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To Be A Witch

To be a Witch is to love and be loved.

To be a Witch is to know everything, and nothing at all....

To be a Witch is to move among the stars while staying on earth.

To be a Witch is to change the world around you, and yourself.

To be a Witch is to share and to give, while receiving all the while.

To be a Witch is to dance and sing, and hold hands with the universe.

To be a Witch is to honor the Gods, and yourself.

To be a Witch is to BE magic, not just perform it.

To be a Witch is to be honorable, or nothing at all.

To be a Witch is to accept others who are not.

To be a Witch is to know what you feel is good and right.

To be a Witch is to is to harm none.

To be a Witch is to know the ways of the old.

To be a Witch is to see beyond the barriers.

To be a Witch is to follow the moon.

To be a Witch is to be one with the gods.

To be a Witch is to study and learn.

To be a Witch is to be both the teacher and the student.

To be a Witch is to acknowledge the truth.

To be a Witch is to live with the earth, not just on it.

“No one talks about this part of cerebral palsy…”

The loneliness.

- Not the physical challenges.

- Not the therapy sessions.

The quiet moments where a teenager or adult realizes:

“My life looks different from everyone else’s.”

- Fewer invitations.

- Fewer opportunities.

- More dependence than they would like.

And for caregivers…

The silent worry:

“What happens to them when I’m no longer there?”

This is the part we avoid but this is the part that matters.

Mental health in cerebral palsy is not optional it is essential.

Here are some tips:

👉Create spaces for real conversations (not just instructions)

👉Encourage social interaction—even if it takes effort

👉Listen more than you correct

👉Seek support early, not when things break down

Because quality of life is not just physical function.

It’s feeling seen, valued, and included.

And too many are struggling in silence.

Let’s change that.

Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the glen

Not a creature was stirring, not a fox, not a hen.

A mantle of snow shone brightly that night

As it lay on the ground, reflecting moonlight.

The faeries were nestled all snug in their trees,

Unmindful of flurries and a chilly north breeze.

The elves and the gnomes were down in their burrows,

Sleeping like babes in their soft earthen furrows.

When low! The earth moved with a thunderous quake,

Causing chairs to fall over and dishes to break.

The Little Folk scrambled to get on their feet

Then raced to the river where they usually meet.

“What happened?” they wondered, they questioned, they probed,

As they shivered in night clothes, some bare-armed, some robed.

“What caused the earth’s shudder? What caused her to shiver?”

They all spoke at once as they stood by the river.

Then what to their wondering eyes should appear

But a shining gold light in the shape of a sphere.

It blinked and it twinkled, it winked like an eye,

Then it flew straight up and was lost in the sky.

Before they could murmur, before they could bustle,

There emerged from the crowd, with a swish and a rustle,

A stately old crone with her hand on a cane,

Resplendent in green with a flowing white mane.

As she passed by them the old crone’s perfume,

Smelling of meadows and flowers abloom,

Made each of the fey folk think of the spring

When the earth wakes from slumber and the birds start to sing.

“My name is Gaia,” the old crone proclaimed

in a voice that at once was both wild and tamed,

“I’ve come to remind you, for you seem to forget,

that Yule is the time of re-birth, and yet…”

“I see no hearth fires, hear no music, no bells,

The air isn’t filled with rich fragrant smells

Of baking and roasting, and simmering stews,

Of cider that’s mulled or other hot brews.”

“There aren’t any children at play in the snow,

Or houses lit up by candles’ glow.

Have you forgotten, my children, the fun

Of celebrating the rebirth of the sun?”

She looked at the fey folk, her eyes going round,

As they shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.

Then she smiled the smile that brings light to the day,

“Come, my children,” she said, “Let’s play.”

They gathered the mistletoe, gathered the holly,

Threw off the drab and drew on the jolly.

They lit a big bonfire, and they danced and they sang.

They brought out the bells and clapped when they rang.

They strung lights on the trees, and bows, oh so merry,

In colors of cranberry, bayberry, cherry.

They built giant snowmen and adorned them with hats,

Then surrounded them with snow birds, and snow cats and bats.

Then just before dawn, at the end of their fest,

Before they went homeward to seek out their rest,

The fey folk they gathered ‘round their favorite oak tree

And welcomed the sun ‘neath the tree’s finery.

They were just reaching home when it suddenly came,

The gold light returned like an arrow-shot flame.

It lit on the tree top where they could see from afar

The golden-like sphere turned into a star.

The old crone just smiled at the beautiful sight,

“Happy Yuletide, my children,” she whispered. “Good night.”

~ Author C.C. Williford