I had been wandering around the lid of my coffin for days.
Antsy, distracted, agitated. I could not listen to the Willow prayers.
“I don’t want to put a lid on it”
I want to open it up. Let Her roar. Let Her sing. Let Her receive. This is a living breathing thing. I want to dance with Her. Plant flowers in Her Heart.
In an old world, nothing was just face value. Everything had layered and multiple meanings. Simplicity held the depth and everything told stories about connection to everything else. This is the way of intimacy. A world embedded in imagination. Imagination embedded in the world.
So I listen. And I pause.
I go to the field to work. Go to the well with Madge, dancing on the hill above whilst Madge sings the old songs and Nikos plays the flute below. We make Moussaka and laugh.
And today, again, the barn is filled with the quiet hum of hands moving over willow. She is praying me again, and the lid of my coffin a moment of rest. The old ones are quieter now, deeper down in my bones as I kneel at Her foot.
“We are here”
They say. This is where you come to tend. To listen.
The lid is just the Bow.
Last night, as the night came up and the stars opened their eyes, I walked out of the farmhouse. I didn’t know why. It was in the middle of a good conversation, rubbing Sven’s feet. The rich smell of Guilly’s dahl and roasted kale from Bragha’s garden, gentle laughter. A bit of clarinet.
But I needed to go outside for a minute.
I almost choked when I walked out, the smoke was so thick. Falling heavy on the driveway. I looked around. Sun on the horizon. It’s a farm, so fire is not unusual. It surprised me how thick it was though. I glanced from one chimney to the next, around the corner of the stone barn. The last chimney on the house, smoke rising, and pouring down the east wall where I walked to get to my hut.
I could barely breathe it was so thick.
I didn’t even know what was in that part of the house, and mystery whispered,
I did what a modern human does, check my cell phone, and forget. And only later, when I was taking the first bite of dahl, did it choke back up.
“There was fire in the East side of the house earlier. Smoke was pouring from the chimney”….Sven and Guilly were out the room before I could finish the sentence, leaving Mary and I, our mouths open at the table.
And here began, a conversation about Mystery.
Three days ago, Sven shared the story of this land, Marcassie. The years it sat in the mist, the Fire that burned it down, the old man who kept calling, speaking directly into their longing Wander for gathering place. The Fire beings in the fairy hill where I offered my blood. The people who sat around Fires here 7 years ago, the huts about to go up on that very side of the farmhouse next week.
Something is being born now, and like any birth, they have been breathing mystery right before form. Transition into Pushing. I saw it in their birthing eyes two nights ago. Weary, but in deep communion with the Ones moving through them.
Some people create community out of conversation with the seen. Others create it out of a conversation with the unseen. What awakens when we put aside agenda, with invitation.
I arrive in this moment. My Wander comes into view of this Wander.
The air gets thick with story. Faces light up in the glow of the unusual. The unseen.
That is the Temple, in the East side of the house. It is where the Fire Deities live. There is no woodstove or fireplace anymore.
We work our way through explanation, but lean deeper into mystery where I am keeping a snug hut in the Danger of a sister wolf.
Last Wednesday, came a Lion Dragon. Long grey brown fur, enormous teeth. Lounging in the rafters, an old Irish house amidst green. My sister Valerianna, sitting at her simple table, an Irish peasant. Simple handmade clothing. Seeing me though her familiar blue green eyes. I was pointing out the Dragon, who had prior to that been invisible to others.
Could she see him?
At first I was frightened, but I moved in close, and He began to teach me how to roar. He roared quietly, without sound. So as not to scare me. He knew I was tender. And I looked in closely at the white sharpness of His teeth. Studying them.
That was the night before I was supposed to fly home.
I am still here. My bare feet on cool spring earth. I feel Him spreading out into my skin, becoming a seen thing.
I am bleeding again. My rhythm has returned. This land is singing in me.