The MAGA
An Origin Story
This story was forged as an offering to a dear friends ceremony to mark Her transition into menopause ( some personal references have been omitted)
The MAGA is here. The MAGA is here! For many, She has been forgotten in the midst of time. But she is here, with us. She has been waiting for this moment. To be of witness. Invited by you, dear Sister. Oh, you have not forgotten Her. And She marvels at this.
Many have been her name, but MAGA is much more than a name. She is a force. She is the breath in the ash of the First Fire, rising from the molten womb of the Earth. Her force so strong she cracked the Sky open and stars spilled like tears into the soil we meet on. MAGA is a threshold. Keeper of the Edge, Walker of the In-Between. When the MAGA walks, the trees lean in. Birds fall silent. The Earth hushes. She’s Cloaked in Mystery, the colour of red blood drying on stone, rough and spun from fibres of memory and woven with nettle and wolf fur. She is crowned with a hundred red moons, veiled in the smoke of cedar and the cry of Eagle. Her collarbone is laced with moss and her silver lichen hair braided with feather and thorn. Her feet bare, adorned with rose buds and caked with the soil of a thousand thresholds crossed.
The MAGA calls to us to remember - the time before empires and cities, before the iron of clocks measured time and we rose and fell with the light-line of the Sun. Where Women walked upon the body of the Earth like moving prayers. Their cycles were the songs woven with the phases of Grandmother Moon. Their wombs, vessels of birth and death —of dream, prophecy, and the turning of the Great Wheel. Their blood was Holy. Their blood was worshipped. Their blood more valuable than gold itself. Each Life was a cherished circle. And when a woman’s final moon passed and the red river stilled inside her, she was not discarded, she was not diminished. She was Called. She was called to step over the threshold from womb to crown.
The Woman who’s womb no longer bled and shed, would be surrounded by women, at mountain tops, in the belly of wild groves, stonehenges, at the edges of desert and forest, along the tide lines of sand and ocean. She would descend, and descend, held by Her Sisters, Elders, Grandmothers, her Ancestors. She would descend, descend, her breath syncing with the stones beneath her. Her ears attuned to night Bat. Her heartbeat echoing with the sound of Scarab. Drumming and Humming. A sound older than language—low, round, rising from the belly and the bones. A sound sung by the Old Ones in caves of fire and dark. A sound that remembers the first waters, the first sky, the first woman who ever stood and howled into the night.
Drumming, descending, humming, rising, and returning.
The Woman returned would stand.
Her spine lengthened. Her skin glistening.
Her face became both ancient and newborn.
And the Circle welcomed her:
Maga. Maga.
Womb of no more blood, but of deepened mystery and magic!
One who no longer births flesh, but vision, truth, and legacy!
And in that moment, the veil lifted—not just for Her, but for all.
And this Rite is not just of the past.
It is now.
It is here.
It lives in every woman who dares to remember, who braves the Well and crosses it with reverence and fire.
So we gather….here. Here.
We mark this hallowed ground with love and soul for you. It is your time
We call to your Guides. We call the Bat. We welcome the Scarab, we welcome Mother Maga and to the Ancestors, a thousand greats back and a thousand souls forward
We open the Circle, we hold the Gates
And we say to YOU:
Your womb blood no longer sheds. But you are not done. You beloved, have just begun.
You have just begun.