Woodfield - Dark goddess craft: a journey through the heart of transformation

Llewellyn Publications

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Dark Goddess Craft: A Journey through the Heart of Transformation 2017 by Stephanie Woodfield.

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First e-book edition 2017

E-book ISBN: 9780738754079

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Interior art by Llewellyn Art Department

Llewellyn Publications is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Woodfield, Stephanie, author.

Title: Dark goddess craft : a journey through the heart of transformation /

Stephanie Woodfield.

Description: First Edition. | Woodbury : Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd., 2017. |

Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017029887 (print) | LCCN 2017041126 (ebook) | ISBN

9780738754079 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738752563 (alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Goddesses. | Goddess religion.

Classification: LCC BL473.5 (ebook) | LCC BL473.5 .W659 2017 (print) | DDC

202/.114dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017029887

Llewellyn Publications does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

For the Morrigan. I am grateful.

For all the dark goddesses who have touched my life.

For my Tuatha, my Tribe of Ravens. I am grateful for each of you.

For Karen, Gina, Ivy, and Ellie for contributing to this work and being all-around badasses.

For Ed. You are the best man I have ever known. I love you.

Contents

: Who Is the Dark Goddess?

: The Nature of Dark Gods

: Working with Dark Deities

: Cursing, Warding, and Other Defensive Magick

: The Process of Transformation

: The Descent

: The Washer at the Ford

: Akhilandeshvari

: Hekate

: Sedna

: Challenge

: Oya

: Kali

: Eris

: Ereshkigal

: Rebirth

: Blodeuwedd

: Scthach

: Persephone

Introduction

I t is twilight and I stand in a grassy clearing in a loose circle with others as we celebrate the equinox. Slash pines tower around us, looking like giants in the fading light. It has been a weekend of connecting with old friends and meeting new ones, teaching, and coming together. My spirit feels full and light as my friend leading the ritual tells us to sit, to feel the living ground beneath us, as he begins to walk us through a meditation journey. His voice is calm and soothing, and I follow along easily, slipping into a trance. But there is someone else there in that space between spaces, and she decides she has something different to tell me.

A moment ago I could hear my friends calm voice. Now it is suddenly gone, as if someone has flipped a switch and muted him, and so is the imagery he was creating. Now I stand in what almost seems like a swamp or a low, quiet lake. The water comes to just below my knees, and it moves slowly among the reeds and tall grass. But this water is as red as blood, and before me stands a woman. I know I am in the river of life and death, the river of the Washer at the Ford. The Washerwoman stands tall and sleek before me, her arms and legs long and willowy like the reeds that surround us. This time she wears a veil over her face; other times her long, black hair falls over her face like a shroud. She stoops over the water and washes something in her hands. I cannot tell if it is a dark garment, the bottom of her own ragged and flowing clothes, or something else entirely. She wrings the garment in her hands, her long, almost clawed fingers running down them and ripping invisible things away.

I have met this face of the Morrigan many times before, but with some trepidation I ask her what message she has for me. She points further out into the water, which has no shore and seems to go onward in every direction forever. The water begins to ripple, starting at my feet and moving forward into the distance. And then I begin to see the ritual circle that I sit in again, the solid ground beneath me, and the two images merge. The ground, which seemed so unmovable before, is nothing but rippling waterfluid, changeable, and reshapeable as the ripples move through them.

Nothing can withstand the change I bring. Do you understand? The ripples in the water are small but they feel like a tsunami. I feel the force of them washing through me, and I feel compelled to walk forward through the waters, the ripples changing everything around me and propelling me forward at the same time in an unstoppable wave. You have asked me for change. You have set the wheel in motion. Nothing can stop this now, not even you. And I know she is right. I have begun to make changes in my life, ones whose consequences I know will reshape my life. But this is the kind of reshaping that involves buildings crumpling and the ground beneath my feet being pulled away. If I do what I need to do, I will have to destroy so many things in my life and see what I can rebuild out of the rubble. But the cost of not doing this would be even greater.

Still pulled onward by the river, I turn to see the Washerwoman walking beside me. It is hard to see her face behind the veil of wet hair. What stands out are her bloodstained lips and the words she speaks, which move through me like the rippling water: Remember that you are worthy. This will come to pass. No man or god can stop it now.

And then the river and the Washerwoman are gone. I see just the darkness behind my closed eyes, hear the calm, soothing voice of my friend as he continues to guide the others through the meditation. I take a breath and try to ground myself. I put a hand on the ground and run my fingers through the grass. The ground is solid, but I still feel the shadow of the rippling water.