It’s Safe to Walk on Earth Again
* Message from the Ancestral Witches
* Awakening the magnetic root
* Weaving with the power of earth
* Sacred sites as birth/death portals
* Remembering your wild magic
I want to share a message from the Ancestral Witches, who are walking with us on this journey of remembering our feminine magic – and waking up a new dimension of our magnetic power.
This Feminine Magic is not the magic the text books and academics tell us about, or the magic that the men have practiced and molded religions around, this is an old, old magic, that lives inside your body and your genetic memories, that has been calling to you since childhood, through your dreams, through your shadows, through whispers on the wind, through a long forgotten memory, so tangible some days that you could almost touch it, and open a door and step through – into a new world, an ancient world, that’s been living alongside us all this time.
This is the message the Ancestral Witches need to share with you:
Hiding won’t keep you safe anymore: your safety now comes through birthing your rooted magnetic power
They explain that this era is a time our magnetic root is destined to flower out to entangle with the magnetic earth grids, and to weave into a unified power. If we close and hide away, our magnetic root will not open and ground, and you’ll be set adrift in a collapsing man-made world. Your safety now is an awakening of your raw, magnetic root power, in tandem with life.
Once upon a time, not that long ago, you feared that being seen in your magnetic magic threatened your survival. Your ancestral body remembers how it was taught to hide.
You have developed the gift of invisibility, of hiding yourself to be safe, and treasure this gift – it is also an important fact of Feminine Magic. But these are not times for hiding. You must reveal.
Mother Earth, as the unified Sophia and ‘God of the Witches’ is orchestrating a big alchemy.
She is asking you to step forward, open your magnetic core, and connect into her.
For me, this message started to bubble through fast and strong back in 2018, as my mother was dying, and I was walking my homelands of Yorkshire, visiting a web of ceremonial sites, guided by a land memory, as if I was weaving something back together.
I didn’t know fully what it was, I just followed my feet. I was told clearly that something big was about to change on Earth, and that it might look frightening, and indeed it might even be dangerous, but that it had a big purpose: Earth was returning her magic, and guarding her witches.
This witchblood lineage of feminine magic said, “It’s safe to walk on earth again” and through this dark night, I’m trusting and witchwalking….
Storytime: When the Ladies Danced
I want to tell you a story. Back in 2018, I visited my mother in Yorkshire and we had booked a cozy cottage near Mam Tor in the White Peak, near all the cottages and cafes that I so love.
A few days before we were due to fly, we received an urgent message. The cottage we were booked to stay in was suddenly unfit for use due to subsidence (the foundations were sinking, making the structure unstable, so the whole house could crash down). If life was trying to send me a metaphor to work with, it was being laughably obvious. But there was more.
There were almost no alternative places to stay, except one – right over the back end of Mam Tor, across the moors, out in the wilds of Dark Peak, a wyrd and wild lonely land of moss and sheep. We had to say yes, and so upon arriving we took the winding drive to Dark Peak to stay on a farm that looked like it had come straight out of the moody world of Wuthering Heights.
We were also on deadline for Magdalene Mysteries, and in our minds, felt like we were close to the finishing line. Lady Maggie had other ideas. On the first night I could not sleep. We were in an old creaking building, and every howl of wind echoed through the walls. Lying in bed, wide awake, I started to tell myself in a story inside my head (something I often do to try and sleep), but instead, words started downloading into me, and the story galloped along dragging me behind it. And then clear as a bell, on those wild winds, drifted a tinkle of a voice. It was the same voice that back in 2009 had told me “tell my story”. This time it insisted, “tell your story.”
It was Mary Magdalene. Mary the Magnetic. Mary the Magic Doorway. Our Lady of the Portal.
She said, your story is my story is our story, all our stories weave together. The story needs to be told. I got up and tiptoed downstairs and started to scribe furiously on my computer, trying to catch the words as they fell down like stars from a dark sky, lighting up a new pathway.
Something in me changed over those nights at Dark Peak, when I didn’t sleep for 3 days and wrote over 10,000 words, that became 30,000 words, and we realized that the Magdalene Mysteries book we thought was complete, was in a very real way only just getting going.
I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed; but I was not the same woman who had boarded a flight to her ancestral homelands. I was in between worlds, and I was feeling a strong energy I could not put any words to…
During this time, we went to a forgotten stone circle and as the portal opened, we promised the Lady of the Land we would return with others, to dance and return the feminine magic.
As I was working with this beautiful stone circle, in the old forests and lairs of Maid Marian of Magdalen, and the merry men who walked the path of feminine magic, something happened….
