Snowflake meditation


Imagine you find yourself on the coldest night of winter suddenly floating free from your warm bed. You are a tiny speck of dust, so very small that you can slip through the crack between the frame and the pane of your frost-covered window into the black and frozen air. You are so light that you rise up; up and up, above the roof of your home, over the tops of the trees, rising higher and higher in the dark night until the lights of the world below you flicker like stars.

Still you rise, higher and higher floating through the light low clouds, passing through frosty glistening crystals of mist. Further and further, up and up until you find yourself within a small cloud.  As you move through the mist of the cloud you begin to feel a light tug and you notice that you feel drawn to the minuscule molecules of water vapor that surround you.  You affinity to them grows deeper and you begin to feel a longing to unite with the tiny water particles.  This desire grows and fills you completely.  You want nothing more than to join with the water, to have it hold you and surround you completely.

You have become the seed from which a snowflake will grow and you are poised on the edge of a fantastically beautiful winter journey.  You want nothing more than to begin the journey, but you also know that you must wait until you are ready to give yourself over completely.

And so you begin to let go.  You let go of all the cares and worries that you have brought with you from the earth below.  You let go of your sadness. You let go of your anxiety.  You let go of the pain in your bones and muscles.  You let go of your fears and even your concerns about the others that you love.  You let go of trying to constantly fit the puzzle pieces of your life together and you let go of that overwhelming feeling that you must constantly make everything work.


And as you let go you become lighter and lighter and you begin to see that the shining crystal water molecules have begun to dance and sway around you. You sigh with pleasure as they come closer to you, teasing you and then moving away, again and again. You are ready, oh so ready to join with them, but you must do more than simply let go.  And so you dig deeper into the depths of your unconscious mind and release all that is holding you back.  You release the guilt.  You release the anger and the sorrow.  You release your obligation to do what you think others want you to do and simply do this thing that is right for you and you alone.


And when you realize that you are ready, the clear and shining water molecules come closer and they begin to swirl and naturally curve themselves around you in a stunning and glorious syncopated dance. Your delight increases even more and you suddenly feel their chill take hold and you experience the sharp edges of pure freezing begin to fill you.  You delight in the clean coldness. You shiver with pleasure as the water molecules begin to hum and attach themselves around you.

You feel totally clear and free.  You feel pure and pristine and poised to transform.  And at that very moment when you finally surrender, it happens. Icy crystal slivers shoot in six identical arms out from your center.

You sigh with deep pleasure as each of your six arms form fractal shoots that end in crispy crystalline edges in perfect formation around you. You tingle with joy as each perfectly pointed arrow strains to stretch further and further in a clear a crystal line that points multiple paths to infinity.

You can feel the cold. You can taste the cold.  You ARE the cold. You absorb the clean and bitter frozenness that you have become, the icy light and the exquisite being that is you, a stunningly beautiful, totally unique snowflake that bears witness to the climax of a love that was born from the union of water with a tiny fleck of dust that strayed from the earth.

You are suddenly filled with pure joy!  You stretch your crystal arms and you spin and you dance and you float and you fly.  You join with the others of your kind.  Each utterly different than you and yet so very much the same.  You join in a magical community of snow.

And at that moment, you realize that your life is really nothing more than a delightful dance of ice and sharp edges and exquisitely glittering crystal that can float and rise and fall and flow freely in the air.

Now listen to this amazing song by Kate Bush.

Thank you.

Dancing Snowflake image source:

Winter Solstice Song for my Sisters of the Drum


Let my drum guide you
with soft steady beat
As you move through the darkness
Into the deep.

Flow to its rhythm,
Dance to its song.
Its tempo will guide you
Its sound will stay strong.

Come with me
Flow with me
Run with me

Step with your purpose.
Step with your faith.
Step into the forest.
Open the gate.

Breathe deeply my sister
As light gently fades
Leave your sadness behind you
Step into the glade.

