On Sunday morning, about 8am, a man named Jon Randall died.
I hadn't spoken to him in a couple of years, he had mentioned me in a comment on Facebook only the day before but I didn't reply or respond. I hadn't spoken to him in years because I didn't think he was a good person to be around. He could be brilliant and wonderful to know, but also at times toxic.
Jon and his wife initiated me into Wicca.
Jon and his wife were the people who introduced me to some of the most important people in my life, they are the primary reason I came to London. They are the reason I met the person who eventually led me to join a different coven in Wiltshire. Without Jon and his wife I definitely wouldn't be where I am today.
I made the right decision for me in cutting off contact with him, but now find I wish I had spoken to him one last time, told him that I am good where I am and perhaps started to have some contact again.
A friend Dewi wrote a nice comment that sums Jon up perfectly;
I heard this morning that Jon Randall had suddenly, shockingly died.
He was a witch. He wasn't "also a witch", nor did he just "call himself a witch". Everything he did grew from his witchcraft. He was a stage magician, a writer, a web designer, a programmer, a political campaigner. But primarily a witch, with all of the positive and negative connotations that that entails.
He taught me a lot. Not every lesson was pleasant. Many of the lessons were distinctly unpleasant, but each one was important.
It is only now he is dead that I recognise I owed him a lot more than I realised.
He will go on my ancestor altar, I will drink cider and remember the many, many good times. I will start to loosen my memory on the bad times.