needs you,
not that bloodless,
imaginary,
perfect priestess,
of silent
secret praise.
This is the real work of living
and it shows you who
you
are.
*“Family of things” phrasing from Mary Oliver.
Molly Remer has been gathering the women to circle, sing, celebrate, 
and share since 2008. She plans and facilitates women’s circles, seasonal retreats and rituals, mother-daughter circles, family ceremonies, and red tent circles in rural Missouri. She is a priestess who holds MSW, M.Div, and D.Min degrees and wrote her dissertation about contemporary priestessing in the U.S. Molly and her husband Mark co-create Story Goddesses, original goddess sculptures, ceremony kits, mini goddesses, and jewelry at Brigid’s Grove. Molly is the author of Womanrunes, Earthprayer, the Goddess Devotional, She Lives Her Poems, and The Red Tent Resource Kit and she writes about thealogy, nature, practical priestessing, and the goddess at Patreon, Brigid’s Grove, and Sage Woman Magazine.
feminismandreligion.com 
Mama mystic, great term. As I have been suggesting, any path that asks us to leave, leave behind, or give up the world, the body, nature, and relationships is implicitly matricidal. It tells us that the life our mothers’ give us is not the real good enough life we deserve. It also makes it very hard for us to think of mothers as spiritual or fountains of spiritual wisdom. Pardon me, but what a crock..
In contrast in egalitarian matriarchies the love that mothers give in their daily lives to vulnerable children, to plants, and to everyone becomes a cultural model for all to emulate. Blessed be!
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You are so right Carol – any path that asks us to give up the world, the body, nature, and relationships is matricidal…it is terrifying to me how far down that path we have come…
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Love your poem. So true and a mirror of my call and longing and walk on this earth. Thank you.
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I like the idea and life of the mama mystic lots better than the idea and life of the lonely mystic. The hermit mystic living in a cave and not seeing anybody but just his own reflection (in water or only in his own mind) is a patriarchal ideal. We live on earth with other people and our societies and other kinds of life, and our mysticism can be of benefit to them and us and everyone.
Though you’re totally right–sometimes we just gotta get away from that maddening crowd and take better care of ourselves. Be both kinds of mystics!
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Oh my… your poem really resonated with me. Thank you. I’m glad it ended as it did because I was looking for that and there is was!
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Thank you for illuminating our longing for an imaginary temple while inhabiting (but often not recognizing) the “temple of the ordinary”…the divine/enlightenment that is present right here in everything we experience.
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Molly, I LOVE your poetry! I hope we see a lot more of it here.
Our pagan path, which you describe lusciously in your poem, is very much like the Tantric Hindu path. The only difference I’ve found so far is that Tantra has existed for over 1,00 years. As opposed to the “householder” as described in the Laws of Manu (from a much more conservative form of Hinduism),Tantric householders include everyone in the tradition. People marry or don’t, have families or live alone and work like everybody else. But for the Tantric householder, every activity is an offering of self to Self, whether raising kids, doing the dishes, singing kirtan, or working at a job. Tantra never has had monasteries or ashrams. That’s what I hear in your poem. Thanks!
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This is absolutely beautiful! For the mothers in us and the mothers around us.
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Oh Molly, you’ve outdone yourself. The poem is beautiful and your words of wisdom are so true! It makes me think about how I spend my day, sometimes in solitude in the woods, but mostly taking care of my mother. I guess this makes me a daughter mystic!
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This is exquisite. I so identify with both kinds of mystics, but even in my 70’s, Mama Mystic still pulls more powerfully on my soul. Thank you.
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