Come with me
Flow with me
Run with me

The oak and fir branches
Will shelter your heart
The forest bed beckons
To share in its spark.

The earth opens slowly
You drift with the flow
The roots take you further
To deep earth below.

Come with me
Flow with me
Run with me

Set free your last worries
And let them all go.
Release and drop deeper
To darkness below.

Fear not my sweet sister
My drum beat is strong
Its sound will stay constant
And carry you on.

Come with me
Flow with me
Run with me

Your spirit spark travels
It enters the flow
You hear Gaia calling,
With words that you know.

Drift sure with my drum song,
Fall ever so slow
To the heart of the heart,
Let it love, let it go.

Come with me
Flow with me
Run with me

Dear mother will heal you
And soothe your deep strain
Her light burns in the darkness
She carries the flame.

And when you are ready
We’ll carry you home
Hear my drum softly calling
Know you’re never alone.

Come with me
Flow with me
Run with me

Let her love heal you
Let your heart sing
Let her open light’s door
Let the Solstice Bells ring.

Photo credit: WinterWoods XII by RealityDream

Macy revealed


They held each other in their under grounding,

And they sighed and they slipped within and without,

And they clutched and they spun below and about.

And when their skin and their bone seeped down through the stone their voices joined in a clear crystal cry that flowed to the deepest spark of the heart of the heart.

And when it was done, still attached, they drifted off to sleep while the warm-cold, damp dark and deep soil embraced them and filled every crevice and pore in their bodies with rich black loam and buzzing living green and growing peat.

And as their slumber deepened, gentle growing, pure white tendrils of roots and shoots caressed them and hummed the Mother’s deep and everlasting voice of love and longing.

Photo by Barbora Biňovcová on Fivehundredpx

Send in the crows

another-crow-by-kaelyceaIf the city folk had been more observant, they might have noticed it. But they couldn’t read the messages in the murmuration patterns of the starlings. They couldn’t hear the gossip of the sparrows who chattered about the sparks that moved through even the tiniest branches of the trees. And their hearts were not tuned in to the melodies of the songbirds who sang whole movements about each swirling eddy in the shifting energy flow that was all around them.

Yes, the birds could feel it and they echoed it in their songs and in their actions. But they chose not to question it because it didn’t seem to threaten their own sweet world of wind and trees and air and skies.

It simply was. A steady, innocuous, unobservable hummmm that flowed through the ground and up into the trees and along the streams and rivers and into the back of the peoples’ brains. It was like sound of a dryer running in the basement, or a fan in another room that goes unobserved until the very moment it stops.

Only the cleverest birds of all, the beautiful jet black crows and midnight blue ravens, wondered about it. They had heard it from the very beginning. They would cock their small dark heads to the side and try to  understand it. Their shiny black bead eyes would stare into the distance as they listened intently. They wondered about what it might mean.

During the day, the crows and ravens flew around the city, tending to their work; finding food and gathering precious trinkets: buttons and shells; bits and clips and little bells; rusted gears and green glass jewels; bone fragments, lost earrings, metal hearts; zipper pulls and other tiny pieces of art. They kept busy—as they always did—but they knew that whatever had begun to flow through their bodies and into their hearts was something important.

At first they didn’t talk about it much, but eventually it began to come up as a subject of conversation at their meetings.

Every day, about an hour before dusk they would gather together in the largest most majestic trees of the city. They would chatter and gossip and caw and titter about what they had seen during the day; bragging about their treasures; sometimes sharing where the freshest food could be found (and sometimes keeping that knowledge to themselves).

But once they began to speak about the hummmm, they could converse about nothing else. They talked about how they could feel it in the deepest depths of their hearts, how they could sense its vibration at the tips of their wings when they stretched them open and flew across the sky and how it buzzed in their claws after they swooped down and perched on the wires that were strung across the city.

