Once upon a time – because that’s how all of the good stories begin – once upon a time, there was power carried in the body of a woman.

Life came from woman, it came through woman, and her very “selfness” was magic incarnate.

The world recognized the goddess alongside the god, and the oneness shared by all of the elements. We carried those elements within ourselves and breathed life to fire, and caused seas to rise. The ocean was a woman, along with the air that kissed our skin. We came from the earth and treasured it.

But then dark days came. Changes that did not flow from the natural progression of time, but changes that were forced at the end of a sword, and people who were persuaded by burning.

Our very beliefs, the faith that guided us through each moment, were no longer private. Our womanhood became possession, our identity subverted to that of a man.

And our goddesses were cast out, negated by a faith that required the masculine to allow worship.

Our magic was forgotten. The life we wrought was legislated and argued by wise, silver-haired men who were entitled to our thoughts and our deeds and our children and our voices.

We became lost women.

And time drifted onward.

What was lost can be rediscovered, and memory can be restored.

Women’s voices shift once again, from quiet murmurs in safe kitchens to public outcries down noisy streets.

We dance, and we fight, and we have stopped being invisible.

Do you see this? Do you see us, in plain sight – standing in the light once more?

The goddess awakens.

Magic returns.