The Descent

Looking out the kitchen window, waiting for the water to boil for my first coffee of the day, I watch the snow fall. And for some reason I see the snow, really see it, for the first time. I see the snow not as a collective force of cold and ice, but as individual flakes, crystal beauties descending like feathers from the sky. I watch one perfect flake make the last five feet of its long journey as it sways and circles among the many others. I watch two join together, finding each other, in the final inches of their lives.

I realize that the life span of a snow flake is measured in inches, not in minutes and I wonder if that would make a difference in how I experience life. That if instead of measuring my life span as one long horizon, I measured it as the vertical decline back to the yielding Earth that I come from. That if instead of dying, I descend and I do so as the snow flake; gently and gracefully returning to the body of my Mother; joining with others of my kind to blanket Her. What if “pure as the driven snow” referred to the manner in which I submit to the falling, the calling, for me to come home?

I imagine diving into life, arms wide open as I journey from the clouds, down into the vastness of mountains and rivers and rolling green hills, welcomed as I meet with a slumbering body that yearns for the silence I bring with me.

I visualize a perfect descent, swaying and circling among the many others, no two the same.

We are the altar.

The greatest threat to women these days is our continued and relentless obsession with external beauty and our lack of attention to inner spiritual peace. This affects women in that we have forgotten our sacredness; the beauty of our spirits and the amazing capacity we have to give life and love. Instead we obsess over the size of our thighs, our waist, our breasts and how all these fit into the latest fashion. We feed our one-sided notion of ourselves to the other half of the population and are bound to externalized and unattainable images of what a woman should be. The only way out of this maze of shallowness is to begin with loving our hearts, minds, spirits and bodies and claiming them as sacred, to turn our eyes inward and love who we are.

We are the altar.

Birth of a Star

I am not a star;
my teeth are crooked, my hair is grey,
I have a weak chin.
I am neither polished nor fine.

Yet I have been known
to dance in the rain,
in the early morning before sunrise.

Sheltered by darkness, under the cedars
I have spread wide my arms,
spun gently round, swaying to music
made by the wind.
I have danced with bare feet on wet grass,
mud oozing between my toes,
arched my spine, thrown back my head
savoured cool rain drops on my tongue.

I have heard the song of my soul
carried on the laughter
that has risen from my belly.

I have danced for Spirit in the rain,
jumped and leapt a vigorous jig,
waltzed with the cedars and my own heart,
bowed to the rising sun
and the applause of chickadees.

I have come to know beauty;
as the rain has soaked into my hair.
Despite rivulets trailing down my back,
I have glowed like enduring embers.

I have shone so bright that I have
touched the edge of darkness,
and bravely entered there,
igniting places never seen
warming spaces never loved.

I am a star
My teeth are crooked, my hair is grey,
I have a weak chin.
I am polished and fine.

Now that I know...

They didn’t tell me of the other road to Spirit;
one more hidden and softer to tread,
paved with fallen leaves and rich dark soil,
the scent of earth heavy on the wind.

Nor did they tell me of Spirits other home;
a mansion of hills and deep valleys,
sheltered by giants that sway in the breeze,
sweeping the sky with brushstrokes of love.

I didn’t know Spirit has another voice;
booming as the surf crashes to shore,
heard in the flow of the winding brook
and in the mighty song of the Wren.

Never was I taught of Spirits true face;
found in the countenance of animals and beasts,
peering from dark places with ancient eyes,
through which I see another way.

There was no lesson that the hand of Spirit;
is as close as the one reaching out,
seeking compassion, finding mercy
in the tender grasp that does not let go.

I learned these things from bowing
to the Elders and the Earth,
wise to the ways of Spirit,
and the yearnings of the young.

I learned that Spirit loves to dance,
to screech and pound the drum.
So now I do, my body submitting
to the wild places within.

I listen now to the call of Spirit
in the sounds of the feral and untamed,
in cries for compassion from the lips of the living,
and on the whispering breath of the dead.

I move across the landscape of Spirit
with ecstasy in my soul,
my heart the drum, my breath the song,
my sweat the elixir of passion.

Andraste

Andraste’s Crow flies high and proud
leading me through the dark.
And as I walk upon sacred ground
She calls me to come home.
This warrior Goddess has no fear,
many battles has she won.
On this Journey she is ever near
I travel not alone.

