Finding Mother in a Mother of a Storm

As I prepared for the publication of my eighth book, A Feral Church: a Guided Journey to Find Magic, Kinship and the Goddess, lists were made of swag to be ordered (buttons, stickers, t-shirts), bookstores to be contacted, media to be courted and informed. In addition to all those details—and dozens of others—there was the end of my personal touring season for 2024 and the homely tasks of emptying some of the rain barrels and putting the garden to bed. All these fell by the wayside when Hurricane Helene made landfall in September and swept up the Southeast to devastate my homeland in the southern highlands of the Appalachian Mountains.

First, let me reassure you that I and most of my community survived. Mother Grove Goddess Temple flooded, but it often does in very wet weather because we are in an old building with bad French drains. My personal home was without electricity for almost two weeks and without potable tap water for almost two months. We easily returned to old ways of being: rainwater saved for the garden was the water that flushed the toilet, we played cards in the evening by the light from a kerosene lamp, and went to a neighbor's house to use her gas stove to cook a hot meal. Most of our immediate neighbors left for areas unaffected by the storm, leaving a pirate crew of diehards who gleefully compared the length of time since we'd had a shower. I learned how many neighbors had guns, since there was a very real chance of looters in our gentrified neighborhood. We found the places where water and food were available and passed along word about which gas stations had gas and for how long.

We are still walking through a natural disaster of monstrous proportions here. Most people have electricity now, many have potable water from the faucet. Others are living in heated tents as winter begins. Some of the people who have come through to this stage with their family, health, and property intact are reaching into their own resources and the circle of resources around them to provide for the homeless, the wounded, and those in direst need. Others indulge in "survivors' guilt," and seem incapable of looking outside themselves to offer succor and friendship to those who need it.

The needs changed based on location as well as duration of the disaster. At first, we were working to meet basic needs—finding the lost; finding and burying the dead; making sure people had drinking water, food, medicine, and shelter. Later it was gathering: heaters and propane, warm clothing for the onset of an Appalachian winter, sheetrock and lumber for rebuilding.

What do any of these musings have to do with A Feral Church or magic or any of the things I write and teach, you may well ask? Pull up a seat and let me tell you a story. It is an Appalachian tradition, especially popular as the nights lengthen and the days grow cold.

All of my work—teaching, writing, speaking, rituals—is based in the land here in the mountains, land I've called home my whole long life. My family has been in these mountains for centuries, and we rarely venture far, often choosing to return here after school or retirement. These old mountains are some of the oldest in the world, and one of the rivers that caused such savage destruction is one of the oldest rivers. The energy is deep and low here, and the hills are breathtaking in any season.

All my work grows from these roots, as any reader or student can clearly see. My folk magic practice would not be so gripping nor so effective if it was not moored so completely to the mountains that sustain me.

For many years now, my work has also woven in concepts of community and how that can look in a country so deeply divided. Mother Grove Goddess Temple is also part of my intense love of both Goddess and the land with which I dwell. Bringing those things together—weaving them into a whole fabric—has become my life's sweetest work.

When Helene's winds and rain leveled so much in this and the neighboring counties, the intention of the governing body of Mother Grove was to raise a little money and pass it on to local non-profits that were already working in the field. But two days after the storm, we realized we were being called to do so much more.

For the first few weeks, a team of volunteers came to the little downtown chapel every day. We made tea and phone calls. We received donations and immediately sent them out again. We worked our individual social networks to find out where there was need, what was needed, and to ascertain if there was enough of a road to send in a vehicle. So many roads simply didn't exist anymore. It wasn't that there were trees blocking the way; the roads had been swept away by the rivers and in many places there wasn't even a road bed anymore. Mother Grove is the original "feral church." It is non-denominational: a place where Goddess/Goddesses/Divine Women are welcomed, tended, worshipped. The statues in the chapel celebrate a wide range of cultures and spiritual systems. (When a Catholic church sent us a big box of hand-knitted scarves and hats, the accompanying note went under the hands of the pretty statue of the Blessed Virgin on our main altar.) We understand that too many people have been deeply wounded by institutional religion and find comfort in that homely, funky chapel.

But as our relief work has expanded and adapted, we are finding feral churches in some pretty surprising places, and realize that while we may consider ourselves the first we are hardly alone. Circles and reading groups, knitting clubs and quilting guilds—there are feral churches everywhere, places when the Divines of our foremothers are honored in ways large and small. There is simplicity in this tending work, as well as clear questions—what does my community need? Can we get it? How do we distribute it to the people who need it? Once those questions are answered, then we, as a community, proceed.

It really is no more complicated than that.

Having a place to store and from which to distribute goods is important. Maintaining clear lines of communication is vital. Leaving egos at the door is helpful. Being unafraid to ask questions is a skill that can be learned. And inviting people to participate in all the ways possible is a joy.

Mother Grove—the original feral church—is filled these days with food, diapers, paper towels, propane heaters, hand-knitted woolies and toys for children who have lost everything. In amongst all that goodness and generosity wander a team of volunteers who make cups of tea, hug wounded and sad people, light candles on a solid altar. They help load and unload cases of water and boxes of shelf-stable food, they fill black bags with blankets, towels and winter coats.

Because of Helene, that mother of a storm, the temple dedicated to the Great Mother, the ancient Mothers, has come into its own. This little feral church is showing others how to step up when the times are dire and the people afraid. The future that lies before us offers many opportunities for feral churches to lead the way in offering comfort, mutual aid, and community building.

In our wildness, in our feral souls, we are building strong and connected communities. It is my hope that your circle will join us in this profound and joyful work.