Mystic Writing

December 16, 2019

By the idol namesake of clove lipped cedar boughs, I light this waxen tor under the belly of the crones moon. This instant where darkness pools like the milieu of snowflakes, held only now by the flame which crawls its way into existence and then dances maniacally, severing shadow from sight. There is thick cinnamon and burnt orange peel laced into the billowing smoke from the woodstove.

I hear her wrinkled voice too, woven into the contained clouds, chanting some such wisdoms from the shrine of death. It is that most auspicious time when death mourns for itself and at the snowy grave a new life is born. The yule log is flecked with holly and crimson pointsettas, lit up by the impending arrival of the new born Sun. The icicles r...

December 6, 2019

The Scriptures of Sovereignty: Part Two


What does it look like to trust yourself?


What does it look like to reign reverence upon your own paved road, to honor the suffering as much as the saintliness, the aching imperfections and the deliciously autonomous moments of sovereignty? 


To rest your eyes for a moment on the pages which you never before dared to read. The ones which became blurred by dust and dogma and righteous ambiguity. The ones of those most potent books held in the haunted hellfire and liquid alchemy and blazing prophecy of your enchanted inner sanctuary. 


It has to be that it looks like the incredible beauty and the blooming rose with its erratic unpredictable thorns and alluring capacity for growth. It has to be...

September 19, 2019

The beckoning moon mother cradles you in the fine flickering glaze of her benevolent aura. The harvest holds you with ripened majesty bearing a fruitful guardianship as you ground into the enriched soil.

Decorated with crimson hues of disheveled dahlias and ivy fringe, your golden crown sparkles with flushed rubies and your gown smells of burnt amber and patchouli rose.

There is a quiet opening through a torrent of wild winds and the days dwindle while nighttime billows over you with its hooded cloak. You are tousled by the long-armed embrace of the vulnerable trees and the sideways stare of a lurking squash spirit.

These ubiquitous convulsions of birthing into crone-hood sound like rattling bones on an old oak door. You are partin...

July 13, 2019

Sister, you will know when it is time to bear witness to the one that slithers under your skin and weighs like a thick fog over your eyelids declaring worthlessness. You may be sitting in the bathtub sweating and praying through tears hoping that it will just evaporate from you. You may be screaming into the void of tortured memories of this life or another, and misplaced emotions trying to fit in place that fragmented piece of self. This is a poetic exorcism, a metamorphosis so excruciating that your heart must break over and over again, your ego must be humbled, and your soul must rise until all that is left is that sweet devotional nectar of divine unconditional love. This is the greatest awakening, to come home to your true...

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