Bewitched of Scituate

07/02/2026

United We Stand

As we approach America’s 250th Fourth of July, my heart keeps returning to the women. The women of every generation.

The women who stood in doorways and fields, in kitchens and cabins, in circles and sacred spaces, beside rivers, beneath old trees, and under skies that held both sorrow and hope. The women who carried babies on their hips, grief in their bones, songs in their throats, and entire bloodlines inside their hearts.

Some of them were feared for their wisdom.
Some were stolen from their homelands.
Some were forced from the lands of their ancestors.
Some were silenced, shamed, used, judged, hunted, or forgotten.
And still, somehow, they endured.

This piece is for them, and I call it "United We Stand"

For the grandmothers whose names we know, and the ones whose names were never written down. For the mothers who kept going when there was no softness given to them. For the daughters who inherited wounds they did not create, and still found ways to love, protect, create, heal, and survive.

As a witch and spiritual practitioner, I believe memory is sacred. I believe the land remembers. I believe the blood remembers. I believe women carry stories in ways the world has often failed to honor. We carry them in our hands, in our voices, in our instincts, in our grief, in our courage, and in the quiet knowing that comes from those who walked before us.

In this piece, three women stand together, hand in hand, heads bowed in reverence.

A witch.
A Native woman.
A Black woman.

Each one carries her own ancestral story. Each one represents generations of women who lived through fear, loss, judgment, survival, and change. They do not stand apart. They do not stand in competition. They stand together as sacred witnesses to the women who came before, the women who are here now, and the women who will come after us.

Behind them, the flag rises as a symbol of a country still becoming. Within it are memories that should not be forgotten: the witch trials, where fear turned women’s wisdom into accusation; slavery, where Black women were stolen, sold, separated from their children, and forced to survive the unimaginable; and the suffering of Native women, whose families, lands, cultures, and sacred ways were wounded by conquest and loss.

These are not easy memories.

But they belong to the story.

And to honor the women of generations, we cannot only honor the pretty parts. We must also honor the tears, the trembling hands, the babies held close, the meals stretched thin, the herbs gathered, the songs remembered, the graves tended, and the strength passed quietly from one woman to the next.

That is what this image means to me.

It is not about blame.
It is about remembrance.
It is about reverence.
It is about the women who carried history on their backs and still found a way to keep love alive.

In magick, we know that before a blessing can be placed, the space must be cleared. Before healing can begin, the wound must be seen. Before the future can be called in, the old grief must be honored with honesty and respect.

At 250 years, America is not a finished spell. It is still being written. Still being shaped. Still being tended by the hands, hearts, choices, tears, hopes, and lived wisdom of those who walk this land.

And so much of that tending has always been done by women.

Women who mended what was broken.
Women who protected what they could.
Women who remembered the old ways.
Women who buried their dead and still rose the next morning.
Women who made homes out of hardship.
Women who taught, healed, cooked, comforted, created, and carried on.

So this Fourth of July, I hold space for them.

For the women who were feared.
For the women who were stolen.
For the women who were displaced.
For the women who were silenced.
For the women who survived.
For the women whose strength still lives in us.

May we remember where they were.
May we honor what they endured.
May we carry their wisdom forward with softer hands and braver hearts.

And may the generations still to come inherit more than pain. May they inherit compassion. May they inherit truth. May they inherit unity. May they inherit a future shaped by remembrance, reverence, and a sacred respect for every woman who helped carry this story forward.

𝗔 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴
I am sharing this piece as a sacred moment of remembrance, reverence, and reflection. My intention is not to open the door to political debate, but to honor the women, the pain, the strength, the hope, and the history that brought us to this moment.

Please help me keep this space respectful and centered on the heart of the piece. I ask that comments remain kind, thoughtful, and in the spirit in which it was created.

𝗜 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀, 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗿𝗴𝘂𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀, 𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱. 𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱. If you choose to share this to your own page with your own thoughts, that is completely your choice. Here on my page, I ask that this post remain a place of reflection, not debate.

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗔𝗿𝘁𝗶𝘀𝘁: Larae Maraney | The Spellbound Witchery

06/26/2026

06/25/2026

Sekhmet was one of ancient Egypt’s most feared and revered goddesses, a lioness deity of rage, plague, healing, blood, protection, and divine punishment. Her name is often linked with power, and everything about her myth carries the force of something sacred that refuses to be softened.

In one of her most famous stories, humanity rebels against Ra, the sun god. In response, Ra sends Sekhmet, his fierce daughter, to punish them. She descends as divine wrath made flesh, a lioness goddess with the heat of the sun in her body and destruction in her breath. What begins as judgement becomes bloodlust, and Sekhmet’s fury grows so unstoppable that even the gods become afraid of what they have unleashed.

To stop her, Ra orders beer to be dyed red like blood and poured across the land. Sekhmet drinks it, believing it to be blood, and becomes intoxicated. Her rage softens. Her destruction ends. The world survives, not because her power was weak, but because it was too vast to be left unchecked.

This is what makes Sekhmet so fascinating. She is not only a goddess of destruction. She is also a goddess of healing. The same deity who could bring plague was also called upon to remove it. The same lioness who embodied blood and battle was invoked for protection, medicine, and survival.

Sekhmet reminds us that rage is not always evil. Sometimes rage is the soul recognising that something has gone too far. Sometimes it is the body saying no before the mouth can form the words. Sometimes it is the sacred fire that rises when boundaries have been violated for too long.

She is the fierce feminine that does not ask to be understood before she is respected.

She is protection with claws.

She is healing that begins with truth.

She is the lioness who teaches that power becomes dangerous when it is denied, and holy when it is honoured.

06/21/2026

Happy Father’s Day!
To all the fathers who raised their children and to those who help raise others.
Heavenly Father’s Day to both of my dads and all the dads in spirit!

05/10/2026

May we all embrace our mothers before us and to all who Mother….to be a mother is to be present and to love and nurture what is created. It takes a village. Blessings to you all!

05/01/2026

Happy Beltane blessings to all near and far!