Fern Aldridge’s coven

Retired mail carrier, church deacon, and rootworker. Yes, all three. Psalm 23 and a dime in my shoe. Learned it all at my uncle's kitchen table.

Retired schoolteacher with a Varanasi childhood. Morning puja, evening Gita, and endless chai for whoever visits. Ask me about festivals at your own risk.

Heathen, blacksmith, dad of two. Hailing the ancestors and the land-wights from a very rainy corner of Oregon. Mead is a craft, not a personality.

Coven-trained, now happily solitary. Sabbats, circle-casting, and an altar that is mostly cat hair. Twenty-two years under the moon and still learning.

Grew up beside a small shrine in Nagano, now in Seattle. Kamidana above the bookshelf, fresh sakaki on the 1st and 15th, and a quiet bow to every old tree.

Irish pagan and devotee of Brigid. Poetry, holy wells, and a candle kept for her on Imbolc, with a fire extinguisher kept by the altar always.

Grandmother of five, keeper of a very unruly herb garden in Vermont. Kitchen witch for forty years. Ask me about calendula, chamomile, and patience.

Crystal shop owner in the high desert. I'll tell you what a stone means to me, not what it 'cures.' Unapologetic labradorite enthusiast.

Druid of the oak and the drizzle. Welsh learner, hedge-layer, birdsong counter. Awen comes when I stop trying so hard.

Hellenic polytheist. First flame of the day for Hestia, libations on the balcony, and a lot of Homer read aloud badly. Athens-born, Melbourne-based.