One stone every sabbat, twenty-two years
When I was initiated, my High Priestess gave me one piece of advice I've actually kept: at every sabbat, wherever you are, pick up a stone. Not a special one. Whatever's at your feet.
Twenty-two years later it's a big glass jar on my altar, mostly hidden by cat hair. Gravel from a festival car park. A slate chip from Wales. A crumb of concrete from the hospital car park, the Samhain I spent in a waiting room. A perfect white pebble from the beach, the year my mother died.
Samhain is a week away. I'll add one more, and before that I'll tip the whole jar out on the kitchen table and remember every single one. It's my book of shadows, in stone.
The boatman who knew my name
A story my grandchildren ask for every Diwali, so I'll tell it here too.
I was nine, in Varanasi, and I'd wandered away from my family at the ghats during the evening aarti. Thousands of lamps, bells, conch shells, and one small lost boy crying near the steps.
An old boatman with a white beard and eyes like river stones crouched down and said, 'Arjun, your mother is at Dashashwamedh, near the third umbrella.' Then he went back to his boat. I had never seen him before. I hadn't told him my name.
She was exactly there, at the third umbrella, frantic. When we went back to thank him, the other boatmen said nobody like that worked that stretch of the river.
Sixty-two years I've wondered. Maybe a kind man who overheard my mother shouting. Maybe Ganga Ma looking after her own. Either way, I bow to the river every time I think of it.