They spoke about how the hummmm was all-pervading; and they argued about its colour. Some felt it as a deep shade of ultraviolet and to others it seemed like the whitest glow of a moonflower in full bloom. But one thing they agreed upon was that the hummm had begun to change. It was becoming more intense, more frenetic, it was higher pitched and growing stronger every day . . .

Listen to this song by Jo Mango about how birds speak to each other:

Image source: Kaelycea at Deviant Art:

So, the crow. A bird considered sacred to Apollo, who turned the bird black (which was previously white) for bringing him the bad news that his lover Coronis was having an affair with Ischys.

I will take you under the ground



Macy moved forward, down along the dark tunnel. Feeling his presence behind her, hearing his shuffling rubber-soled shoes dragging, his breathing laboured and yet deep with occasional muffled grunts and sighs. And his scent preceded him, drifting into her nostrils—musty, sweet and fermented from immeasurably long hours of undergrounding.

She moved along without knowing — without awareness of the wheres or the whens or the whys. Stumbling forward without purpose or an end. And as she did, the damp stone walls seemed to breathe in and out as she traveled, pressing in towards her, opening up and then pressing in on her again.

Her eyes struggled to find focus, something that might be a beacon to blunder towards and yet there was nothing but darkness and the sounds and the smells of the cool damp underground surroundings.  And so they went on. . . down and down . . . into the ground, blood, stone and bone. . . alone.

As they moved forward into the darkness, the air became even more damp and cool. He began to sing the words to a tune that she seemed to know from long ago.

Steady woman won’t you come on down? I need you right here on the ground.”

He was so close behind her that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck and was electrified by the occasional light touch of his hand on her shoulder and lower back.  Eventually the incline of the tunnel leveled and she began to perceive the glimmer of a cool white light in the blackness ahead.

I’ve walked the outskirts of this town. Been terrorized by what I’ve found.”

Slowly they approached the light and as they drew closer, it flickered and sputtered off and then on again several times and she realized that it was set in the wall above a dark wooden doorway.  The tunnel widened at that point and he moved past her, fumbling with a set of keys.  She could see that he was nervous and distracted and realized that perhaps this was a moment where she could make a run for it and dash back through the long tunnel into the sunlight above.  But she didn’t.

Eventually he found the key he needed and the door creaked as it opened inward into the room.  He stepped into the dark room ahead of her and then turned to face her from within.  He grinned as she stood straight and still outside the door, his face etched by the harsh white light from above the doorway.

She knew that by following him into the room she would provide her tacit consent to enter his world.

She remained frozen.  Her brain screamed, “run!” and yet every muscle in her body quietly vibrated and she was drawn towards this murky muddy man.  He cocked his head like a dog, smiled and then turned his back to her, walking over to a long wooden table that ran along the length of the wall to the right of the entrance.  He struck a match, lit a dusty lantern and spoke again.

I saw a standing virgin bride where holy Dionysus died. She tore the heart out from his side and laid it there and there she cried.”

She was mesmerized.

“Whoa,” he muttered and sat down slowly on a worn wooden desk chair that swiveled as he turned. His gaze took in her entire body and he slowly licked his lips.

As he passed his tongue along his upper lip Macy took several slow steps forward and entered the room.  To her left she could see rumpled sheets on a cot along the wall to her left.  She walked over and sat down on the edge of the thin mattress and faced him in the chair.  She raised her hand and clutched her blouse together at the neck.  He leaned forward and she whispered,

Hello. I’m a monster too.  What poisons me is what poisons you. Into these animals we grew. But when we were young our eyes were blue.”

He continued to gaze at her intently. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.

“I take my medicine on my knee, twice a day but lately three.  It keeps the devil from my door and it makes me rich and it makes me poor.”

Eyes still closed, he pulled his chair closer to her.

“I’m a beggar in the morning, I’m a king at night. My belt is loose, but my trigger is tight.”

