Reclamation of the Broken Spirit by Joey Morris


Art by Arna Baartz

We remember.

The lost ones, the broken ones, the hurting.

We remember the moments where we stared vacantly out into the world, feeling disconnected from it.

Our illusions shattered, the promises of a fair, safe, world dissolving at our feet.

For myself, it was a moment in the back of a car, being driven away at 3am, watching the street light blur into one another in a seemingly endless parade, each light stretching thin and eventually disappearing, a weird recollection through hazy vision.

The distinct memory of dirt on the glass, and feeling like it ought to be raining.

The rain was conspicuous by its absence.

And telling myself that life would never be the same again.

It leaves a mark somewhere, those kinds of memories, that if we are not careful, we can slip back into the state of disconnection, feeling present only in body to the world around us.

The world can be a hostile place, with an aggressive stance on conformity played in front of our eyes on a seemingly endless loop, whilst we are taught to always be ashamed.

The reclamation of self begins as we start to reject conformity; the authentic self is seeking the courage to let the world see who we are without concealment of all the idiosyncrasies peculiar to our unique blend of human.

It is the acceptance of the broken self that lends itself to reigniting the fires within ourselves.

We know what it is to feel the icy grip of despair, a cruelty that goes beyond the painful into the realm of self-abandonment; we have lost touch with the world around us for moments, leaving us an observer to the patterns of it; we study and examine from a peculiar vantage point.

It is in nature that I am reminded I can be moved by what this world has to offer.

When the atmosphere cracks in thunder and destructive elements grip the sky in a ballet of force so beyond us, or the rain rolls down a leaf in softly spoken prayer, running its length before slowly descending to the dirt beneath.

Everything seems to shift in these moments, time takes on a personality of its own, slowing everything down or racing it forward, as the crows cry out or the soul feels lifted into an endless night of stars.

Was the Witch always within me? For to see the world through 'other' eyes is surely connected to that title, for all the good that titles do.

I think perhaps it was, as I stumbled through forests as a child telling stories of ancient lands and magical spirits that others could not see.

So how does one hold onto a spark of something wondrous when all else has been forcibly removed from you, when hopelessness and violence and abuse cling to your memories like dried on gory splatter?

I tell the monsters that they do not own me.

They cannot have me; I am still here.

I will mark the world in every way I can—with honour, with truth, with beauty.

In the retelling of stories both horrifying and true, refusing to be ashamed or allow others to be so conditioned, help them to refuse to be the same as one another, to discard the notion that there is a safety in those numbers, when instead, it is handing over the power to another to dictate who you are – instead of being who you want to be, who you are shaping yourself into, honouring the magickal spark within you that cannot be silenced.

I will not be the same again.

I will be more. I will stand, time and time again, between those who seek to abuse others, and rouse the war cry of the unprotected. I will remind them they do not need to apologize for how they survived, nor be taunted by a system which shuns them or encourages their silence.

I will not be the same again.

I will embody the witch. I will reclaim my wild heritage on this earth, connected to the rolling thunderstorm and the lightning that crashes, bathe myself in the vast unconquered depths of the ocean and speak to the trees to hear their voices. I will remember the forgotten dead and the disregarded spirits to harness a live wire of power and magick.

And in the face of all who mock me, I will grin with fox fangs and raven eyes in the knowing that they cannot shame me.

I will not be the same again.

I know emptiness, and so I value connection. I know lies, and so I honour truth. I know bleakness and so I liberate my senses into a system of spiritual seeking. I know hatred and so I will pour out love from my heart. I know shame, and so I reclaim my sexuality.

I stand for the broken. I stand for the lost. I stand for the hurting.

You will not have us. We will be here.

An excerpt from In Defiance of Oppression -The Legacy of Boudicca.

Joey Morris is a Celtic Creatrix and UK-based daughter of The Morrigan. She is an author, creatrix CEO of Starry Eyed Supplies, and co-owner of the What the Flux podcast.

To become a tempered blade of The Morrigan, one must be baptized in blood and fire. These struggles within my lifetime have led me to become a voice for the voiceless, to reach out to the broken, and to poke the shadows in others so that they might begin to heal.

.Such a path is dangerous. But so are we. This is the birth of a wild witch who sees with their 'other eyes' and treads the path of edges, sharp and unusual, but filled with adventure, magick of the liminal and the in-between spaces.”  – Joey Morris

Within the spiritual landscape, her soul mission is to deepen the understanding of our interconnectedness by honouring the sacred and exploring the masks of the self through channelling relationships to the Divine through written work, poetry, videos, products, and services.