There they were "throned" on my front porch; every summer; shelling peas, snapping beans;
There they were in bright big dresses: yellows, reds, blues, purples, oranges, greens;
Dresses dancing around overly large, abundant baby producing hips.
Dresses rocking, molding and cradling the curves of breasts made to feed nations
There they were sitting on my front porch preparing for winter, preparing for harvest, preparing for whatever storm was going to come..
Beautiful, radiant, women with raisin and coco skins- -reds and purples dancing around their cheeks and eyes..
They laugh watching the many children dodge the bees, skin their knees, and grin at each other trying so hard to please
They sit on the porch... Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, and Spirit...keeping the world turning, growing, cleansing. and just being.
They give birth, life, and call down sweet chariot while gently singing the dying into that River. All the while their chairs-- their thrones--rocking sorrow away and giving rhythm to joy.
With each moment of life calling up and gathering up the song comes the shout!
It starts with a lap or an apron full of peas leaping into the atmosphere. Bowls overturned, clanging their symphonic introduction in existence.
And in unison with the freedom of the peas, the women dance their souls out of their bodies like rainbow whales on emerald seas.
Free! Free! from the bondage society can hold.
Overlapping choruses of “How I got over,” “Nobody knows,” and “Amazing Grace drummed out on the wooden plank porch. A symphony of aged bare feet; a ballet of earthy round bodies painting God’s grace.
They think of the times when there were no peas, no beans, no food to share..
They remember when they could not own their own houses, their own lives, their own bodies or even their own dreams.
And the screams, the wailings crescendo into an opera of “Thank you, Jesus,” “Lord, have mercy,” and “Glory!
One day, One very Holy day, if I am blessed and awakened; resurrected and taken..I too will sit with the Five wise women...the witches.
Slowly, I’m reaching that porch so high; that porch almost level with the sky.
Where “Old” is beautiful and “Fat” means harvest and wolves and pigs are both in Vogue.
One day, if I keep my broom handy; ready to clean my would-a-should-a-could-haves; making my hearth a place for all; feed, comfort, and teach many nations; laugh to the storms and cry after the sun; nurse the moon with my own eternal light...
One day I too will be a praying witch.
I too can say to God in confidence and strength..
I want my big flowing dress, my rocker, my large bag for healing and concealing the emptiness that brings apathy and war.
I want to use the fat of my body to draw out and hold chaos and poisons and gently return them, cleans and whole as flowers and trees.
I want my body filled with every creature, light and dark, I want to sit... to sit on a porch and see my children; my children filled so full of love they can’t help but to walk justice, eat justice, breath justice, teach justice and give peace.
I want to be that witch, that woman, that elder, that wise crone filled with all my colors. Sitting on that porch, rocking with the white painted clap boards as my halo; shelling peas and snapping beans to share.