Listen to the wise women by Molly Remer

In 2012, shortly after I finished my priestess ordination process and I’d been facilitating women’s retreats for two years, I got a wild idea to go to a goddess festival of some kind. I did a google search and found one that sounded great—Gaea Goddess Gathering–and it was happening in just two weeks. Imagine my surprise to then look at the bottom of the screen and see that it was located only a five-hour drive from me, just over the border into Kansas. I decided it was “meant to be.” My mom and a friend signed up with me (and my then 18 month old daughter) and we packed up my van and went! The night before we left on our adventure, I sat down at the kitchen table and felt a knife-like stinging pain on the back of my leg. I’d accidentally sat on a European giant hornet (these are not regular hornets, they are literally giant hornets about two inches long).

Though the sting became hot and swollen and terribly painful, we set forth anyway. I asked for input on Facebook and did google research and started putting benadryl cream on it, even though I usually go with home remedies over medical-model remedies. It got worse and worse, eventually running from my hip to my knee and wrapped around my entire leg so that two thirds of my thigh was sting-area and the difference in size between my legs was noticeable through clothing. During the festival, as I watched myself get worse and worse and people kept making remarks about needing epi-pens and maybe I should go to the hospital, I decided to dispense with the benadryl and listen to the wise women instead. My friend found plantain and made me a poultice. The cook gave me baking soda that I applied in a paste. I went to a ceremony that involved a healing ritual with sound and a priestess in a tent beat a drum over me as I lay there on my stomach. After a little Reiki healing, she then leaned very, very close to my ear and said quietly, “are you taking good enough care of yourself? You give and give and it is time to receive. You need to be taken care of too.” And, I cried.

I came out of the tent and laid on a bench and women I didn’t know came and put their hands on my back and made me tinctures of strange plants they found in the herb garden and I drank it even though it almost made me gag. Another woman I didn’t know rubbed my back and though I couldn’t even see her face, she leaned close to my ear and said, “sometimes life stings you. Your friends, your family, being a parent, taking care of your children. It stings sometimes. Things people say without meaning to, sting you. You’re sensitive, Sometimes it stings a lot and you worry that you’re not good enough. I see you with your baby. You are such a good mother.” And, I cried again, lying there on bench in the middle of nowhere with my dress pulled up and my red, sore, swollen, horrible thigh covered with a poultice of mysterious weeds, surrounded by women I didn’t know, but who were caring for me. And, I got better. By the time I got home, the sting was almost totally healed.*

I returned to GGG five times over the next ten years, sometimes pregnant, sometimes nursing a baby, sometimes toting a toddler and an infant, always learning something new about myself, always persevering through some challenge, always changing. Last year, the festival moved locations, to my own home state, Missouri, landing only about 45 minute drive from me, and invited me to be the keynote speaker. This year, I returned again, with my mom and the same friend who originally attended with me all those years ago as well as other friends too. This year, I was asked to co-facilitate the Crone rite of passage. I also offered a workshop with a powerful affirmation circle.

My mom and three Crone friends held the space as “Elemental Crones,” drumming in the center of our circle. The sky was filled with migrating hawks, wheeling overhead. The air was thick with the last remnants of summer’s heat. The ground was dry, longing for rain.

As I stood in the circle of Crones and women in every phase of life, looking at each woman’s face, full of her own power, magic, and wisdom I knew: We are all the wise women. Listen.

It is exhausting to always try to fix yourself, the quest for perfection seems never to end. Today, may you remember that life is not one long self-improvement project, it is an unfolding process of discovery, becoming, and change. You are a magical woman. May you claim your power and inhabit your wisdom. May you root deep in the cycles of this land and your life. May you extend to touch the infinite and smile in recognition of your own belonging. May you welcome serenity as it enfolds you. May you be open to peace as it infuses you. 

Return,
return,
return. 

You are here. 

This magic is yours to live and claim, to know and name. 

Goddess,
mother,
wise one,
warrior one,
source of life and love.
Powers of land and sky,
powers of sea and shore,
powers of earth and air,
powers of fire and water,
we call upon you to encircle us
as we circle,
to enfold us as we unfold,
to guide us as we unravel.
Be with us in our becoming
and our unbecoming
as we rise together,
sacred,
sovereign,
and strong.
Thank you.

*Note: This story is not intended as a medical advice in any way. My mom and I both have strong localized reactions to insect bites and stings and despite the alarming appearance, I felt confident this was not life-threatening.