September 20

[Darkling Light]

After five nights we have made fragile peace between the profane and prophetic. We are re-worked, rectified, as anticipatory lovers awaiting a promised bridebed. Our sparkle polished, we sense that we have been seduced by our confessors and we are happy.

The drum has been struck and people have gathered again. The lighthearted whispering is reminiscent of the soft talk that drifts between sweethearts. We are waiting for Leaps-in-Light. I see Splashing Star Rise; he must be near, perhaps cloistered amidst her mythical Lynx Clan.

And there he is. Lean and lanky, his hands and face novate to the same rich, red of his old buckskins. A notorious prankster, I see the tokens he has stolen from those who long to know his secrets. They tinkle and glisten as he searches through the crowd returning them one by one before stepping into the ring.

Tonight the drum is pine. So is the blazing nightburn, well on its way to enticing us with its power. Leaps-in-Light stands beside it, illuminated, working the gallery with his thoughts as he casually munches bits of thornapple root. We instantly draw the connection between the return of treasures and the medicine of finding lost things. Collectively we seek a sacred marriage anew, with our ancestors, our unborn, and the spirit of harmony that weds us to the mystery of the Infinite Present. Quietly Leaps-in-Light conjures a bit of fen orchid, sweeping to and fro the foretoken of hope.

Flutemakers, painted and pale as spirits, start blowing the blessing of eminent rebirth with whistles made of hemp agrimony. The melodic shades empower the ritual eloquence, enhancing a crystalline vision of the strong, quiet cycle emerging. In that solitude the rebirth of our homes will be consumed by the spirit of sanctity, re-armored against invisible projectiles of malevolence. Our children will be potent, appealing, and utterly kind. The power to divine good outcomes will come to reside in our hands again. Each requited village revivifies a sacred lovenest for Mother Moon and Mother Earth, replete with the abundance and mystery in which we excel as a people.

Elusive Wildcat enter the circle, shaking prayer sticks of pine to the rhythm of the whistles. They stalk about the ring setting their predatory gaze on the clarity of purpose and the wisdom inherent in the nuptial of our intention. Ground ivy is tied to their wands, lengthening our reach into the pool of the ancestral knowledge that we safeguard. The Fox Clan joins them wielding the cleansing medicine of gorse as we work our way through the necessities needed to obtain the objective of rebirth. Our awareness is honed again to the principle that abundance must be shared and adversity is the consequence of not doing so. Stubborn impediments dissolve in a blessing of upland cress.

Leaps-in-Light comes again, fingers gently grasping a bouquet of mother’s heart, it the magic of tiny birds. We reminisce in the melodic memory of hortatory conveyed; not harbingers of awe from which we shrink but the little bird lullabies that carry poignant notes of hope.

The Fox continue their ticklish turnings, moving gracefully on tiptoe, swishing bundles of willow to the cadence of the flutes. Spellstruck, our waxing awareness speaks to us. We are as bound to each other as we are to our Moon Mother, She the keeper of luminosity, she the music maker of our Earth Mother’s delicate dance of balance. The Fox enclose the circle with their willow wonder without a stumbling step. People, with outreached arms extend bundles of broom into the ring; the Fox grabbing them as they whirl. We are blessed with the spirit of courage for our ineffable journey with the favored choice of sacred union. They hand off the broom in exchange for bouquets of poplar, facilitating the concentered prayer of our worship. Our compassionate nature is refreshed, our hope fortified, our resolve vitalized as our elders step forward, softly singing mendicant prayers for our people. Tears stream in reflexive response to those tenderhearted eyes of the Old Ones, acutely cognizant that we witness the last of their omnipotent soliloquy, a benediction of quiet commitment. With sprigs of wormwood the corporeal Ancient Ones summon our ancestors to stand with us, ever present and all knowing. They are the keepers of belief, the vigilantes of faith sustained in our behalf, knowing it is the one essentiality we lose even after arduous treasure hunts to find it. Against all reason the Ancient Ones, spirit and flesh, invest their perfect love in our shortfall. I don’t know why. Even so they sanctify the successive waves of substantiality with elemental mystery, chanting the same homefelt harmony echoed in the tide that washes ashore the blessing of algal life. They empower our will, infuse us with sacred songs and an ethereal flow of ideas; not with fancy feast food but with the wisdom inherent in the simple blessings found in dogtooth lichen, plume fern, and sweet cicely. Our ancestors’ promptings insure the remembrance that we must emulate the spirit of humility found hidden in elemental bentgrass, the keeper of longevity. There is nothing inexplicable in true mystery. Were there no apparent purpose to life at all, we find purpose enough in preserving the soft spin of the old wisdom where fragile white waterlilies placate fear and galvanize singers.

