Hecate’s Rose: A Spell to Meet the Three-Faced Goddess
The night Hecate gave me a rose, I didn't know it was from her.
In fairness, I didn't know much about Hecate at all. I knew she was associated with witches. I knew she had something to do with dogs. I knew she seemed to have acquired multiple heads, which felt either deeply symbolic or wildly inconvenient depending on your perspective. And I knew that May 16th felt magickal from the moment I woke up.
It was a new moon, and it happened to be the day of my first book signing for my children's book at a local independent bookstore. Despite the fact that it was one of the first truly beautiful days of the year—one of those New England mornings that practically begs people to abandon all responsibilities and wander outdoors—people came inside. As I sat reading my book and decorating magick wands with children from a chair shaped like a mushroom at a table approximately the size of a dinner plate, I found myself looking around the room in disbelief.
There was the man I'm dating, who had spent the previous week helping me hot-glue wands together and had voluntarily agreed to meet my mother for the first time in a public setting. A bold strategy, depending on the family. There was my brother and sister-in-law, who had surprised me by bringing my niece and nephew. At one point, my niece sat reading my book aloud while my neighbor listened from the floor, cross-legged and completely absorbed. There was my pharmacist colleague and her son. My best friend had driven all the way from the seacoast. Her mother was also there and bought three copies of the book. Everywhere I looked, there was someone I love who had come to show their support.
What struck me wasn't simply that they had shown up. It was that they had all shown up for different reasons. Each person in that room knew a different version of me, and for a moment, it felt as though all of those versions had gathered together in the same space: the writer, the pharmacist, the witch, the daughter, the sister, the friend, the neighbor, the auntie, the woman sitting in a mushroom chair reading to children. They weren’t there because I was an established writer; they were there because they care about me. The whole morning felt like a hug.
Later that evening, I attended what my friend Sally affectionately called "The Reunion Bonfire." The event was a gathering of witches whom Sally was convinced needed to meet one another. It was a reunion because she was also fairly certain this wasn't the first lifetime we'd all spent together.
In Sally's backyard, perfumed with sage and woodsmoke, I found myself listening to story after story about crossroads. Not the literal kind, but the symbolic ones that appear in a life.
Jen told us about a period when she felt profoundly alone. One evening, she slipped into an empty church because she wanted somewhere quiet to pray without having to speak to anyone. An older woman entered and sat beside her. Jen was immediately annoyed. There were dozens of pews. Why this one? The woman touched her shoulder and simply said, "You're going to be okay." Jen began to sob. Later, she asked the parishioners about the woman. No one knew who she was. She never saw her again, but she left that pew full of hope at the compassion of a stranger.
Then there was Sybil's story. Sybil had been working magick with hair and fingernails while trying to manifest a new home. Growing impatient, she decided to try blood magick for the first time. As one does. She carefully cast protection in six directions instead of her usual five because she was nervous and wanted every available layer of spiritual customer service. When the ritual was complete, she walked away with her dog, Baby. An older woman approached them and said spookily, omnisciently, "Bye, Baby." Sybil had never met her before. The next time she returned to the site, a pink lady's slipper had blossomed where she had performed the ritual.
The stories continued. Again and again, people described mysterious figures arriving during moments of uncertainty. A stranger. An elder. A guide. Someone who appeared at exactly the moment they were becoming something new.
Later that evening, I found myself speaking with Lindsey about Hecate. Earlier that day she had prepared an altar for her, laying roses out as an offering. We talked about the pleasure of choosing what energies we want to tune into—a goddess, a plant, an animal, an archetype, a story. How, if we want to, we can always change the “channel.” I confessed to Lindsey that my knowledge of this goddess was limited. She shared with me that Hecate is the goddess of the crossroads, the torch bearer in the dark. She told me that in civilizations of old, the wealthy would leave offerings of food to her, and the poor would come to eat the food and be nourished; Hecate was, in a way, a provider for those in need. I remember wishing there was still a flower shop open so I could buy a rose to leave for her. Unfortunately, it was late, and flower shops are notoriously unsympathetic to spontaneous spiritual inspiration.
