Cavé, Jules-Cyrille (b,1859)- My Daisies, Flower-Girl
I gathered wind-flowers and put them in a vase next to where I’m writing now, to stay close to their magic. I also noticed the first of the nettles, peeking through the dirt, and watched the sky for a long time, above the glittering lake.
Something was gathering power out there, coming back alive, the sky full of clouds, dark and white ones, with light between them. I felt I wanted to stand in the wind, watching them, feel into that slow brooding something. It reminded me of summer, which often feels like thunder, like sun and rain and storm, and yet most of the time nothing happens. But I love that beautiful contrast, darkness tinted with gold.
I went into my bedroom, because it lets in the evening light, though its window is narrow. And I can only see green branches, pine cones, a bit of sky, and distant mountains.
I sat gathering flowers in my heart, mostly roses because they are a favorite, but also violets, forget-me-nots. I was reading in that white silent space, hearing the wind outside, mending something inside of me that had been hurt, a worry that says I can’t trust myself, what I sense and feel. The world has its loud opinions, that I shrink from, turning to the Goddess, the angels, praying that what I hear, deep in my bones, truly is their guidance.
Sometimes I go from room to room, window to window, watching the sky. And just before sunset I see waves of light on the walls, streaming through my apartment, and the birds are full of magic and song, and I hear them, like crystal water, calling forth the night.
The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev
She saw a pale white flower, blossoming out of the darkness, leaving a trail of light on the water, pointing to the horizon, to her new life.
She picked it up, holding it in her hands, carefully, tenderly, a fragile thing of snow white petals, glittering faintly. She put it to her heart, knowing it was also inside of her; darkness sprung into light.
The sun is out, and I feel my spirit responding, brightening to the white light in the trees, the field pale, withering away during the cold nights though there is no snow yet. But I’m waiting for it, seeing it approaching from a distance, seeing the top of the mountain dusted white in the morning.
I curl up in my sleep and have to leave the oven on at night though I don’t like it. I’d rather leave my window open, if I could, letting in the night air, feeling it brush against me as I lay awake, looking at a pale light in my window, from the waxing moon.
I’m writing a little every morning, in the black hours before dawn. I have more courage then, and more strength to just sit until the words begin to flow. I’m wondering what it means to have a courageous heart, a heart that’s honest, pure, as inspired by the song below.
I like to sit in the darkness, by candlelight, watching the black morning outside my window, seeing cars driving by, the day starting. I sit in silence, working on my book, burning incense, praying.
I want to stand in the doorway, in that moment of breaking, of first light touching the sky, cold air wrapped around me.
I want to walk softly, letting nothing touch me save the voice of the Goddess, whispering to her, hearing her whisper back. There is something about the early morning that makes me want to be quiet and still within myself; that makes the words come, as though the calm of night still lingers, the stars having left some of their magic behind.
I read once about a man wanting to be careful so that the morning did not break like glass around him. That stayed with me because I feel it too. I don’t want to rush or be brash. I don’t even want to speak. I just want to sit and watch the sky brightening, perhaps quietly make breakfast, breathing in its sweetness. See a dark forest outside my window, fields now green and yellow, grass dying away, no more flowers, the world left naked.
The Moon asked the Crow – Christian SchloeS
I want to sing in the darkness, like the nightingale, of beauty, of a path through the night, of a world beyond this one.
Of a sheer shimmering veil, so thin, moving in the breeze, letting through light and beauty, like snow falling through your window. One moment, a closing of the eyes and you could be there, appear as though by magic, standing by a streaming river, under autumn trees, and a sky like sapphire, whispering of more, so much more, of magic and wonder. A whole new world, a path through the forest.
Casting the Circle
She cast her circle under the full moon, by crystals glinting in the silver light, and knelt hugging herself, praying to the Goddess, calling upon the light, upon the angels, and the sacred power of the night. She brought her hands to her heart, and then to the heavens, seeing the moon through her window, floating in the sky, in the lake.
She got up and went to her cupboard, pulling out jars and wax, and sweet smelling oils. Her room was bathed in light as she worked, and she hummed softly to herself, chanting a melody of magic, a hum to the Goddess as she made her moon candle, strewn with gems and silver threads. She put her hands to her heart, then to the candle, blessing it, praying over it. She felt white magic going into it, and it seemed to glow, as though lit from within, or perhaps it was the moon playing tricks. She strewed rose petals and chamomile, and a little sage over it, letting the herbs blend with the wax, then kissed it, smiling to herself. Gently she picked it up and brought it to her altar, lighting it. She sang softly, knowing this was a magic of love. A flame burning for love of the true self, of the spirit, and beauty growing out of darkness.
Her chant continue into the night, and then she fell silent as the moon set behind the mountains, and the first grey of morning lit the trees.
Something filled her up, like the touch of rose, and she sat shivering, crying, salty tears running down her face. She felt the air was full of the fragrance of roses, of softly colored things, among autumn leaves and the first frost. She sat for a long time, afraid to move, afraid to leave the thread of peace that had been gifted her. She whispered thanks to the moon, to the Great Mother. She felt the Goddess smiling, – a warm glow at her core, in her heart, in her bones, and she remembered that she was a priestess, a daughter of the Goddess, and even though it was difficult, she wanted to live that way, it was the path she had chosen. But she begged for strength, for her wounds to heal, and finally closed the circle.
She went outside and breathed in the crisp morning air, and went barefoot across the field, in her white dress, kneeling by the stream, drinking deeply. Sunlight played in the water, clouds drifting overhead and she rolled over on her side, gazing into the sky, into a morning breaking forth, the last stars fading, the moon hidden by the day. She felt her wishes, her dreams, the magic of the night floating upwards out of sight, hidden, yet visible in the flowers soon to spring forth at the touch of the Goddess. She smiled, as though from relief. Her prayers had been received; she had drank from the potion of healing. The Goddess was with her.