Imbolc Invocation

January 31, 2019

 

 

Taste the liquid poetry that moves with the cool breath of Brigid and falls like fluffy pheromones from the sky into the tantalizing rapture of self. It is time sweet one. As the wheel turns and the sun grows strong, sense the silent stirring of ancient grains and dark moist seeds stir beneath you, hinting the time is near.

 

These are the ghostly seeds which you planted when the trees were dressed in orange and the harvest of the shadow self loomed overhead. The seeds which hold your fragile dreams and tender heart sonnets. It is time now to create and burn radiant through the pages from your crisp sky-dwelling spirit. It is time to tenderly ravage the thick book of your history and consume the heavy-set snowflakes infused with heavenly tears. This past that you speak of is buried deep in the labyrinthian roots of the muddy web of time. It just lays there outstretched with legs spread ready to bloom raw and lotus like into the flower of life. And the thick entangled roots are the chords which link you to the voices of your ancestors. Take care in the untangling for the sounds whisper almost unfathomably. Discern and question and stay true, sweet soul, for this is the time of the summoning and you must be sure it is you.

 

You, who are the cauldron of transformation and you who stirs the spiral through the boundaries of the Earth carrying the torch of those who claimed Magick as a birthright. The torch which burns and burns with a rage and a love alchemical like stone to gold and Mercury’s dance with Sulphur and Salt. The trinity that taunts you with unending cycles and reminds you that once you begin the Great Work, well, there is no turning back. A responsibility awaits you there. Within it, a quest, and a terribly frightening, blissfully igniting map which will lead you into the savage meadows of your inner world.

 

Listen now. It is time my wild love, to inspire and cast a fire while the whistling invocation lights your heart with self-initiation. You are free to build a castle in your sleepless nights by humming harmonies into theatrical insight, to sing and dance into trance and terrify the silence with your unbroken ecstasies. Yours is the voice that needs to be heard through paint and quill and circle and song. Yours is the inevitable fire purifying the shadowy fog of winter’s revelations. You stand under the Goddess moon, absolute and salivating, wise with stories that echo from your immortal veins.

 

Taste the poetry that flickers from the central candle and rides upon a furious flame through the icy walls which shield your heart from truth. Be the channel that spews art from the fountain of youth. Craft the wild light back to life and listen for the rustling roots as they hint a promise of presence and new beginnings and rebirth. A promise of Spring held in the pregnant belly of the Earth.

 

Blessed Imbolc!

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