I pause to consider the affectivity of our amorous nature, the mellow moonglow that sustains our eurhythmy of passion, the seat of which is paramount cardinal caring. Its soul can be found in unsuspecting places, in the stands of bluejoint that undulate in the slightest breeze, in colonies of capricious speedwell. Children pluck her blooms in delight sensing her requisite betrothal to an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. She is a keeper of cyclical mystery, a fickle, ineffective mistress in the hands of those with casual or cavalier awareness of secret things. And at her side? The Bear medicine of beadberry, the exorcismal caster of spells that tunes our alignment and hones our discoid disposition. It is the wisdom keeper of our Mother’s enduring bounty. Will those sprits leave us if we fail to remember?

Leaps-in-Light dances through again with the bluebow blessing of determined direction; the dramatic, divinatory dreams in which our hearts reinvest in the guardianship of the spirit world as it comes to govern our lives. The Butterfly people flutter in with their campion cure for disparity. Their beauty alone moves us from the pupae of forgotten purpose into the fruit of rebirth. As we watch, the Butterfly pull the prayers for the Unborn from our hearts and release them into the cosmic mix from which they will be plucked at some unknown, distant moment. We offer up for them, from our deepest pools, the holy hope that they too will live long, healthy lives.

In dances the Dog Clan, singing their violet heart songs, comforting and reconciliatory. They dash about flushing out the delight of eternal love, blowing love whistles of boarweed. Their elders give the same medicine to the fire, blinding troublesome spirits to the direction we prayerfully move into our new lives. Practitioners bless off their tools and we our bodies in the smoke of our rebirth.

We sense a strengthened peace emanating from the dark pigment of water horehound with which Leaps-in-Light has imbued his flesh. He is supremely gifted, a patient teacher, coaxing us away from the spirit of despair with a sprig of blue heath quickened toward the drama of renewal. Lovely as the malady mender of globeflower, as mysterious as the Moon, Leaps-in-Light is a blessing for our people. We watch as he rebuilds the structure of our lives with wood waxen. He sweeps away the shades that set opportunistic eyes on the spirit of abundance with a bundle of sweet broom. Each of us opens our heart, unobstructed, without fear, embracing the unrevealed of inevitable newness, ravenous for a taste.

Bear lumber in again, casting spells of courage and vitality with yarrow. They are securing our path from catastrophe and in doing so our clarity is refreshed. Good rest is insured with yellow waterlily. The spirit of sadness is placated with rupturewort.

Even as our people strive to emulate the nurturing nature of our Mother, we remain always mystified by Her magic. She safekeeps the peaceful blessing of prosperity while governing the world of dreams in which we live. With the poppy perfection of sacred clowns, fleeting tangibility relinquishes the illusion of reality for the substantial stuff of visions, the plenipotentiary of the dreamtime. There we traverse our multi-layered mystical Mother; Her mantle dissipating as effortlessly as soapwort cleanses away contused contemplation. All of Creation compresses into moments much like the perfume of parsley offers us a glimpse into the life that precedes our birth and proceeds after our death. We suffer now to embrace our unknown fortune that sleeps in the unborn cycle.

The Ancient Ones amend and ameliorate our unyielding disposition that grants safe haven to remiss. Our prayers are saturated with the ancestral spirits of asphodel, fervent recognition of that which we stand to lose without them and the comprehension of cyclical nature with which the Ancient Ones endow us. They gave us the hearts of littleseed weirs that catch the blessing of safety and the wonder of flight. We dream with the ancient secrets of meadow grass, its delicate pollen the prayer medicine of abundance. The moon and stars direct the drama of life. We know them better than we know our own souls, just as easily as we trust in the spirit of spoonwort to bring confidence to actions and poetry to words. Our ancestors bequeathed us with the mystery of the harmony sustained by fire and water just as they gave us the wisdom of burnet that balances melancholy with the spirit of wellness.

Leaps-in-Light has transfixed our hearts with awakened awareness; he a gatekeeper to other realms and deep Earth secrets. He gives the gift of thyme to our tired fire and we stand in the smoke of a benevolent spirit world safe, secure, and grateful. We have shed the shackles of old sorrows and are healed. We sleep again in peace and will awaken free from ourselves. Leaps-in-Light has cast the spell of no return and yet we stand quietly courageous.




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Responses to “September 20”

  1. Angela Cheetham Wilkinson September 23rd, 2013 - 12:40 pm

    Aha – the perfect Chapter 51.
    As you know, I didn’t want to move ‘on’ as I was bound to the power and poignancy of Chapter 50.
    Yet I managed.
    I managed because this chapter didn’t drag me or pull me through a funeral pyre of desperate mourning (which I was, as you know, heartbound by).
    51 offered me a softer place to fall, led more gently by Leaps-in-Light.

    • You know, you understand. Such magic makers lead us first here and then there, to some apex of challenge and confrontation. And then they lead us slowly, gently back to our everyday lives where we find ourselves somehow better people.

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