Some 35 self-proclaimed witches are gathered in the backyard of a ranch house on a sleepy cul-de-sac in Simi Valley—a conservative Ventura County suburb known for having one of the highest concentrations of retired law enforcement officers in Southern California. The group of witches includes former drug addicts, soccer moms, therapists, an ex–porn star, musicians, children, artists, and grandmas. They are members of House of the Goddess, a spiritual community that preaches radical acceptance and is organized around the principles of ecofeminism—the intersection of women and nature. Witches come from all over California (the Bay Area, San Luis Obispo, Orange County) and the world (Berlin, Sydney) to channel their inner divine being through rituals at House of the Goddess.
In the yard, the witches direct their attention to two women, longtime couple Duffy and Laura, who are presiding over the evening ceremony. The pair of founders—or, in House of the Goddess parlance, high priestesses—are dressed in long black gowns and velour capes, and Duffy’s silver hair brushes her waist. At their feet are two German shepherds, Spirit and Magic.
This article appears in Issue 36 of Alta Journal.
SUBSCRIBE
Duffy, who is 80, rises to greet the witches, who are seated in a circle around an altar set with candles, bells, a drum, and a chalice. A phone and microphone are set up in a corner for virtual participants—a group in Palm Springs that often joins over Zoom. To begin the ritual, the group slowly turns and pauses in each cardinal direction—east, south, west, and finally north—to mark the boundaries of this sacred space. “Welcome to Hallows,” Duffy says, referring to the witches’ New Year. Then she reviews the evening’s agenda, which is also outlined in handmade programs bound with black ribbon.
“As we near the end of the earth’s life cycle and look toward next year,” she says, “it’s important to memorialize those targeted in the largest organized killing of women in history.” She’s referring to the witch hunts that began around the 15th century—a catastrophe known to the witches as the Burning Times. The priestesses each hold a candle while reading first-person accounts of individual women who died, conjuring the lost voices of their foremothers.
GROWING UP GODDESS
Unconventional holy spaces have often served as refuges for those in search of family. Los Angeles, in particular, is a magnet for the spiritually unorthodox—from Paramahansa Yogananda’s Self-Realization Fellowship to the Philosophical Research Society’s Death Cafe.
Duffy is accustomed to ceremonial rites, albeit more rigid ones: She was raised Catholic in Benzie County, Michigan, before moving to Southern California at 14, and she spent her childhood kneeling in pews and watching her mother devoutly pray. “You could see the light in her,” Duffy says. “But I never felt it.” She was in her late 30s when a friend introduced her to Circle of Aradia, a community where, at the time, hundreds of women in Los Angeles worshipped the goddess Diana. Duffy learned about the divine feminine and began to feel a direct connection to a higher power.
Duffy and Laura, now 71, met while working as therapists at a trauma center in the San Fernando Valley in the late 1980s. Laura was already a feminist; Duffy exposed her to the world of goddess spirituality, a movement that had taken root in the ’70s and that enraptured them both. In 2008, the two began facilitating discussions of goddess spirituality texts, including Zsuzsanna Budapest’s spell manual The Holy Book of Women’s Mysteries and the anonymous poem “The Wiccan Rede,” at their home in Simi Valley. Word spread, and attendance grew from a few people to more than a dozen. Today, at least 25 witches regularly attend the couple’s monthly ritual gatherings. Duffy and Laura offer a priestess program through which members can take a leadership role in the ceremonies (so far, about 10 witches have enrolled). But make no mistake: Priestesses are responsible for cultivating consensus in the group, not influencing it. “One thing that makes us different is that the high priestess thing is not hierarchical, which is probably not the norm in the goddess community,” Laura says in her husky voice. (Though there are practicing witches all over the world, House of the Goddess is not officially affiliated with other goddess communities.)
Duffy defines a witch as a woman with a clear intention. “What we imagine,” the mantra goes, “we have the power to create.” These witches are regular people in T-shirts and bangle bracelets; they laugh, tease one another about Zoom glitches, struggle to strike a match, and share recipes for braided bread. Sure, there’s chanting, singing, and closing of eyes for a meditation in which leaders guide you to envision the mythic horse Epona on a seashore. But there’s no ominous activity—even in the spell work. Lighting a candle or burning herbs is meant to harness and connect to the energies of the earth.
BACKYARD CHANTING
Duffy and Laura raised seven children—two biological daughters and five adopted sons and daughters. In line with the couple’s values and social work backgrounds, they regularly invite priestesses—women who have invested themselves in goddess studies in lieu of a viable career—to sublet rooms in their four-bedroom, two-bath tract home, a place adorned with goddess statues and ritual tools such as athames, wands, and rattles on every wall, tabletop, and mantel. Over the years, witches traveling from outside the United States have come to visit for up to six weeks. There are always people in the kitchen. One member described Laura as “the master” because she knows how to get everything done. When I visit, three priestesses are working at the house: Erika is designing the House of the Goddess website, Ellen is weaving garlands, and Janice is sewing at the dining room table.
Janice has been living with Duffy and Laura for more than six years. She joined the group in 2008, after overcoming a long illness. She calls House of the Goddess “the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.” Janice thrives on the support of this community after striving to find a place where she felt she belonged. (She felt burned early on by a women’s bowling league she joined in her 20s that was “rife with backstabbing.”) Living in a community is not without its challenges, but Janice says she’s navigated tensions with her housemates. “If we can’t figure out how to mend bridges and love each other, who can?” she asks rhetorically.
Orphans of all sorts—people estranged from their biological families or starting over after divorce—call House of the Goddess home. They spend holidays together: cooking a big meal on Thanksgiving and making vision boards on New Year’s Day. They divide household chores: washing dishes, say, or feeding the four tortoises (Mortimer, Omen, Demi, and Ama). They keep the communal pantry stocked.
After 18 years of backyard chanting, Duffy and Laura’s neighbors don’t bat an eye at the goddess community down the street. At the supermarket, fellow shoppers will politely ask Laura about her tattoos or her rose quartz pendant. “Conservative people have good manners,” Duffy says. “Everyone was kind to our kids.” She tells me that her next-door neighbors are Jehovah’s Witnesses who have come to expect singing around the time of the full moon. But when the couple tried to rent an industrial space in which to host their rituals like other religious groups in the area, the local real estate agent let them know: No one is going to green-light a coven of witches.
Duffy and Laura’s definition of spirituality is derived from the maternal qualities of the earth: For them, the divine feminine and witchcraft illuminate what we see every day in nature. The implications are profound, especially in this moment of unbridled environmental plundering and women losing ground over bodily autonomy.
Staci, another priestess, got involved with the group in her early 30s after her life exploded. She was reaching the end of her marriage and was estranged from her biological family. Her experience with House of the Goddess opened her back up to life, she says, citing the close relationship she has developed with her second husband’s extended family. “It’s not a stretch to say that it’s because of Laura and Duffy that I can love at all.”•
Kim Young is the author of the poetry collections Night Radio and Tigers and is at work on a book based on her friendship with Lee McCarthy.
