blackthornwren:

When I first fell headlong into witchcraft, something like seventeen years ago, it had to be kept secret. Everything had to be hidden away, in various places, scattered under the bed, the dresser, behind cabinets, in drawers, and as completely innocuous as possible and all of it behind a bedroom door that stayed locked more often than not.

It’s not like that now, and while I don’t disassemble my altars or hide my books away from disapproving family, I still keep things very secretive.

The term I use for it is sub rosa, meaning “under the rose”. Basically, it seems to originate from Eros giving a rose to Harpocrates to make sure that Aphrodite’s indiscretions would be kept secret. I’m generalizing (poorly) and using the Wikipedia summary, forgive me. The roses came first, the why always seemed less important.

Historically, the concept of sub rosa continued, used in the Middle Ages and onward. You can see roses carved onto confessional boxes for privacy, and sometimes roses were integrated onto the ceilings in people’s homes to signify that whatever was discussed would be kept secret, or under the rose.

I’ve also seen this similar sort of concept woven into pop-culture, in a few books but most recently in Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Lady Pole’s inability to speak because she was bound by a rose at the mouth.

Dried roses hang in clusters about my room where all of my work is done. I don’t even remember when I started doing it, I just knew that I should. Now the air moves through them and in the quiet, I can hear the dried rustle of the petals scraping against one another – whispering. They’ve become an important symbol for me, a reminder every time I look at them, though the meaning has changed over the years.

They are both a spell and a promise. And every December, I’ve replaced them with fresh ones and renewed the vow. It’s an unspoken agreement: I keep their secrets and they keep mine. 

A spell woven to protect this part of me that I keep hidden, to keep it safe from prying eyes and wandering hands. A fascination, a distraction to keep them from looking too long, from asking questions.  

A promise to the gods and ungods that I will keep the secrets they gift me with. That whatever I am shown or told will be kept quiet. This is a promise I hold sacred.  

So far, it holds true and has taken on a life of it’s own. The spirits hold me accountable and tell me when to keep silent. There have been many times I’ve wanted to speak; I’ve even wanted to post things on this blog and find that I simply cannot. I am stopped every time, my promise won’t let me – and for good reason, they are experiences that are not really meant to be shared.

So be mindful of the promises you make to the roses, especially when you think no one is listening.