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 reach long from the canopy to trace cold eerie echoes along the back of my neck, reminding me of those shadows which have clawed at me in the darkness, those which I have come to love dearly.
This sepia scroll I dress with cardinal words, story lore of an unknown time, and unbreakable vows digestible only by candle light. I find myself moving in dizzying circles beneath the mistletoe, enchanted by the incomprehensible screams of global retribution. This is the great lovemaking, the climax of winter, when I wed thee, world, with my vows of sacred rebellion. A surrender into the spinning trance, I will mount my stallion and storm the icy landscapes until my final breath. All for you Great Mother.
This nausea like that impregnated knowing, like that illness which took a knife to my heart, like that blood which drips with sewage from her river veins. It is time to lick the sap from the pinecone and crawl naked from the womb once more into maidenhood. To ride torrential rains and tears like landslides along the everchanging nature of this fleshy existence. To trace the diamond tip of this rusty key along the edge of my bare foot until it steps willingly through the door. To armour with buckskin and sword, and cloak this shapeshifting form, to lift the antlered crown and anoint my breast with the juices of the sweetest orange.
I will thrust myself into this yuletide reverie not even by choice but by sacred summoning. By honor. By the wild-eyed wolfish glare of my sisters and brothers and all that we stand for.
So, by the curious sentiment of tousled festive fetishes, I light this waxen tor under the belly of the crone’s moon. For the return of the light. The triumph of light over darkness, of meeting madness at will, and at will alone.
For understanding the wisdom and the way home.