A crowd of people arrived at the circle, just ordinary folk, locals and hikers, walking their dogs and laughing loudly, shouting as they walked up the path. They fell into silence as they watched me circling the stones – known as the Nine Ladies – and singing open the gates on each node.
It was such a strange moment, I felt that ‘witch panic’ momentarily as I saw that a crowd had drawn and were watching me, wide-eyed, bewildered, curious, as if two worlds or times were intersecting. I could see they had fell back into a respectful silence, so I continued. Afterwards, I could not believe what happened. As I stepped out of the circle and sat on a rock nearby. The small crowd of people, with kids and dogs, silently circled the stones just as I had, and stopped at each node, and then entered the circle correctly and walked the distaff way. After a few minutes, it was as if the spell was broken, and they laughed, and howled and ran again.
How close to the surface are our body and soul memories of magic? How little has the modern world and all its fallen ideals really scratched the surface of who we truly are. We are waiting for this remembrance to course through us again, and to return to the way of feminine magic.
Next, we visited the Stonehenge of the North, hands down the most creepy and overwhelming site I have ever visited, and we opened the portal there…a death portal…
Old doors: The Land Remembers the Way
After leaving the beautiful stone circle called Nine Ladies, which was infused with the light, joyful memory of May Day, and the Beltayne revels, we walked back through the woods, once sacred to the Great Maiden and her Merry Men, and got in the car to travel to our next site.
As soon as we left the woody coppices, with their large moss-kissed stones and rolling hills, the sky blackened with storm clouds as we drove through a huge flat plain – unusual in the peaks – to get to Arbor Low, described as ‘the Stonehenge of the North’. Every step closer, the sky darkened and grey mists touched our windscreen with damp fingers. Along with the change in weather, was a distinct pivot in atmosphere and temperament; an eerie silence descended. We felt chilled, that fear I often felt in Yorkshire and the Peaks, that appeared out of nowhere, ‘as if by magic’ with a kind of magnificent horror, as if shadow were rolling in from the Netherworlds.
As we drove up and parked, the site looked gloomy in the distance, certainly not welcoming. The site is on private land, and so we had to drop a 1-pound coin in a bucket left out by the owners of the local farm to pass through. The farm itself conveyed the energy I remembered from my childhood; it was not a bright, flower-clad farm of social media; it was a rough working farm, ugly, dour, with a churlish man in a flat cap who gave us a moody look as we walked by.
Next, we faced the cows, hard-faced guardians of the place, who stared at us with flat black eyes and dared us to wade through the piles of cow shit and scale the large iron gates. We winched ourselves over the large fence and landed down amongst them - they were all staring at us in unison. Feeling very unsettled, we inched round them, conscious of their huge size up close.
Finally, over bog land we arrived at Arbor Low – a Neolithic henge, and national monument. The large oval shaped site is populated by at least 50 large stones now laying down on their sides, surrounded by an earth bank, and in the center are smaller stones forming what is known as “the cove”. Nearby is a Bronze age cairn, built to the east of the site from the earth bank.
Bones and artifacts have been found there, and its shape is similar to Avebury stone circle. [Arbor Low reconstruction pictured below]
Straight away, we felt that this was a sort of ‘death womb’, unlike the magical ‘birth womb’ at Avebury. In many sites the circular magic is to create a birth womb, or a portal to shift into new dimensions. This one felt as if it had become a ‘death doula’ of energy, that was full of many hidden sorrows and missuses, and souls who had not made it all the way through the gate.
We silently circled the site, walking high on the slippery earth bank, followed this time by mournful sheep with accusing eyes and some with shiny black spiral horns. It felt ancient.
According to metaphysicists, Arbor Low is considered a major center of ley lines in Britain, amplified by geomantic alignments with other important megalithic sites across the land.
Back in the 19th century, people claimed it was haunted and warned to never go there after dark. Paranormal researchers called the “Dragon Project” say that at certain times of the year the stones emit electromagnetic signals. Many people are intrigued by its strange atmosphere, including reports of UFO sightings, boggarts, and green orbs that surround the henge at night.
Circling the site, we felt increasingly ill at ease, the sky was broiling gray and spitting at us with rain. The feeling was that the site needed to wake up to its true self again, after all these years of retirement and possible misuse (bodies excavated are missing hands and feet). Cautiously we both walked towards the central cove, the seed space or portal ‘egg’, and the energy amplified.
