Ostara playlist

Page of Arrows

A poem crafted from the titles of the songs on my Ostara playlist.

 

It’s mostly about the language of birds,

But it’s also about telling the bees.

And the little grey sparrow that brings the kiss of spring.

And the dazzling blue of the eye in the sky,

And the little bird, little green, little Martha roundabout.

It’s about Judy blue eyes and the sailing song and the sad sea song.

And when three ravens flew away with the raven girl who caught a long wind.

Image source: Page of Arrows from the Wildwood Tarot.

 

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Mabon balance meditation

Fall Equinox

The Autumnal Equinox is a time of liminal space. Where I live in Canada, it is the end of a time when the light is strong and the air is warm and the beginning of a time when darkness begins to take hold and the air becomes colder.

Those of us who follow an earth-based spiritual practice enjoy that space and often seek it out.  We may enjoy standing on the edges of things because that is where magic happens.  We may revel in the in-between spaces; the transitional times; the liminal times–and it is no wonder that many of us love Autumn.

The Autumnal Equinox is also a time of high energy and for some of us there may be a feeling of restlessness in the air, a desire to make changes in our lives, to begin anew.

Here is a simple meditation that may help you become more comfortable standing on the edge and can help you bring more balance into your life.

Stand up and take several deep breaths. What do you feel in the energy that is circulating about you? Is it calm and peaceful or is it swirling around?  Do you feel comfortable in this energy or does it need some sorting?

Lift up one of your feet, or if that is not possible, lean a little forward until you are just slightly off balance.  Feel the instability, but try not to fear it. If you need to tap your foot on the ground, do so briefly. Stay in tune with the energy.  How is it affecting you?

Now, bring to mind something in your life that feels off kilter. Something that you’d like to change and gain some control over. Is it something affecting your physical body? Perhaps your food choices are out of wack or you need to bring more physical activity into your life.  Are you in a relationship that may be out of balance?  Do you need to spend more time in quiet meditation or other forms of self care?  Really think about it.  How is this imbalance affecting you? What are the feelings it brings to mind?  Annoyance? Anxiousness?  Fear?  Lack of control?

Now, place your foot solidly back on the ground and stand straight. With your eyes still closed, feel the loving pull of mother earth’s gravity below you and imagine what you can do to bring more balance to this area or this thing. What are some concrete actions you can take to add more balance? How can you accomplish this? Is it possible to make a plan? Do you need the help of others?  If so, how can you ask them for help?

Now take several deep breaths. Open your eyes and read this prayer:

As I stand on the edge
Of the dark and the light
I feel balanced and strong
I will set myself right.

I gaze out I gaze in
I take time to begin
To find truth in the spaces
That lie deep within.

I feel Mother Earth’s love
And accept her embrace
Love of gravity grounds me
And keeps me in place.

When you are done, take some time to journal or make of list of next steps.

Blessings of Balance to you!

Image source: Mabon greeting card by EarthStarStudios on Etsy.com.

Eclipsing

Milkweed pod

The milkweed pod splits in my hands.
And silky white seed tails scatter through my fingers and across the meadow.
Floating.
I watch as they are caught by a gust
and carried above the quivering yellow goldenrod spires,
Around the dusty green seeded nettles,
And over the chokecherry bushes along the Jock River’s edge,
Branches drooping, heavy with purple berries.

Yes, I have been eating them.
For six or seven weeks now,
haven’t got sick once.
Probably keep us both alive. 

Did the needle on the album skip?
What is that slightly off-center sense of second guessing?
What is that high-pitched buzz?
Is it the menacing whine of the wasps that hover around the white sweet clover
Like tiny little drones that threaten the innocent white blossoms?
Is it the incessant sound of the bluebottle flies
Swirling stupidly and endlessly around a discarded blue poopbag
plopped on the ground at the edge of the path?
Or is it the harmonic hum of suburban air conditioners in the distance
that makes me feel that the roots of my upper back molars are pushing up through my cheekbones?

There is a retrograde.
And an eclipse is coming.
In Leo, no less . . .
(the ego–
dear gods that ego–
is so hot; it shines down on me,
burning my skin
and makes me want to flatten myself face down on the dry hard dirt path of this long hot summer.)

And everything is veering slightly off center again.
My neurons are clicking, but
There is no steady beat to hold on to.
The edges of my thoughts are sharp
and the shrill sound behind my eardrums is piercing.

What is normal?
What is safe and sound and will anchor me to the ground?
What is that tension circling my heart,
and that sinking feeling in my stomach?
What is that steady strident ache behind my eyes?

Is it the eclipse effect?
Am I stationed between the silent dark black moon
and the massive burning summer sun,
pressed from both sides as the dark and the light slowly advance
towards me and
through me and
then swirl together as the planet Mercury dives into retrograde?

I turn my face up to the sky.
I try to look away but I cannot help but watch the black moon move across the face of the blinding sun.

The dark and the light merge.

And in that split second everything changes.
My electrifying ego lets me go
and I am able to escape.
And ride with the tiny wisps of the milkweed seeds
Down the steep river bank and into the cool flowing river.

Milkweed pod image source: unknown

Macy revealed

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

Skimming

skimming-witch

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

nad

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

diafol

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  http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/watts-the-all-pervading-n01687