The stillness stretches across the horizon and whispers without words,
with the force of emptiness so loud,
our every fiber can hear it.
We have heard nothing, yet there is so much.
This silence so potent, the only true path, acceptance.
Allow ourselves to regain our strength.
Not the kind we put on the morning.
The kind that moves as we breathe, that breathes as we move.
The kind that we cannot feel, but moves others without our knowing.
We cannot begin out of folly. We cannot begin.
To begin now would be to return to the blindfold.
We gather. We wait.
There is more. It is coming.
I see Death in the darkness.
It sidles up to me and says, “You are depressed.”
It says, “Here, I have sickness.” It says, “Look at your rage.”
And I say, “Yes I see it. There is a seat at my table for you. Please. Sit.”
I call in the Healing Darkness, this darkness velvety deep
and in course I feel an embrace that slips into my secrets,
those spaces where my despair is known by no one but me.
The healing Love says,
“I am with you.
You are known.
I am holding you.”
Tears soft slide, quench soul-thirst, release.
There are glowing beings around me,
they are moving,
glowing as no other could but in a place such as this.
I say, “Sit. Eat with me, Death. There is much to talk about.”
and we gleam, looking far into each other.
A feast awaits us in the deep winter.
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.
Until we choose for it not to be.
The Raven, she embodies the hollow night.
She sits in the blindness next to you, quiet, yet unspeakably noticed.
She peers into the spaces between your bones, and she sees everything about you. She sees it all, and then she envelops you with great comfort.
A glow escapes her feathers, whose crevices are unable to keep back her infinite soft light, this compassion, this grace, this calm.
Both powers held in her shape
of daunting yawn of night
of complete and quiet acceptance.
You are known here. You are loved here.
In the silence.
And when the barriers fall
my folded heart breathes
my inner winds blows
and my limbs pick themselves up
my body flies from to to fro
the joy inside such light to throw
and I think,
This is what dancing is.
Where have I been? Why was it so hard?
But then the joy sweeps across
with the wind
and I don’t care ’cause I am free.
I don’t care about what happened and how it hurt
or where I lost things
or all the lost time.
I can do this and that is freedom.
My mother fought for what my grandmother could not
and I have found joy
in my body.
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.
Sleep, sleep, sleep.