Interestingly, old myths say it was once a healing circle of the Druids, and before that a sacred site of the Brigantes, who worshipped the Goddess Bride, and was also known for fertility blessings. Birth and death were held in common for our ancestors, rooted together. Stone circles are symbolic wombs, and portals and thresholds, where energy can enter into this world, or energy can leave this world. They are liminal places of transition and becoming and rebirth.
Without deciding it consciously, we opened the gate. Feeling a little shaky as the magic formed.
Afterwards, we walked through strong rain to Gib Hill cairn, once a place where murderers were hung. Before hurrying back through the rain to our car. As we passed through the farm yard a fleeting bit of signal returned to our new phone, which started ringing. Almost no one had the number so we hurriedly answered: it was a frantic neighbor calling – an ambulance had arrived at my childhood home, and my mum had fallen and broken her hip, and was being taken to hospital. She must have fallen at the exact same time we were circling Arbor Low.
Later that night, I was holding a very frail hand just before midnight, as mum prepared for surgery. She was so weak we didn’t know if she would make it, and in my heart I knew, one way or another, she would not make it. The magic we had woven had put in motion events to take her back home. It didn’t feel sinister, it felt full of gravitas and intention. My mum was a wily witch. She had chosen her own portal.
Within two months, my mum was gone. Midwifed back into the sacred ceremonial landscape of Mam Tor, itself contained in the vast web of ceremonial geomantic magic of the Peak District, an ancient land.
After this terrestrial magic at Nine Ladies and Arbor Low, a new presence arrived with me. Not only the Old ‘Uns of the land, the most ancient of Ancestors now turned to rock and stone who had come to me after my father’s death to remind me of the Goddess lineage of Mam Tor, but now also the Ancestral Witches, our close relatives, who were rising again to set the record straight on their legacy and wake up the hearts and wombs of their great-great granddaughters. Emerging from their slumber and their invisibility spells, they were here to share their secrets again, their feminine magic that had once spun the world together.
As I shared in Magdalene Mysteries, the Ancestral Witches arrived in my life by the way of a talismanic doll called The Witch of Pendle, who sat on the “witch shrine” I had created for my mum, during the last month of her life. These Ancestral Witches were humble, wily, cunning, and knew how to rise to the occasion and be grand, bold and glamorous when life demanded it, or they could slip away, like a mist, unseen.
After the temples had fallen, and the bells and ornaments of the priestesses were lost and scattered, and the swan cloaks of the goddess shamans and druids were ruined and tattered, and after the masked balls ended, and when the red velvet cloaks of the royal magicians and their ladies were folded away in secret; only a few hundred years ago, the women of the brideways across the lands, from simple hearths, in their plain clothes, with their foraged wild flowers and herbs, on silver moonlit nights, made their way to these grand henges, with sure feet and secrets on their lips, and wild offerings at hand, to keep the old remembering alive.
They grew skilled in secrecy and hiding, and making their power small enough to remain unseen by prying eyes, and with longing and fear, they spoke to the wells and wedded the old gods. To keep the lineage alive, they knew they must keep it cloaked in hum drum words and penniless homes, and even then, with all their skill, they hung and burned across the lands. But they never forgot and they birthed their babes with codes of remembrance for a long, away future.
As my mum was dying, and with the candles lit on the Witch Shrine, I would watch the sun set across the moors and pray to the Ancient One of the land, whilst gently rubbing the feet of the porcelain witch doll, fashioned in the image of a real life witch of old times, and I would say:
“It’s safe to walk on this earth again…
It’s safe to walk on this earth again….
It’s safe to walk on this earth again….”
Like a prayer, like a mantra, like a prophecy….
And I know, look around you, it certainly doesn’t feel very safe to walk on this earth right now…
But the Ancestral Witches are here to reassure us, it is safe, and it is time to wake up your magic. In fact, your very safety now depends on your feminine magic. Because as you walk on earth, praying with your feet, it will channel the immense support of Mother Earth beneath you.
I found this poem about Arbor Low, and I’m certain it was a place where witches gathered.
Annie Trembles had met the witch
As she sat at Arbor Low,
Her tears were thick and her heart was sick,
She had no place to go,
She'd sought the old Stone Circle out,
And thought to divine the lore
Of the old Brigantes with their Druid chants;
Then she met Susannah Straw.
Susannah Straw was a wily witch
Who lived by her wits, and spells,
She kept the faith of her pagan race
Designing and dressing wells.
She'd conjure the odd love potion,
And she'd make the kine run dry,
If a body was too outspoken
She would give them the evil eye!
David Lewis Padget