Tables and Doors - Karen

This is the door that belonged not to my mother, not to her mother, or even to her mother before her. It belonged to a woman three generations before that, a woman who lived in the deep dark wood of the Jodlowa forest of Poland, quite near the Lysa Gora, enchanted home of the witches' Sabbath. In this holy place, sheused only the wood the trees gave freely, building her shelter from downed branches and logs. The morning after a great storm, (during which she had spent the night invoking the goddess with all of her most powerful protective charms) she found that a great tree had been struck by lightning, and was lying near the river that ran behind her shelter. She and her neighbors blessed this bounty and set to cutting it, soothing the tree and thanking it for its protection, releasing the druid spirit to wander free, preventing it from taking up residence in the chimney or woodshed and keeping them awake all through the night. From this gift, she took much wood, but in particular, a long and wide piece, as thick as her hand that was marked through with the sign of the lightning, a jagged blackening that bespoke of nature's power. From this piece she made a great trestle table. Throughout the remainder of her life, she prepared her herbs, charms and potions on this surface, carving in symbols of magic and protection, smoothing the wood with the oils of her hands and sacred plants.

This table passed, daughter to daughter, crossing the ocean twice. Each daughter was schooled in the old ways by her mother, and each added her spells, charms, and magical symbols, until the surface of the table was covered with beautiful and mysterious patterns. The wood to this day smells of honey, herbs, stones, crystals, and berries-all the things ground into in by hands fashioning a future, a past, a present.

It was my fortune, when I got the table, to have a lovely cottage of my own, but it was small, too small for such a great table. I, too, lived in a wood, beside a river, tucked beneath a mountain. After careful consultation with my mother and my own oracles, and with the blessings of the goddess, I turned the table into a door, placing brass hinges and a knob on it, and mounting a knocker in the shape of a raven clinging to the surface, pecking for a juicy insect. It is the sentry and portal to my existence, my home.

This door needs no lock, as it is so heavily enchanted. It will freely allow all those who love me and mean me no harm to enter at will, keeping out those of cold heart, limited imagination, and cruel spirit. It protects against all manner of dark forces, and I anoint it yearly with protective herbs and oils, taking it from its hinge to clean and bless it, adding what few small symbols and spells I can to an undecorated edge, a tiny corner still bare. The inside of the door, being the underside of the table, is, by and large, a blank canvas, save for some small childish carvings placed there by little girls, daughters, as they frolicked beneath the table while their mothers, powerful sorceresses all, worked atop it. It is mine to create, mine and my daughters, and their daughters after them.

It holds magic within my hearth and home, but also leads to places of enchantment at special times throughout the year. For it is not always my dear forest I see when I pass through it, nor is it my own little cottage that some see when they enter. It is the greatest tool I have received from my foremothers, they who gifted me with the inner vision I bring to you today.