Wheel of the Year

⚠️ This blog shares my personal, sometimes painful experiences with MS and mental health. My intention is to speak honestly and offer solidarity—not to harm or replace professional advice. I’m not a doctor or therapist, just someone who gets how hard it can get. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. Please reach out to a trusted friend, support group, or professional. You deserve help and hope.⚠️

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction, and use AI to help solve this issue so you can understand it lol

well a very good morning to everyone who reads this blog and hope that things go well and that you have an excellent weekend sending peace healing love and light...

Finding Magic in a Body That Sometimes Forgets

The Goddess never promised us perfect bodies.

She promised the turning of the Wheel.

Birth. Growth. Decline. Death. Then the mystery begins again.

As Wiccans, we celebrate the seasons because they remind us that nothing remains the same forever. The mighty oak stands tall in summer, sheds every leaf in autumn, sleeps through winter, and returns again in spring.

Perhaps our own bodies are simply another season of the Wheel.

Living with Multiple Sclerosis can feel like your own body has declared war upon itself. The nerves misfire. The muscles rebel. Fatigue arrives like an unwelcome spirit, settling over everything until even making a cup of tea feels like climbing a mountain.

From a medical perspective, MS is an autoimmune disease. That understanding matters, and modern medicine has brought treatments that can slow its progress and improve quality of life.

But medicine isn't the only language people use to understand suffering.

For many Wiccans, illness is not a punishment from the Goddess, nor proof that we've somehow failed spiritually. Nature itself is full of storms, broken branches, lightning strikes, and trees that grow twisted yet continue reaching for the sun.

Why should humans be any different?

When I light a candle, I don't expect it to cure my MS.

I light it because even the smallest flame pushes back the darkness.

When I walk through the woods, I don't believe the trees can repair damaged myelin.

But they remind me that life continues, even when it changes shape.

When I celebrate Lammas, Samhain, or Beltane, I'm not pretending my symptoms disappear.

I'm remembering that I'm still part of something much older than my diagnosis.

The Wheel keeps turning.

Some days my body feels like winter.

Everything slows.

Everything hurts.

Nothing grows.

Other days are spring.

Energy returns, if only for a few precious hours.

I have learned not to curse the winter.

Without it, I would never recognise spring when she arrives.

Perhaps magic isn't about making disease disappear.

Perhaps the greatest spell we ever cast is refusing to let illness define who we are.

The Goddess is present in the healthy body.

She is equally present in the scarred one.

The God walks with the marathon runner.

He also walks beside the person moving at eight miles an hour on a mobility scooter.

Neither path is holier than the other.

Both are sacred.

If MS has taught me anything, it is that strength isn't measured by how far we can walk.

It's measured by whether we choose to keep walking the Wheel, however slowly, however painfully, and however differently from what we once imagined.

Blessed Be.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

twitter@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Well, good morning, good afternoon fellow Humanoids or NHI, even. , and yes, this is some poetry, and I hope you like it. It's based on the wheel of the year.

Where seasonal myth decays into poetry and returns as ritual

A Samhain-to-Mabon Cycle Song

I — SAMHAIN (The Mouth Opens)

The year begins where the breath goes thin, Where names rot soft on the tongue. No doors are closed, no graves behave, And nothing stays undone.

The veil is not a curtain now It’s teeth. It’s split. It’s wide. Every ghost you buried deep Is clawing back inside.

Ash in the lungs, salt in the wound, The clock forgets to lie Time spills out like blackened blood. This is where things die.

Samhain The mouth of the year unseals. Samhain It remembers what you tried not to feel.

II — YULE (The Refusal of Light)

In the longest night, something stirs Not gentle. Not kind. Not warm. A spark like a threat in frozen ribs, A pulse inside the storm.

The dark grows tired of holding power, It fractures, spits, and yields But light comes back like a blade unsheathed, Not mercy something that kills.

Candles tremble, not from peace, But from something drawing near The sun returns with a broken grin: “I was never gone. I was here.”

Yule The sun claws out of the grave. Yule It burns what it came back to save.

III — IMBOLC (The First Betrayal)

Beneath the frost, beneath the skin, A quiet treason grows The earth remembers how to move Before the thaw even knows.

Milk runs thin through starving veins, Ash clings to every breath This is not life, not yet reborn Just something waking from death.

A flicker beneath the frozen ribs, A whisper you can't silence Not hope no, something sharper still: A slow, deliberate violence.

Imbolc The first crack splits the bone. Imbolc You are no longer alone.

IV — OSTARA (The Breaking Point)

Green erupts like open wounds, Petals scream through dirt Nothing soft about the bloom, Everything is hurt.

Roots tear through what used to hold, Sky splits into light Growth is just another word For a beautifully staged fight.

The body remembers how to want, The blood begins to race But every blossom hides a cost: Survival leaves a trace.

Ostara The garden feeds on the weak. Ostara Every bloom has teeth.

V — BELTANE (The Taking Flame)

Fire runs without a leash tonight, It laughs in hungry tongues Skin becomes a boundary It cannot help but cross.

Desire is not a gentle thing, It devours, it brands, it marks Every touch a little death, Every kiss leaves sparks.

