I dreamt of a fall moon service-sized ritual at sunset. The Stone Circle. A smallish group. Eric Eldritch, you had on your black tunic, only it was these striped, jagged yellow slashed lines. Jonathan White, you steadied me with your eyes. Patricia Althouse, Kailin Miller, and Patricia Robin Woodruff, you were there. Liliana Arrington, you were at the altar and seemed to be holding it in place in the wind. Nicola Netto White had a baby in a sling nursing.
I began in the South, unsteady on my feet, drunkdreaming with needy passion. I headed around the Circle with my arms wide, looking up between Stones and trees to clouds and the setting sun of the dying day.
And this is what I said, or some of it, which I have written in my waking, now early-and-late in the night morning between 3:30 and 4 am on November 6, 2017.
Great Ones, we hear you! Great Ones, we are listening! We strain our senses toward You. Make us know, beyond the shadow of a doubt that You are here with us , even as the sun sets.
Many and One; Male, Female, Both, Neither, Beyond and Through, O Hear us in our desperation! We need You, if ever Your children have!
In the lavender and deep blues of the darkening sky, fuchsia and orange where the sun’s last light hits the mountains:
Hear us, where the waning light makes leaves color richer than on a summer morning, somehow truer, with different voices on the wind.in this small Circle tonight where we have come yearning toward peace, equanimity, and centered calm, be in our speaking, be in our receiving, our perceiving and conceiving a way forward!
And if peace is not what You will give Your children, then rattle the very teeth of our hearts. Let all things speak to us of you, not just the lovely, but somehow the terrors of our time, as well.
One and Many; Male, Female, Both Neither, Beyond and Through, GIVE US NO CHOICE. Take away the filmy tissue of our falseness, our ideas of who we are and what others may think, and what we think we know. Use us in this shortening day–make of us not only the lyres and harps of harmony and peace, but drums and horns and cymbals to wake us from our deadly drowse.
The sun is setting. Night is coming. Stones and trees cast long shadows in the twilight. Time is short.
Let us not withhold ourselves from You, O Real, O Sacred, but rather give ourselves up to Your searing kisses of understanding, the horrifying touch of wisdom, the outcry of the suffering Mother giving birth to hope. Truly, we hear the cries of the birth of something we cannot yet see or imagine or be, except with fear and trembling and the overpowering delight of your fiery love pouring through us in the oncoming storm.
We hear Your call and call to You. Hail and welcome!