And it came without warning at the speed of light. He opened his eyes and she looked into his soul. She could see and feel the depths of his pain but she flew past it and found herself in a place where the earth began and his love was the beginning and the end of all that was true and all that she knew.

He whispered so softly that she could barely hear him,

“Make it shine so pretty, make it shine so bright.”

His shoulders slumped, his head fell forward and his long brown hair covered his face.  Then he lifted his head, shook his hair out of his eyes and looked directly into hers.

“I think I’ve come a long, long way to sit before you here today. They’re yours alone, the songs I play, to take with you or throw away.”

Swaying for a moment, he dropped to his knees in front of her and sobbed,

Oh, I want an angel to wipe my tears, Know my dreams, my hopes, desires and fears.”

She reached forward, brushed his hair back from his face with both her hands and touched his lips with hers,

We may capsize, but we won’t drown,” she replied

And they held each other as the sun went down.


Jac and Macy’s  words to each other are the lyrics to the gorgeous and haunting song Beggar in the Morning by The Barr Brothers.

Image source: Image credit Josef Koudelka 

Mabon dialectic


As we turn from the light

to acknowledge the dark

We can snuff out the flame

and then reset the spark.


As black is to white

As death is to life

Our gaze shifts from the day

to the dark of the night.


We gaze out we gaze in

We take time to begin

To find truth in the spaces

That lie deep within.


A beautiful song about a Fall by Amanda Cottreau

Image source Kobi Refaeli:



Since the lights went out, the business of living had become both more difficult and much easier.  When she thought back to her life before, Amber wondered why she always felt so busy and stressed when life’s essentials  were so easy to acquire.  During those bright, secure days she woke up in a warm bed.  When she got up, she turned on a tap and warm water came out.  She could straighten her hair with a flat iron and then get annoyed like it was her only problem if it rained and the humidity ruined her sleek long hairstyle.

Now, she brushed her wild curls out of her eyes and tucked hair behind her ears smiling ruefully.  Yes, things had changed for sure.

She settled behind the hedge at a spot where she could easily see through to the lake.  She waited for a very long time and then she saw it again.

At first she thought it was a bird flying across the dark water, but the flight was too steady and straight; the creature moved swiftly along just a few feet above the water about one hundred feet from the shore.  Amber parted the branches of the hedge and squinted her eyes to see more clearly.

It looked like. . . could it be?  It was a naked woman, seated on a broom, thighs tightly gripping the long handle and hands holding on behind.  The silhouette of her sharp nose matched the pointed outline of her breasts below and she hunched over, intent on maintaining her balance as she skimmed along, her hair flying behind her.

It was an unsettling sight to behold and yet Amber was not alarmed.  She had come to realize that since the lights had gone out, the magickal world that was once thought to be lost forever was slowly regaining hold and the artists’ brush strokes that once may have delineated the fantastic from the mundane were becoming less and less defined.

Image source: Unknown

As darkness fell


Jac didn’t know how long he had lived in the hill but he figured he had been there since before the lights went out.  During those early days, he would limp up the path at dusk using a walking stick to take some of the weight off his injured leg. When he finally stumbled out from the woods and into the high meadow he would gratefully sit his bony ass on the cold ground and gaze out over the city below as darkness fell. His mind would settle as he listened to the low hum of traffic as it rose up and he’d watch the wisps of mist drift past, rolling down from the mountain top into the urban landscape below.

As the sun sank behind the spiny hills in the far west and the darkness enveloped the city he would count each street light as it flickered on. He would listen so intently that he learned to measure the sound of the traffic and he’d know when it began to ease up as the workers arrived home, parked their cars in front of their rickety gray wooden homes and trudged inside to eat their dinner and settle on the couch to blink at the flickering lights of their televisions.  Sometimes he would hear a dog bark or a mother shout to call her children home for their nightly bath.  And sometimes he would hear the whiney sound of a motorcycle as it revved its engine and sped along the ring road coming closer and then fading into the distance.

