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mermaiden at 10:44am on 09/06/2010 under beltane, care-a-lot farms, gardening, litha, pagan, spirituality
mermaiden at 10:44am on 09/06/2010 under beltane, care-a-lot farms, gardening, litha, pagan, spiritualityEverything is Story. These days are like pages, rustling as each one turns--sun down to stars and back to sun again, light racing across blades of grass, leaves lengthening, flowers spilling open. This is a rich time, a greening time, and everything around me sings.
In our story, I will assume you know the secrets: that Beltane lies across from Samhain, that the days leading up to Midsummer are open and sheer--a veil between worlds that Witches can see through. The fireflies that light the evenings, coming so close as to almost kiss me, are lanterns in the doorway, and at the brambled hedge between my meadow and the greater field, there is a gate. Perhaps I just imagined it, but everything is thin and fragile, and I'm not really certain what I see. Fairies, maybe. Ghosts dancing. It doesn't really matter, everything can be defined by what you see, after all. That is why all stories are different.
So, I kneel in my garden, far past dusk. There is a thin line of lighter blue upon the horizon, and the spangles of stars race, brilliant across the heavens--celestial veins. My eyes are sharpened, in the dark, and I continue digging small holes, filling them with water, until I can see my face reflected. Then, in goes the small plant, and dirt presses around it, under my fingers (I feel, sometimes, as if I'm tucking them into bed). The watering can spills over them again, and the leaves glisten in starlight. I stop when I can no longer see the shape of my face, in the earth, in the water--it has become too dark, even for me. That's when I know it's time to go home.
They say the best way to scry is to dig a hole in the earth, and fill it with water, by starlight--visions will come, truth and stories to fill you. I? I see my face, and I see my smile, as I gently set roots down, into stars. I see hope. I see...
"What are you planting?" the fireflies whisper. I could answer a truth, in kind. Cucumbers, watermelon, sweet tomatoes that twine their vines about my hands--corn seeds that glitter like gold in a palm. Hard, wrinkled peas that will someday yield pods. But there is another truth, and another story, so I whisper back, "possibility." Because the dark is too soft, too cold, for loud voices.
And I don't want to disturb the ghosts beyond the hedge.
In our story, I will assume you know the secrets: that Beltane lies across from Samhain, that the days leading up to Midsummer are open and sheer--a veil between worlds that Witches can see through. The fireflies that light the evenings, coming so close as to almost kiss me, are lanterns in the doorway, and at the brambled hedge between my meadow and the greater field, there is a gate. Perhaps I just imagined it, but everything is thin and fragile, and I'm not really certain what I see. Fairies, maybe. Ghosts dancing. It doesn't really matter, everything can be defined by what you see, after all. That is why all stories are different.
So, I kneel in my garden, far past dusk. There is a thin line of lighter blue upon the horizon, and the spangles of stars race, brilliant across the heavens--celestial veins. My eyes are sharpened, in the dark, and I continue digging small holes, filling them with water, until I can see my face reflected. Then, in goes the small plant, and dirt presses around it, under my fingers (I feel, sometimes, as if I'm tucking them into bed). The watering can spills over them again, and the leaves glisten in starlight. I stop when I can no longer see the shape of my face, in the earth, in the water--it has become too dark, even for me. That's when I know it's time to go home.
They say the best way to scry is to dig a hole in the earth, and fill it with water, by starlight--visions will come, truth and stories to fill you. I? I see my face, and I see my smile, as I gently set roots down, into stars. I see hope. I see...
"What are you planting?" the fireflies whisper. I could answer a truth, in kind. Cucumbers, watermelon, sweet tomatoes that twine their vines about my hands--corn seeds that glitter like gold in a palm. Hard, wrinkled peas that will someday yield pods. But there is another truth, and another story, so I whisper back, "possibility." Because the dark is too soft, too cold, for loud voices.
And I don't want to disturb the ghosts beyond the hedge.