The world is heat, the world is pulse, The world is teeth and breath Creation wears the face of lust And smells faintly of death.

Beltane The flame that eats your name. Beltane You will not leave the same.

VI — LITHA (The Exposure)

Nowhere left for shadows now The light is absolute. Every flaw laid bare and raw, Every hidden truth.

The sun does not forgive or blink, It stares until you break Reveals the mask beneath the mask, Every lie you make.

Too bright to hide, too loud to flee, The self stripped down to bone You are everything you feared And everything you’ve shown.

Litha The light that flays you clean. Litha Nothing hides in between.

VII — LUGHNASADH (The First Cut)

Gold fields whisper in the wind, Heavy heads bow low Abundance hums a fatal tune Only sickles know.

The harvest smiles with bloodied hands, It thanks you as it takes Every gain a quiet loss, Every feast a wake.

You built this with your breaking back, You fed it with your days Now watch it fall beneath the blade In slow, deliberate ways.

Lughnasadh The blade inside the bread. Lughnasadh You eat what you have bled.

VIII — MABON (The Beautiful Ending)

The air goes still. The light grows thin. Everything exhales Color drains from living things Into quiet, brittle tales.

Beauty learns to loosen grip, To fall without a fight Leaves let go of everything They once held tight.

There is no rage, no desperate cry, Just the softest kind of grief The kind that knows all endings Are just a form of relief.

Mabon The art of letting go. Mabon You reap what you outgrow.

IX — RETURN (The Mouth Waits)

And somewhere in the dying hush, A silence starts to breathe Not empty no, just listening For what comes underneath.

The wheel does not forgive or stop, It circles, slow and wide Every end you swear you’ve reached Is something still alive.

A mouth waits in the dark again, Familiar. Open. Near.

Samhain is always coming. The year is always here.

Wishing everybody who reads this peace healing, love and light, no matter who, what or where you are, or whatever universe or realm. Have a good one.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

A love letter to time passing, things dying, and our stubborn insistence on dancing anyway.

Samhain — 31 October (pronounced “Sow-in”) Celtic New Year. The veil does that “paper-thin” thing and everyone pretends they aren’t terrified. We remember the dead, talk nicely to them, and try not to bring home anything with teeth. Death isn’t a plot twist; it’s the punchline. Light a candle. Lock the cupboards. Be polite to the shadows.

Yule — 21 December (archaic Geola; “YOO-luh”) Winter Solstice. The sun technically returns, which is adorable considering you won’t see it properly till March. The God is reborn, we eat too much, and convince ourselves evergreen branches can hold back seasonal despair. Ullr nods approvingly. New Year (again), because human calendars are soft suggestions at best.

Imbolc — 2 February The land wakes up like a hungover dragon: cranky, gorgeous, and not to be rushed. Brighid is the Virgin of Light, which is ironic given how many candles we burn for her. Snowdrops appear; we collectively gasp; someone says “spring is coming” like it’s a spoiler.

Spring Equinox — 21 March Day and night call a truce. The sun stretches; the earth blushes; allergies weaponise. Dedicate this to Eostre if you like: rabbits, eggs, fertility, the entire internet losing its mind. The young God goes hunting; so do we — for antihistamines and decent weather.

Beltane — 30 April Everything is alive, loud, and suggestive. Sacred Marriage time: Goddess, God, maypoles, ribbons, symbolic entanglements that aren’t even trying to be subtle. If you’re not dancing, you’re at least grinning with suspiciously rosy cheeks. Bless the fires. Try not to set your hedge on actual fire.

Midsummer (Litha) — 21 June Peak light. Peak hubris. The Sun wears a crown and we all act like it’ll last forever. It won’t — that’s the joke. Celebrate plenty, fill your pockets with protection herbs, and pretend the turning hasn’t already begun. The shadows are patient. So is entropy.

Lughnasadh (Lammas) — 1 August (pronounced “LOO-nuh-suh”) First harvest. Time to reap what you sowed (or didn’t — awkward). Bread is broken, corn is cut, and we thank the land like it isn’t side-eyeing our life choices. Offer gratitude. Offer cake. Offer to stop procrastinating (you won’t).

Autumn Equinox — 21 September Second truce. Day and night shake hands like rivals who know what’s coming. We honour age, endings, and that creeping chill that isn’t just the weather. Put away the summer bravado; fetch the blankets; pretend you like gourds.

…and back to Samhain — 31 October The wheel clicks home. We face the Gods in their difficult aspects, the ones that don’t do customer service. Not fear — perspective. Life and death are a matched set. Say the names. Pour the drink. Keep the door half-open.

How to Actually Use This (Without Becoming a Walking Pinterest Board) Mark the days. A candle is enough. So is a good meal.

Keep a tiny notebook: what’s growing, what’s dying, what you’re pretending not to feel.

Make one offering each sabbat: time, food, or honesty. The last one stings; it works.

Don’t overcomplicate it. The earth is turning with or without your table runner.

Eight seasonal checkpoints. Celebrate what lives, mourn what doesn’t, and remain cheeky about the abyss. That’s the praxis.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.