Red Door Bone Fire

 

The New Mage

 

A Spell of Ancestral Resurrection
and Patriarchal Dismantling

By the wild moon’s breath and the forgotten bones,
By the whispers of women swallowed and silenced,
I call forth the spirits of the disappeared, the dismissed, the discarded.

Hear me, sisters of the otherworld:
Witches burned, midwives erased, spinsters condemned
Rise from your wells of forgetting
Rise from the bloody baskets of history

I am the youngest sister
Dressed in feathers and fury
Covered in honey of remembrance
My body a weapon, my voice a resurrection

By the blue-bearded snake of patriarchy
Who renders our labor invisible
Who colonizes our bodies with medical lies
Who fragments our worth with beauty’s cruel blade

We hex your power of silencing
We unravel your spells of shame
We break the chains of wage disparities
We shatter the mirrors of imposed limitation

Every institutional wall that erased our leadership
Every violent touch that claimed ownership
Every economic system that kept us small
We resurrect our sovereign power

Every missing woman becomes a torch
Every silenced scream becomes a battle cry
Every broken body reassembles
Every ghost joins our army

Burn. Dismantle. Reclaim.

So mote it be.

Kathleen Prophet

Join me in a ritual of Bones & Fire!

Listen.

Once in a time that was always and never ends, there were three sisters, hatched like pearls from the same shell of night, and raised not by hands but by weather. The rain licked their hair into ropes; the wind combed their thoughts; the frost wrote its glittering catechism upon their windows and called it law. No mother’s lap, no father’s belt—only the country itself, which can be harsher than either and more faithful than both…

 

So begins The Tale of the Three Sisters and the Blue-Bearded Mage, our guiding fairytale for this Samhain rite.

It is a story of vanishing women and the one who would not look away.

A story of the youngest sister who journeys into the red-doored underworld, re-members the bones of her sisters, and raises an army of the forgotten to burn the castle of oppression to ash.

This is our story.

It is a motherless tale, restoring the ancient truth: the Holy Wild Mother is not one human, but the living forces of nature and village combined. She moves through wind and root—and through each of us. This rite is one way we re-member Her.

A Spell of Ancestral Resurrection

By the wild moon’s breath and the forgotten bones,
By the whispers of women swallowed and silenced,
We call forth the spirits of the disappeared,
the dismissed, the discarded…

Together we will step through the red door of this fairytale and enact its spell.

We will re-member the ancestors in our bloodlines and in our world—the witches, healers, mothers, warriors, and outlaws erased by history and by the systems that still consume us.

Through story, ritual, paint, and movement we will bring their bones back into the circle of the living.

This is a rite of remembrance and of dismantling: a collective dismantling of patriarchal systems that have thrived on our silence.

 

A Rite of Remembrance and Resurrection

Every missing woman becomes a torch
Every silenced scream becomes a battle cry
Every broken body reassembles
Every ghost joins our army

Burn. Dismantle. Reclaim.

Two Ways to Enter the Story

ONLINE RITUAL — Under the Ancestors’ Moon (Nov 7, 2025)

A three-hour immersive ceremony held in the orb of the Full Moon in Taurus with the Sun’s descent into Scorpio’s depths.

Storytelling performance ritual

Guided rites through the scenes

The red thread, egg, and basket spell

Art making and writing practice to embody our vow

Group invocation & closing blessing

Bring: one egg (real or crafted), red thread, a small basket or bowl, a candle, your journal.

 

LIVE WORKSHOP — Solar Samhain (Nov 8, 2025)

• A full-day pilgrimage through the fairytale’s stations, culminating in a fire rite.
• Storytelling & circle sharing
• Movement through the Mage’s Basket, the Red Door, the Well, the Tower, and Fire
• Painting / crafting: your egg, your vow, your medicine
• Weaving of a collective basket altar
• Fire ritual: burning the “invitations” to patriarchy
• Ancestral feast & closing blessing
• Held as the Sun reaches 15° Scorpio, the ancient cross-quarter of Samhain—when the veil is thinnest and the dead walk beside the living.

What You’ll Experience

• Re-membering: calling your ancestors and the silenced parts of yourself back into wholeness. 
• Unmasking: shedding “good-girl” conditioning, the collusion of politeness and perfection. 
• Ritual Creation: crafting your own egg, basket, and thread as living symbols of transformation. 
• Collective Banishment: channeling outrage and love into actions that dismantle patriarchal harm in daily life. 
• Embodied Resurrection: leaving with a tangible vow and an awakened sense of ancestral power (and the Holy Wild Mother) moving through you.

