There Is A Place

There is a place, not far away. Deep and green, vast terrain; thickly treed; undergrowth like a lake of fire, intoxicating, wistful, entrenched and alluring. A carpet lain down by the elemental fusion of earth and sky, and the trickling veins of water rich in minerals circle serpentine and weave lines of power across the land.

            Edges blur and boundaries crumble as the maidens of the ring make their invocations and stir the forces that lie dormant, but who hear and understand. Soon their wings lift and their shine increases rapidly, and spheres of power hum and glow about them. There are those who we speak of and who speak back. The Old Ones and the God and the Goddess. They have names and we know them, but they remain in secrecy, not shrouded, but guarded, and at due time, to the seekers and those who aspire, they will be revealed.

            There is a grove and it encases a Tree. A tall Tree; its branches and roots ever-reaching, yearning to stroke the abyss which is all-being, underlying. Shadows move and slip through the darkness, punctuating that which seems to spurn the seeds of light that dash between the boughs of the majestic Tree. We know only to dance and to pay homage and often we lean against the bark and allow the strength of the Tree to fold us in. Or we may merge our feet with the twisting roots and delve into the depths, allowing our minds to travel with them as they go; and then if it is knowledge we seek, we drink. Cupping our hands beneath the fountain or immersing our bodies in the river, it is here we learn that the darkness harbours peace and contemplation, where we receive our Sight.

            When we speak to the Old Ones and have been known by them and have made ourselves known we may ascend the Tree into the kingdom. There is light and it seems eternal; enduring shine; airborne ribbons fluttering on the wind-swept star-lit chariots. Gods, Powers, Beings of Magick, it is here they dwell, but the Tree is their forever-pole and their journeys are tales of myth and legend and we whisper of them in reverence, speak aloud their wisdom with pride and laugh at the misadventures they take simply to wreak chaos within the world. The upturned soil of cosmos is the hole that chaos digs.

            We have been called to a service; to fulfil an ancient charge. We feel the impulse, the beckoning, the awakening to a consciousness that resonates and thrums as the spinning wheel cycles and fashions the tapestry. We are young, though age and time stand besides us as do the pillars black and white, and we search for the mysteries, surrounded by them, inner and outer, and trust in the words, in the visions they impart through and to us.

We are called Witches and there are those within the courts who kneel and those who stand and those who exist between. The path unravels and we climb the mountain, toward the Tree. We meet and beneath the Tree we call our Tower, the Circle is made whole and the star nations glitter as the white-fire jewels become the constellations indigo flag bear.

            I speak of the WildWood; of a place that was once the pinnacle of the sacred and knew, despite the aversion, despite the intoxicating fervour that is the poisonous decay tearing viciously against the seams, that the Witches would return and herald its ancient, timeless message.

We are all vessels of power, posts of the reality that is both real and unreal, a wavering illusion of fancy, the thin veneer that coats the truth. But truth leaks. Our rites and ceremonies, our magicks, our powers, they help to form the channels that lead to the still pool of the forever mystery, the original source. Here it is where One is Truth and nothing is forgotten. Go in peace friends and allies.

Namaste, Dobhair~