She has those glimmery eyes, you know. We are all acquainted with her glimmery eyes, those mysterious glints come through the many windows that she steps through.
She shifts and we lose her, but we know she is still there. We know from the feel, prickling on our skin. We know from the whispers sifting through our spindle.
She moves and we don’t notice, for she is sly. She comes when she wants to and and where she goes, we do not know. She is free. She passes through the most impossible of barriers. She walks right through, bringing us with only a touch, a lick on the cheek, a nip on the shoulder.
Come to me, my fox. Bring me into your mysteries. Bring me out of this into that. Sift through the mysteries and lead me to void. Lead me to rabbits, to chickens, to grapes hanging so sweetly right out of reach. Let me watch your leap. I feel your pelt brush against my skin as we pass, we pass through, into the oblivion of sense which makes sense in the multiple perspective of scents and gobbling.
Cernunnos comes into my garden. He is beautifully masculine.
He has his horns and all browns and greens and gold.
His energy grows out like thick vines.
He sits across the center of my garden from me and we gaze together.
This calm, his sweet strength and musk tempt to send me wild.
But I remain focused, because I am listening.
I can allow it to waft around me and still hold him with attention.
It is not a game. It is a meeting, deep by uncounted fathoms.
We sit in the stillness, the feral contained.
The weather turned and so did I. The dark came down early, the day ended, so I closed the doors. The shutters took a snap. I wondered what the night might bring. I am done. I am tired. I am taking off all of my tools.
The great forces of deconstruction say purge, purge, purge. The gates are yawning open and the maw of the crooning crone is soon upon us. The crisp air, the taking stock, the pull into retreat, these things we cannot avoid.
She calls, she calls, she calls.
She says look, let go, cover your eyes, it doesn’t matter because in the folds of mystery you cannot see. Time for the sacred to take the helm. Time to sleep. Time to sleep.
Who are your spirits to stand beside you in the dark? Where is your candle stick and your flint stone? What forms out of the dark are down the road?
Is it the nurturing womb of stasis? The crone’s cave? The turning spit of dismemberment? The hallows of memories past, released from their cages to fly through into the void? Who will help you?
Prepare, prepare, prepare. Prepare to lie down. To be one, to be naught, to not be, to be only what is left after everything else has left.’Tis the season. We come, we came and now there is nothing.
Sometimes a person’s heart breaks because there is not enough room for the love that wants to flow through it. The heart breaks. Fresh cracks become fissures and into the fissures pour a molten elixir of fire. This burning salve drops deep into a space called the Will and cools – and here, we decide to live. But from the shape of the curved rock walls around us, we know that we cannot live the same way we did before.
Form explodes into nothingness. Fear springs up but there is no cliff to leap from. The cliff is gone too, leaving fear to dissipate in the wind. We grasp to nothing. No walls, no fear, no one else, only silence.
Such is the season of darkness, one survived through death, transformation and back into life. It is not destiny, however. Roads do not all have to be mottled with hardship. Not all dark seasons are conducted like the forge.
I give you the Sun’s rays for your season of darkness. I give you the glowing cup, brimming with gold to remind you that there is warmth even when we are not looking for it. That the natural state of your life as a flesh and bone mammal is heat. Whatever you do, in dance or in hibernation, may you be comforted with this knowledge, which is as constant as your own beating heart.
Dance in love this winter, the dance of wonder or the dance of despair, a dance of confusion or a dance of joy, each dance inherently loved simply by the truth of your expressions. Watch your fingers move, the lines they draw, speaking that which you could not previously say.
Rest sure this winter. Curl into your caves with the ancient mothers and sleep your wonderful sleep. There is time for work and there is time for dreaming and in this season, when we listen, the Mysteries do sing.
There is a Sun for working and there is a Sun for lazy morning stretching. I give you the lazy morning kind. The kind where it’s okay to be alone for gentle thinking, playful thinking, curiosity. The lazy sun dissolves the urgency from life and assures us, smoothing down the bristles.
There is a candle rooted in all of us, a candle which cannot be blown out. It is a fact. We cannot get away from life. Life is relentlessly persistent. It refuses to be ignored. With every step we take, around us life teems. The girl in the cafe. The quiet winter trees, the screech of tires on the highway. There is someone in there. There is life. There is life.
I draw this circle ‘round myself,
And from the center I send out light,
I send out light,
I send out light.
To east, to south, to west, to north
and four more in-between
I paint the rays in red and gold
for creatures seen, unseen.
I do not need to wander far
for all I need is here.
I am a seeker nevermore
and laud my treasures near.