This Gathering Is For You If…

• You feel the weight of generations of silenced women and want to give them voice.
• You are ready to transmute grief, rage, or exhaustion into sacred activism.
• You long to stand with other women in the lineage of the Wild Mother, the Outlaw, the Witch.
• You believe storytelling, art, and ritual are not luxuries—they are technologies of liberation.

Registration

🌂 Online Ritual (Nov 7) — 3 hrs · Sliding scale $55–$88*

🌂 Live Workshop (Nov 8) — 6 hrs · Sliding scale $60 – $111* (includes materials & fire feast)

Spaces are limited for both gatherings.

• if you have financial limitation please contact me

 

 Kathleen Prophet

Myth-maker. Ritual artist. Depth guide of the Holy Wild.

Kathleen Prophet weaves the disciplines of myth, psychology, and ritual art into living ceremonies that awaken women to their fierce, creative, and ancestral intelligence.

Kathleen is trained at the Institute of Transpersonal Psychology in Creative Expression and in the BodySoul Work of Jungian analyst, Marion Woodman, as well as apprentice to the word witch yogini, Danielle Dulsky, in all things witchery and embodied spellcraft with fairyatles,

Kathleen’s path bridges Jungian depth work, somatic embodiment, and sacred storytelling. Her work has evolved through decades of facilitating women’s circles, grief rituals, expressive arts, and mythopoetic education.

A graduate of the VITAL Psychedelic Education and Therapy program, Kathleen brings trauma-informed and psychedelic-assisted integration practices into her ceremonies, creating spaces that honor both the psyche’s descent and the soul’s ecstatic return.

Her forthcoming book, Mother Shaman, Monster, Outlaw, explores motherhood and female initiation as radical acts of transformation. Through workshops such as Red Door & Bone Fire, she guides participants across thresholds of the holy and the monstrous, where creativity, ancestral memory, and social awakening converge.

Kathleen’s work invites women to reclaim mythic language, re-member the Wild Mother within and around them, and embody the living magic that dismantles old systems and births new worlds.

 

Red Door & Bone Fire
A Tale of Strategy, Trickery & Resurrection

a re-visioning tale of Bluebeard & the Mage’s Basket
by Kathleen Prophet

Listen.

Once in a time that was always and never ends, there were three sisters, hatched like pearls from the same shell of night, and raised not by hands but by weather. The rain licked their hair into ropes; the wind combed their thoughts; the frost wrote its glittering catechism upon their windows and called it law. No mother’s lap, no father’s belt—only the country itself, which can be harsher than either and more faithful than both.

The two eldest practiced a goodness so immaculate it squeaked. They varnished their days with smiles and would not stoop to the work of dusk: would not bury a crow that had the discourtesy to fall dead at their feet, would not gather a fistful of withered marigolds whose orange mouths had gone to ash. “We must keep our frequency high,” they sang like tuning forks, and turned their eyes from rot as if rot were begging in the street.

The youngest—ah, the youngest had dirt under her fingernails and starlight under her tongue. She was bilingual: beauty and putrefaction, hymn and worm, both languages equally fluent. She could read a weather-map in a crow’s wing and hear tomorrow’s news in the sap’s slow pulse. So when a shadow crept over the land—at first a faint bruise on the horizon, then a spreading ecchymosis—she felt it before the market women began to whisper and the tavern men began to shrug.

Women went missing. The sort who do not possess a committee to write letters on their behalf. Witches with leaf-litter caught in their skirts. Midwives with blood-warm hands. Widows, divorcees, the unbeautiful and the outspoken, the childless and the too-much-childed. Orphans of twenty and forty and sixty. They slipped like pins from a hem, and the dress still hung—the town continued to walk about in it—pretending the seams were sound.

In the pub the men stirred their beer with their fingers and pronounced the verdict known to all ballads: “She was strange to begin with.” They remembered a moment when she laughed too loud, or forgot to laugh at all. A girl who once ran off with a boy. A woman who did not run off with anyone, ever. Reasons plenty as nails; coffins are easily built when there are so many nails.

At each full moon the sky grew fat and white as an egg in a butcher’s palm, and another woman was mislaid by the world. The youngest sister counted them like rosary beads; the elder two put cotton in their ears and called the buzzing silence prayer.

“Do not go out at night,” said the youngest. “Do not answer a door that knocks from the other side.”

to be continued…

 

 

The Resurrection of the Ancestors