While he watched from the hill Jac found it easier to think about the time when he was a boy and had lived in his own small wooden house with his mother and his orange cat with the one blue eye and the one green eye. He would remember, but he forbade himself from weaving the story of his simple childhood together not because it made him sad, but because the weft threads that ran over and under the warp threads didn’t lead to a place where he found himself sitting all by his lonesome on the top of a hill.

One night he noticed that there were fewer lights on than the night before.  And sure as shoot’n, the next night he counted fewer still and then eventually he could see that whole chunks of the city had begun to go dark.  The hum of the traffic changed too.  It was no longer steady and reassuring, but began to vibrate with a frenetic energy; he could hear engines racing, tires screeching and car doors slamming. He could hear shouting. There was panic in the calls of the mothers as they searched for their children and the dogs’ barks were short and insistent and filled with alarm.

Finally, the night came when he climbed up the hill and all of the lights in the houses and buildings had gone out. He could still see the lights of cars but they were not headlights.  On that rainy night Jac sat on the hill and watched as long lines of red tail lights from the ass-end of cars snaked their way south and away from the pitch black city.

Image source:  Arthur Rackham

The Diafol Gwas


They are the ones that come when the giving has been breached. When the balance has shifted so that more  has been taken than has been given.  When the tipping point has tipped, when the sails have been stretched and the sorrow has been sown.  The Diafol Gwas are the takers of the taken, the enders at the end.  They wait and hold onto the last bit of love until it has been stretched so thin that it can no longer endure the hope and the desires of those who have lost touch with the smooth and the righteous.

The Diafol Gwas are not spoken, they are not holding on.  They wait on the prick at the end of a needle and when the time is sorted they drive the needle into the skin and they travel through the blue veins deep into the heart of the spark.  They only take, they do not leave behind; and when they come there is no turning back, there is not even the smallest iota of hope.  They truly are the end and they can only come when all hope is lost.

The Diafol Gwas are deep and they are driven.  The Diafol Gwas know how to travel in the space between the neutron and the electron and in so doing they can transcend time and space.  They live on the horizontal and they travel on the vertical.  They are holy and they are empty of cures and corners.  They are doon and they are dorn.

The Diafol Gwas know who they are.

And they are watching. And they are waiting.  And they are getting closer.

Image: The All Pervading ~ George Frederick Watts 1887-90



Macy and Amber stepped carefully through the puddles along the subway tunnel.  Their way was dimly lit by occasional shafts of light that filtered through air vents in the concrete ceilings above. The air was damp and musty.  They stayed close but didn’t speak—and the regular drip drip, drip, drip of water punctuated their footsteps as they moved forward.

After what seemed like forever, the tunnel opened up in the distance and the sisters could see light from a wider space ahead.  They moved closer to the entrance, and the tracks divided. They could see that the tunnel emerged into a cavernous underground space that housed unused and now abandoned subway cars.

The cars themselves were amazing works of art—every markable space was covered with graffiti, letters and symbols and swirls spray-painted on by long-since-gone-forever street artists.  As they moved into the opening space, the air cleared and the mustiness of the tunnel was replaced with the steampunk petroleum smell of old and unused machinery.

“Do you think he made it this far?” asked Macy.

“It’s hard to say,” answered Amber.  “He can be quite resourceful when he chooses to be.”

“True enough,” Macy replied. “And stubborn too.”

Stepping around the oil swirled puddles on the concrete floor, they looked for any sign that their brother may have passed that way earlier in the day.

Macy thought back to the events of the morning.  Harsh words had been spoken in the heat of the moment and she knew her younger brother would be regretting his angry outburst by now, but would be too proud to make amends just yet.  Talie had changed a lot since the lights when out.  Before the darkness fell, Talie, like many young men his age had been lost in video games and rap music, drifting along without purpose or goal.  He was an amazing guitar player and when he set his mind to it, would write beautiful melodies which he strung to lonely lyrics about being lost without a place to go.

Image source: