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]

The Oracle

The Oracle

It’s there, just budding over the horizon, stealing the southern sky. Ares lends his fiery hands to the creation of the occult. Cronos plays his cold eye over the form of Skorpios’s pincers, watching, waiting, to see if the scorpion will strike.

Its heart brightens, myth and hymn of Antares. The notes mingle into form, and she can feel the mix of auric flow, a cosmic shift in the subtle ripples of being. A vibrational change along the strands of the Web.

Her staff thumps in time to the earth; primal drums beckoning her pilgrimage. She calls to spirit, bird, and bone, waking ancient blood within the veins of time.

She burns in fire beneath the silken planes of her flesh. Seething flame licking nerves and spinal distraction. A cold determined glare fixes its stained facade over passionate soul, and she tips her head back, opening her throat in otherworldly incantation. Her vision is twenty-twenty, here among the Others.

The sting of the Scorpion reminds her that she is still living among the Earth. She comes back down, she lowers her calculating gaze toward the blood of Stone.

Emotions roil and rage under the surface, Ares’s charge to battle. But the fire within is covered in dirt, cold soil of the fatherly control of a Titan.

Still she sees and understands, that to smother the flames of this aggression is to meet cold death. Control is necessary at times, but the rising sign of the Scorpion to the south, the god of her name day, they cannot be ignored.

Cronos will convert passion to reason, intuition to logic. And where will she be led to then? When magic is nonsense and the Earth is dying? Who will fight then, if not her?

She thumps her staff in rhythm to the drums once again, calling on her darkened senses. She hears tell of a coming of rage and grief and acceptance. A bloodline not entirely lost, but never found.

She will journey into Hades, a crow for comfort, the bones for company. She will journey until she finds that which she seeks, and ever after be the wiser for knowing it.

-Líadan Rán

 

 

[Featured image courtesy of earthsky.org]

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.

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

To Dream in Color

To Dream in Color

A dream is a dream and nothing more; dreaming is the brain’s way of sifting through events of the day to keep or discard information and reset you for the next day…or so modern science would have you believe.

But dreams are harbingers of some of Life’s most important answers…those that are buried deep within your true Self, the Self that is hidden so deep behind this modern shroud that we sometimes cannot detect its presence. This Self is wise, experienced, and this Self is what gives us our knowledge of real Truth…the Truth that connects all things within the worlds of our Universe…and thus within the web of Fate that is constantly moving in vibrations, frequencies.

Dreams can bring you messages of Hope, of instruction, of declaration of something you knew to be true…and they can show us a deeper reflection in the pools of Truth; reflections that we may not like or are afraid to acknowledge. No matter if dreams take the form of “good” or “bad” dreams, we can look to them for deeper insights, deeper meaning, and a glimpse of what our hidden Selves are truly feeling on a viscerally spiritual level.

Prophetic dreams are just that: prophetic. They somehow reveal what I call “the chance of coming to pass”, meaning that the message portrayed within a prophetic dream usually is related to ‘future’ aspects of your life and hidden Self…and to add a teaspoonful of confusion…your hidden Self is your future Self: it is what drives us to evolve/grow, become stagnant, or turn in dead end circles. Prophetic dreams rarely speak in terms we can at once understand, and they are enigmatic at best and dangerously maddening at worst. But with practice, everyone has the ability to dream the future.

Herbs can aid in dream-casting, and when used according to your intuitive needs they can help aid in opening your subconscious fully when sleeping so that you dream to divine what possibilities lay in your future.

Marigolds, sage, and passionflower are some of my Spirit allies when it comes to inducing meaningful and deeply useful “prophetic” dreams. I will ‘diet’ and herb for a few days, by infusion, decoction, fresh, or dried and added to food. After my dieting period is done, I then place the fresh herb under my pillow when I go to sleep.

*A quick note on poison/toxic plants* Obviously I don’t recommend dieting poisonous/toxic plants at all (in fact if you can gain dreaming insight by using a nontoxic/safe herb, then by all means use it), but there are other ways to connect with these types of plants’ spirits: oils/ointments, incenses, constructing talismans from the plant, keeping a potted plant in your room…ultimately these types of plants aren’t absolute or entirely necessary to help tune in to the Spiritual messages of the Universe through your dreams.

The practice part of this process is retaining what you dream–the essential meaning/message–and learning how to decipher it. This is the part that takes the most patience, as keeping ahold of those dream details can be tricky. Dream journal entries within reach of waking hands can aid in this process. While there are all sorts of online references pertaining to dreams and dream symbols/messages, your truest interpretations of the symbols within your dreams will come from the emotions, thoughts, ideas that are brought to life in you; your own intuition’s reading and feeling of your dreams is your first and truest resource. If you do decide to keep a dream journal, make it a point [every morning after a dream] to log the symbols and events of your dream, as well as your first impressions of them.

My best advice though is this: trust your intuitive senses, and you will begin to learn how to read your Self, and that your intuition is the conduit which connects us with the great Cosmic Mother. She won’t steer you wrong.