Of Wild Wanderings & Summer Heat

Of Wild Wanderings & Summer Heat

Where have the Wildlings wandered to?

When the Earth is heated and moist, and dew clings to fresh green leaves, the Wilds beckon us home,

To wander without being lost in the wild wood and thickets, near the river bank, under a full moon at Ocean’s tides, upon the windy cliffs and hills drawing ever nearer up the Mountain.

We are not at home; Summer is here, and the weather is warm and sultry, demanding dancing and crafting and riding.

Earthly scents mingle together, sweet hyacinth and water lilies, boggy cypress and wet soil, filling the hot and humid air with the promise of light and love and life.

Midsummer is near and the Wildlings are not at home…

They wander, these wild ones, seeking the Enlightenment, Transcendence, the Spirit of plant and animal, and Ancestors’ ancient wisdom.

Trees and herbs rejoice at their coming and the Sky parts in promise, giving life and lust back to us mortals, and demanding the cycle be born anew.

I dreamed this dream of wooded Wilds

I dreamed this dream of wooded Wilds

I dreamed this dream of wooded wilds, dripping moisture in the grey air. The Earth’s many scents release when the rain drops onto pine needles and oak leaves. The pat-pat sound of the rain on the palmetto fronds is familiar in my mind.

I rise from my bed, surrounded by quiet and the familiar hum of the ceiling fan. It is early morning, the hour of in between twilight just before dawn, and I hear a voice. A man’s voice outside. From deep inside the dark cool trees, his voice travels out to me. I know that voice.

I wander out of the house, at odd morning hours. My bare feet padding down the lawn leading to the edge of the woods. I hear a crow, the rain, and his voice calling to me.

So I enter that wild realm of insects, birds, spirits. The wild god who waits for me.

He calls to me again, his voice warm and dark as fertile soil. My pulse thickens inside my skin. Shivers tremble up and down my spine, but still I long to find him.

I wander with soft steps on sacred ground. The smells inundate me, decay and life and rain. I weave through the thick trunks of ancient trees, winding thickets of brush and bole, over roots jutting out on my path.

And then I find him. He waits for me by a stream. The sounds of pipe and drum hit me then, though he holds no instrument in his hands.

His face is unmistakable, though I only ever see it in dreams. He whispers my name, and I approach his perch above the swirling water.

“Look,” he tells me. “Your strength is in this shadow, buried beneath the birch tree.” He smiles a cryptic smile, as a teacher might to his student who is working out the solution to something in her own mind. There are no birch trees here.

He reaches his hands out to me, and I take them in mine. His hands are warm and rough, mine cold and unsure.

He pulls me to his body, his warmth, his earthly knowledge. He smells of pine and soil and the decay of leaves.

His mouth covers my own, and I suck him in, all the scents and senses, the knowledge and heat.

Then I wake. I’ve had this dream before. It’s as if this vision, this dream message and messenger are begging for clarification. And I can’t seem to (or I’m not meant to) decipher it yet. But it’s always the same, always ends before the best part.

I like these dreams though, when I have them. They’re comforting and mysterious, as if my fate can be divined by some dream Being’s mood swings in the ephemeral world.

 

 

[Featured photo found on Pinterest]

A Chance Meeting

A Chance Meeting

The feel of the world that surrounds me is ever oppressive in its summer heat… the slow drowning of sticky, humid air. I can still feel what’s left of the pleasantness in the slow, soft breeze–balmy, lingering within the leaves as they’re rustled by its whisper.

I think of poetry, of prose, of a narrative told in an ancient tongue. I don’t quite know the story, but the visceral feel of emotions and the scant pictures painted within my mind are ever present, needing in some way to release themselves.

There are stories I have, stories to tell. I watch and observe all I see around me and I am not without modes of inspiration. I come upon magic in all there is in the world, some vehement and sour, while other experiences promise hope, joy, and love.

A chance meeting is something a writer can always hope for; with a pleasant stranger discussing the weather, with an animal along a wooded trail, and with the Spirits in the land. Inspiration is divine, and divinity is all around us. Learn to see from within, and watch the secret places of the earth.

Keep a look out for these chance meetings because even the smallest bit of knowledge can be gained, giving the proper inspiration for a story to unfold.

Fire in the Blood

Fire in the Blood

The weather has been utterly beautiful these last few days. I’ve been lingering outside longer and longer, and I have even migrated my craftings out to the patio because I just can’t resist the pull of the Season’s magic. We’ve all been restless in my household and the Goddess and spirits that are so prevalent among the plants have urged us outdoors for play and meditation.

Spring cleaning has thus far only been physical, but May Eve/Bealtaine will be greeted with fire and smoke to drive out the last remaining energies of the past year. Mother will be welcomed in, alongside passion and inspiration and positive flowing action.

The maypole, a summer broom, flowers, the fresh breeze and ribbon decorations have replaced stale air, old pictures, and useless “buildup” around the home & hearth.

The season is for Love and Light, letting these earthly vessels we call bodies free, and rebirthing the Sun. Spirit is lusty and full of heat, rendering jovial play within my artwork and craftings.

And not only that, but my little girl will be 3 on Bealtaine. This little fireling has given me life and joy, passion to learn, and the strength of flame to overcome. She has been such an inspiration and I will not only celebrate the Sun and Earth’s rebirth, but my own personal rebirth that has come from my Daughter’s birth.

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So fill your baskets with wildflowers, craft a floral wreath, eat fruits of the Earth and drink sweet honey mead, for this is a season for Light and Life, rebirth and new beginnings. Sweat in the heat and feel the passion of the gods as they mate to bring all into the light half of the year.

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