The Woods

The Woods

A flame still burns,
upon the hidden altar of transformation
Mortal eyes cannot see
what spirit sees or she places before me
I can perceive figures in the muted light
Shadows on guard
protecting relics of a world we have yet to know
But our knowing grows
And I cannot blanket the terrors of
A dimming wood
A forest of souls and stones and bones
Calling me to tread on down this well hidden trail
An arch of solid granite shrouded in vines and roots of ancient trees
Shows my spirit the way
And my feet lead me
Down the steps
Of disdain and quickened pain
Through shadows of my Self
Evolving to this moment
Trivial longings fade into the distance
And this one true desire beckons my heart to soar
On ravens wings to strike out the clout
Of disillusion
And I kneel in the fog
This astral mist of blooded memories
And I believe
We hold the key
To the womb of the earth
Where pain and peace do not turn so easily
From one to the other
The hater to the lover
My mother whispers my destiny
And I can see
The way before me
And I’ve come home

 

*LJ

The Feminine Divine

The Feminine Divine

She walks softly on sacred ground. She respects all Earthly beingsbirds and beasts and the insects that give the tell-tale signs of the health of the Forest. She smells of wet soil, ferns, and oils of her own crafting…dark and musky, and totally, completely female.

She bends low to gather a feather–by its markings a red-tailed hawk–and adds it to the others decorating her long and mussed hair. She remembers the spaces between, she sees that which others cannot perceive with untrained eyes.

She’s a collector of bones and stones, odd things left by the Earth Mother for those willing to see–to learn and evolve. She is a practitioner of an ancient Craft, she keeps the Old Ways and the Light as well as the Dark. She reads the signs present in all Earthly thingsshe can see in shadow–and she decorates her face with the Blood of her Sacrifice to the Gods…warm and willing, a regretful yet necessary thing to feed hunger and the change in Seasons.

The plants speak to her like lovers whispering secrets; she uses all for purpose–medicines, sustenance, and deep magic bleeding from the Earth and the depths of the Sacred Land. She finds mysterious mushrooms and ghost flowers to aid in her Craft, as well as Blessed Thistle and White Sage to aid in her Healing Arts. She is hedge ryder, a keeper of the Old Ways and faith…a Shamanone who sees when darkness falls, one who can divine with the Forest.

of Wild Roses and Fading Dreams…

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Last night my dreams took me to an ancient and serene river, where I stood on the bank looking upstream to where the first bend curved to the North. It was warm and calm and I could smell the scents of the forest behind me.

I remained silently standing, frozen in time…watching. A shadow stirred in my left-hand peripheral vision, beckoning my attention. I think it was my sister that stood to my left; her presence was comforting…I returned my gaze to the river, and scanned everything, and I noticed a plastic Ziploc bag floating down the currents toward me…I remember being curious…

The bag flowed on the currents up to the river bank at my feet. I reached into the water to scoop it out and wonder at its contents. I opened the bag and pulled out what looked like old and forgotten papers…papers with my name on them…like I had signed for a package or insurance policy many years before…

…Then I saw the message. It was a message from an old friend. The words so clearly written in his handwriting asked are you content living the life of a soldier?I didn’t quite understand that question, because I’ve never been a soldier…

The dream shifted and I was riding passenger with my father in his old Jeep as we journeyed through primordial wooded wilds. The light was grey, as if this world would hold no color beyond the deep greens of the mysterious woods surrounding our dirt path. We drove for eternity and yet, only a second in time, and finally arrived at my friend’s house…I said something to my father, and then he was gone, leaving me standing alone before an unfamiliar place. Tall and ancient trees surrounded everything.

The dream hazed and turned again, and I was swimming in a pool with my friend. We swam, watching each others’ blue eyes, knowing this would not be the last time we met in dreams.

He said he was sorry, and I embraced him. He still felt the same…I breathed him in, and his scents still held familiarity inside my nose and throat.

…Then the rain fell and we ran inside. His home was unfamiliar to me…two stories with a balcony ringing the whole living room, looking down. It felt…I don’t know…ancient, in a way…The room upstairs held a computer atop an antique stout wood desk, and every piece of artwork I’ve ever created was displayed lovingly on the walls. He said he saved this spot for me because he know how much I loved to create things of beauty.

The dog came to me and he reminded me that she never really took to anyone but me since I went away. She sat down at my feet, smiling up at me.

Then we were in a garden of tangled herbs and flowers breathing in the scents of a place neither of us had been to before. He handed me some seeds that I couldn’t identify, and I planted them at our feet. Wild roses started creeping up out of the wet black soil, seducing us with their scents. He took my hand then, and said he was sorry once more. He told me your daughter is beautiful, just like you. You’re welcome to stay here…I can’t remember if I said anything back…

…I remember being choked with tears, looking into his blue eyes, and smiling sad smiles. We hugged tightly again…

When I woke up from the restless sleep of this dream, it was raining outside. It had been raining most of the night into the morning. I could tell because the steady rhythm was constant, and the scents were too wet to have been a short rain. I couldn’t get his face and voice out of my mind for a while that morning.

No, that rainy morning was meant for lighting candles and sweet incense, and sending sermons and prayers of remembering, of love, of younger days when things should have mattered more.

As we grow older and learn more, it becomes the smaller packages in life that we are most afraid to open and accept…and this small package of mine—a faded dream of symbolic references—I have been afraid to revisit for fear of the thoughts and visions it pulls back to mind.

But Spirit has subtle yet blindingly powerful lessons that adhere themselves to those little packages we are so afraid to accept. Whether this is a past dream, or one yet to come, dreams are mine, and this one does not lie.