A Celtic Tale of Finding the Light of the Goddess

As we move into the dark time, I wanted to share a poem I wrote to give heart that the light is always with us.

Arianrhod

She stood upon the feverish sands,
with lonely heart,
and empty hands,
as the mists gently offered
damp kisses to her cheeks.

The wind aroused her crimson tresses
to dance like the folds
of silken dresses,
upon the breeze that cooled
her disheartened countenance.

The sea heaved truly before her,
akin to the lover
who once adored her,
when lips did touch and
fingers met skin warm and soft.

With robes sweeping wildly Erin green,
she looked as a shade
in a child’s dream,
which walks on air whispering
silent covenants.

As she gave witness the sun did set
upon the crest
of the waves it met,
till darkness cloaked her
within a ravens embrace.

She stood on the shore, her eyes beholden
to the full moon
it’s visage golden,
bleeding pure light
upon her furrowed brow.

And when the moon did reach its’ peak,
standing in waters
cold and deep,
she raised her hands
to the stars above.

“Arianrhod, I call to thee,
Mother of the
Sacred Three,
pray thee hear my petition
in beautiful Caer Arianrhod.

My lover tis dead, my clan tis scattered,
all that to me
has ever mattered,
has slipped through my hands
which once were strong.

And I know not why I have been cursed.
nor why upon me
this scourge loosed,
in your woven tapestry
that is my life.”

Seen through a tear that doused her eye,
the Silver Wheel
in the sky,
began to spin and
whirled a shining path.

A thread of light did gently land
upon the sodden
moonlit sand
and from it’s brilliance
a woman buoyed forth.

Her radiance lit the seaside far,
as round her flamed
the hallowed stars,
that were the celestial
lanterns of Emania.

Then from her mantle did she lift
a silver scepter
with amber tip
and pointed to the
rolling sea.

“Turn ye waters from this shore
and from this one
who does implore
from me the answers to
still her heavy grief.

For I shall not to her bestow
the answers she fosters
within her soul,
nor will your waters
give her release.
No coward stands here.”

Anon the waters did recede
and from the woman
took their leave,
till her sodden form
stood bathed in Goddess light.

Then the Mother looked upon her face
with tender eye, and
with soothing grace
Her ancient voice
drifted melodically to her ear.

“The lyceum in Emania holds
a thousand warriors,
brave and bold
whom answered the call to
battle with their lives.

And as I move through the passageway,
I ask each one
what they would say,
now that they have left behind
what they held dear.

Nary one has spoken yet
of suffering, bitterness,
nor regret.
Instead they speak of gratitude
for having been.

So listen Daughter to what I say
within my light
you shall find your way,
you need only make the journey
to who you are.”

Then the Goddess disappeared
and with Her took
all the woman feared
sweet warmth replaced the coldness
of her soul.

Turning now toward the path
that would take her home
she heard a laugh
and knew she would never again
journey alone.

Freedom

When I feel free I can hear my own voice. I can let my tongue form words that speak what is true. There is an unlocking deep within, somewhere near my heart that opens a gateway to my Soul. When I feel free I do not confuse my voice with the voice of Spirit and my desires are no longer my own.

It does not matter where I sit or what surrounds me as I write – when I feel free I am everywhere. I am not a profound writer; I am not well versed in my language. Sometimes I cannot grasp a word and the feeling falls away. When I feel free none of that matters for I feel and that is enough.

I am continually discovering who I am – I love the journey I have taken; a journey to freedom.

I hear a crickets call – it is soothing with its rhythm and predictability. I see a flock of tiny birds darting here and there and I long to know connection like that. Tiny insects skim along the surface of the water, changing its course in their own small way.

My mistakes in this life are my greatest stories; complete with all the drama and the lessons of the fables. As a child I believed I was meant for something great and now I know I am. Living is a mighty and courageous act.

The critics’ voice within me may not be silent but it matters not, when I feel free.

I know I am good enough for Spirit.

**
Experiencing the expansiveness of freedom is as simple as surprising yourself by breaking out of the predictability you have structured in your life. Take off from work early and visit a park, explore the beauty of the natural world or walk in the rain and smell the fresh scent of Earth.

Freedom is within you, you only need to choose to release your wild self and run with the untamed.