On Names and a Purity of Purpose

My mother is a great believer in the power of names.  She and my father, though devout Christians, are Hippies that never grew up.  A cousin told them that at a funeral, and they were delighted.  My family used the cloak of their youthful beliefs to filter through some fey practices and customs that Southern Oklahoma Christianity was unprepared to accept.  There was a tarot deck hidden in a desk drawer that I was never allowed to touch.  My father refuses to wear shirts of a certain color, green, because he has a bad feeling about them.  My grandmother, his mother, came from people who lived in camps, played the fiddle every night, and never stopped traveling.  

My mother believes in the power of names for her children.  She had several books, from the popular culture of the late 1980s.  She named my brother for both of his grandfathers, a Manly Thresher.  For me, they decided they didn’t need to honor any ancestors.  Daughters aren’t important for carrying on family names after all.  (Though we are often the ones that keep the family history and knowledge alive.)  She used her middle name, meaning Grace, and gave me a long first name, meaning Pure.  She once told me that she would never consider naming a child Chad, because the name means war.  She also told me that she and my father thought that my name would look good on a diploma someday.  

But they also gave me a nickname, the most common diminutive of my name.  It is short and gamine.  It’s funny that a name that is most associated with long-dead and fierce queens and bloody saints is shortened into a name that is distinctly unthreatening.  Girls mustn’t be scary after all.  My father picked my nickname, looking up the most common spelling.  My last name is one that is never pronounced or spelled right in English.  It wasn’t simplified enough in the Port of Galveston on the way from Germany.  Maybe my parents thought that was enough to have to correct.  

I never really made peace with my names, or myself, until I looked up the etymology for myself.  Purity was never really a desire of mine.  Growing up in a very Christian family in a small southern town, purity meant an act to put on for other people.  It meant hiding true feelings and desires behind a calm face and a delicate laugh.  Girls shouldn’t want things fiercely.  They shouldn’t feel a burn to fight injustices and march in the streets. They shouldn’t desire to correct their elders.  They especially shouldn’t want to kiss other girls.  I learned to speak quietly, to make myself less harsh.  I learned to hide my intellect and my scorn and my opinions (though not always successfully).   I taught myself to hide everything I wasn’t supposed to feel under a mask of polished stone, so much that I was called cold and unfeeling, even though a brand of fire sang in my veins every minute.  I taught myself to be an excellent liar as a way to survive.  

What my mother didn’t know about the name she chose for me, is that it comes from the Goddess of witches. Hecate, the keeper of keys, queen of the heavens and the seas, revered in ancient times before memory. She who lived in the world above and below. A serpent and a torch in her hands to light the way. Three faces to see every direction of the crossroads. A pathmaker and wayfinder. She’s venerated still even when her history and secrets have been lost to times and places long dead. It’s ironic that my mother gave me a name she thought meant pure while still dedicating me to a Goddess of a darker path. 

But it’s a mistake to think that purity can only mean the keeping of desire locked away. I have a purity of purpose, a fire burning in my breast. It’s okay to have a purity of belief. To be a zealot. I always thought I would have to compromise, but I don't. I can choose to let my fire burn as bright and hot as I want. I can be pure in my desires and purpose. I can hold fast and true to the things I believe, even if others don’t understand or appreciate them. My Goddess lights a path for my feet. 

We do spells in our lives all of the time. Spells or prayers are rituals with intent. Actions with thought. Deeds with words (spoke or silent). Anything can be a spell if you have intent. Sometimes our intent produces a different outcome than we may ever dream. Magic knows our heart of hearts and finds a way, even if our will isn’t what we mean or even want it to be.