Category Archives: Seasons

Final Reprise

PART ONE:

When the warrior finally reaches the green pastures and sunny meadow,
when the warrior puts her weapons down,
she feels the heat rise from within her and lies down to rest
under the high grass, smell of lyrical flowers.

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Further no purpose, no quarry in sight, she dreams of battles
and then when she rises, all comforts greet her body
and she sighs, and she sleeps again.

When the warrior has found her way out of the darkness
into the light of her own heart
there is no longer need to strive

for arrival is done
and the land is still.

There is nothing left to seek,
yet the song still awaits, as she waits for the song.

Soothe the jagged remembrances of evil;
remember the misplaced soothing of jagged affairs.

Awake she is, like never before and
like never before, she draws from her sleep,

every fiber,
her being whole now,
glistening and listening to the holy voice within.

 

PART TWO:

I asked, “Once the debris has been cleared and demons faced, transformed, what is left in the sacred vessel of the shadow within us?”

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and I heard the reply,

“That which one is connected to, but has no words for.

That which gestates and must not be disturbed, lest it be damaged in the process.

The Great Mother, who holds us, who nourishes and who weeps and cheers for us.

This is also the realm of the White Raven, she who has been burnt through and through and yet still lives. She who is Grace with a thin cloak of iron unseen and unshakeable. She who is container, soft as feather, hidden power capable of those very things she yearned to do when in pain but put down as soon as she was able. She is Death, she has seen and understood every aspect of Death and yet she has no need to bring on Death. She holds forgiveness, her compassion gently touches us with the naked light of presence aware.”

Once stagnation is broken in the sacred vessel of shadow, once the river is flowing freely, dreams of the Gods come quicker, our journeys clear in the slipstream of their inspiration. Then when we tell, we tell from a place of the Gods.

This is all I know and I pray for.

To not wield

The stillness stretches across the horizon and whispers without words,
with the force of emptiness so loud,
our every fiber can hear it.

“Listen.”

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.
We wait.

Death

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,
unseen,
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.

Winter Dreaming

– A Time of Dreaming –

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We have crossed the threshold of Winter Solstice. But, darnit, it is still dark! We called in the light in holy ceremony, but where is the actual light?

The ‘pull’ towards the abyss has ceased. We have had our brush with the great shadow, sat through our lessons with Grandmother Darkness. Some of us have even plummeted into and crossed the Abyss. Those that have plummeted and not returned have passed on to other worlds, to be mourned by those left in this one. What do we do with all these leftovers from the Death feast of the season passed?

To understand this, we can look at the Wheel of the year in a few different ways. Firstly as this big wheel with huge powers on it’s opposite sides, of Sun and Moon, Light and Dark, Life and Oblivion. Creation. Disintegration. The closer we are on the wheel to one of those powers, the more we are under it’s influence. So, it being just post Winter Solstice, we are still heavily under the influence of the great shadow – but in a different way than before.

Different, because the great Wheel is moving. There is a movement. When we are before a pole like the sun or moon, we are being pulled towards it. Once we have crossed it’s center, we have been released. The great event is over and all the ‘making sense of things’, repositioning, realignment, refinding, digesting.. all that after-the-event stuff happens. We are now riding on momentum. The light may be dawning but it won’t be until Spring Equinox, one of the balance points between the poles, before the Sun is able to catch us up in his infectious spell and pull us towards his massive heart.

Back at the time of Samhain, when the great gates to the yawning Abyss opened, it was a time to release, as the great forces of the void pulled us, inescapably in. We went into stasis, the time between Death and Life. During that stasis, under the influence of the sacred darkness, some Thing built up and happened. Some alchemy occurred. An event, which peaked and then made room for a pin hole of light to return and begin to expand.

So now, after the Solstice, there is another release while the light enters. We, tired again from the drama of conception, rest in the unfathomable womb of the angelic mother as our guardian spirits move in to dream with us the dreams of our new incarnate existence. Therein is the gentle complexity of a life’s layers being grown. There is the simplicity of lying fallow under the inexorable, slow dawning of the nurturing sun.

We are preparing for the moment when we nail down our intentions with the naked force of our honest will – or more gently put, plant our seeds. This happens on Imbolc, Feb 1st.

But true intentions cannot come before the dreaming. We are still dreaming.

As we sleep, inspiration touches us, sending reverberations into the bones of who we are. There arises a yearning for what is next in the truth of what we are. More inspiration comes and this yearning, an open space, a ‘need fire’ as they say in the runic alphabet, combined with the love of the inspirational spirits, (this sublime safety we feel with them which gives birth to devotion) this, altogether forms a seed.

A most precious seed of life, dreamt in the most sacred way. For we do not create in this world as humans. We co-create.

Such is the sublime ecstasy of living.

by Tasara

The Great Gate

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.

by Tasara

Bees imagine

**Bee Imagine**

Imagine you are a bee.

You buzz in airy ocean
of the most delicious smells,
waves and ribbons of them
some pungent and full,
some like narrow streams of gladness.

In low places there is found lace, heaven.
Further on, grace.
Along the fences is rosy rose,
burst of rose,
sweet rose,
cool rose.

But there is one scent,
a ravenously dizzy scent
that calls soft through airy jungle
as you madly fly its trail

all high and too hither.

by Tasara