When I got home, I packed away the remaining books from the morning’s event and went upstairs. There, waiting on my nightstand, was a single rose in a glass jar. I found out later it was a gift from my neighbor in celebration of my first book signing, but that night, I offered it to Hecate.
Or perhaps to what she represents.
In the weeks since, I've thought a great deal about her three faces. People interpret them differently: the phases of the moon, the maiden, mother, and crone, the land, sea, and sky. For me, they have come to symbolize something else: the many selves we carry. The pharmacist, witch, and writer. The daughter. The sister. The friend. The colleague. The lover. The neighbor. The auntie. The lonely one. The hopeful one. The scared one. The empowered one.
Perhaps Hecate shows up in a church and sits down beside a woman who has run out of hope. Perhaps she appears on a woodland path after a spell cast in equal parts longing and terror. Perhaps she comes with bread for a hungry belly. And perhaps she arrives as a rose left on a nightstand by a thoughtful neighbor who has no idea she is participating in a theological thesis.
I don't know.
What I do know is that all of these stories began at a crossroads. And so does mine.
For years, I imagined the crossroads as a place where I would finally have to choose. The pharmacist or the witch. The writer or the healer. Adventure or belonging. Practicality or magick.
But standing here now, I wonder if I've misunderstood the assignment. Perhaps the wisdom of Hecate is not that she faces three directions at once. Perhaps it is that she refuses to turn her back on any of them. Maybe the crossroads was never asking me to decide who I am. Maybe it was asking whether I was willing to become all of it.
If so, my answer is yes.
A Spell to Meet Hecate
Intention
To stop asking which version of yourself is the real one.
To welcome the many selves who have carried you this far.
To honor the paths that brought you here without turning your back on any of them.
To remember that a crossroads is not only a place where paths diverge; it is also a place where they meet.
Materials
• A rose (any color)
• A candle
• A journal and pen
• The song "Dancing with Hecate" by Haus of Hekate, 3 Sisters
• A comfortable space where you can move freely
Optional:
• Objects representing different aspects of yourself
(a book, a stethoscope, a photograph, a crystal, a paintbrush, a favorite mug, etc.)
Ritual
Prepare the crossroads.
Place the rose before you. If you have gathered objects representing different parts of yourself, arrange them in a circle around the rose.
Light the candle. Take a moment to notice what is present.
Call in your many selves.
Look at each object, or simply close your eyes and imagine the different versions of yourself.
The practical one, the dreamer, the caretaker, the artist, the fearful one, the brave one, the one who longs for adventure, the one who longs for home, the one who has made mistakes, the one who is becoming.
Welcome them all. Resist the urge to rank them. This is not an audition. No one is being voted off the island.
Dance with Hecate.
Begin playing "Dancing with Hecate." Stand.
Move however your body wishes to move. You do not need to look graceful. You do not need to look mystical. You do not need to look like someone who knows what they are doing.
In fact, Hecate is the goddess of crossroads, so confusion may be thematically appropriate.
As you move, imagine each part of yourself stepping into the dance. Allow the practical one to dance. Allow the mystic to dance. Allow the meaning maker to dance. Allow the daughter, the friend, the lover, the skeptic, the hopeful one, the exhausted one, and the wildly optimistic one to dance.
No one sits out this song.
Receive the rose.
When the music ends, pick up the rose. Hold it over your heart. Consider the possibility that support arrives in many forms. A stranger, a friend, a dog, a mysterious woman in a church, a thoughtful neighbor, a song, a rose, a story.
Ask yourself: What gifts have I been receiving that I have not fully allowed myself to accept? Write whatever arises.
Cross the threshold.
In your journal, complete the following sentence:
"I no longer need to choose between __________ and __________."
Repeat it several times if needed. Notice what changes. Notice what softens. Notice what expands.
Closing Blessing
Place the rose somewhere you will see it in the coming days.
Each time you pass it, remember: You do not become whole by choosing one path. You become whole by bringing all of yourself with you.
The crossroads is not asking who you are.
It is asking whether you are willing to become all of it.
And if your answer is yes, the path will meet you there.
Download this spell to add to your grimoire here: