VOTE! 2011 SAMHUINN/BELTANE PROSE ENTRIES

[Earthwoman]

Notice: Please use the poll to cast vote(s) for your favorite prose. You cannot select more than three. ONLY those votes submitted to the poll will be tallied. Votes submitted as posts below will not be counted.

[Nightvine]

The Lay of the Horned God

He came into this world much like you and I. A new soul from the primordial cauldron with infinite potential. A child of the Earth, born to his mother in ages long past. The first agonizing breath of the harsh air of this world filled his lungs, the smell of his mother the first thing in this world he knew. He knew comfort from her, the taste of her milk, the warmth of her fur. Other scents assaulted his new born nose, the rich wet Earth, the dew upon the grass, the metallic blood shed at his own genesis. This baby fawn stood unsure on his unsteady legs, surveyed the land around him and too his first trembling steps.

We will never know exactly what he was. Perhaps a modern stag as we know them today, but more likely a much larger megafauna predecessor that dominated that primitive era, such as a stag-moose or an Irish elk. He lived and grew into a great specimen of his species, that faun growing into a proud buck standing tall above those around him, muscled and strong. Like any other animal he knew passion, he knew pain, hunger, and satiation. He knew the rush of blood in his head as he fought off rivals, horns locked in combat, the scent of blood again. He knew the thrill of sexual release and the smell of a female in estrus. He fathered fawns of his own. Some lived, some died, he felt no affection for them such was the way of his kind. His passions guided him, this creature of instinct. For all his strength he also knew when to run, the frenzy of the chase as he was hunted by those who saw him as prey.

Like the rest of us shall one day know, he knew the release of death. The pain exploding in his side as the arrows and spears punctured his weathered flesh. The scent of blood again, present at both his birth and death filled his mighty nostrils as he breathed his last heaving breath.

His flesh went to feed the tribe, his physical essence mingling with that of our early ancestors becoming part of us, his destiny tied to that of man for the very first time. By all rights it would of ended there. A life well lived, no regrets as our foolish kind know them. This single primal spirit that arose from the primordial cauldron now poised to returned to it again, bringing with it the experiences of it’s life to add to that of all those who went before him. Yet before the darkness took his spirit for the final time he heard a call that brought him back into the world of lights, the voice of a man. In later times we might call this man a shaman or sorcerer, what his own people called him is now lost to time, a mystery that only he is privy to.

This man draped himself with his own former now blood stained hide, his regal skull and majestic antlers now stained and reddened with ocher and the fresh wet loam of the Earth. As his body went to feed the tribe, the man now asks him to serve the same. The confines of his former skull now serve as a fetish, a familiar domicile to house his newly arisen spirit. He answered the call of the man and served the tribe, and they in turn venerated him for his gifts. He witnessed their harsh lives and grew to know them. He learned of their needs, shared their pain and loss, exulted in their triumphs. He protected them from the dangers of the outside world that he had evaded during his natural life. He aided their hunt and lead them to food. He saw them die, and new helpless ones born into the world to replace them. The man who called him forth now had succumbed himself to the darkness that might of claimed him long ago, though the secret of his existence was whispered in hushed voices passed from the father to the son, and then to the daughter of the son, and so on forth down the line.

He knew not how long he served His people, many times the span of his natural life, generations of man came into being and faded into lands embrace under his gaze. With each voice that called to him his spirit grew in awareness and knowledge. Mere beast no more, the divine spark within him grew and ignited and he became a God. This divinity was not bestowed upon him by an outside force, but it was the very spark he was born with those eons ago, the very same spark that exists within all of us, from our most enlightened spiritual teachers, to that shellfish you may have consumed without a thought last week. This spark ignited and grew into a raging fire.

The landscape changed, the once plentiful herds moved on and the tribe followed them. New lands were found, the tribe split itself into many factions as some remained behind. This posed no problem to him, as spirits just like flame, are able to be in more than one place at once. As the peoples experience changed, so did their view of him. Some forgot him entirely, others renamed him. From his tempered divine spark he gave birth to new children. In the north the called him Wuldor and so he became the hunter, bow in hand silently stalking the northern wood. In Windsor they called him Herne, and he protected that forest as well taking residence in his sacred tree. In Arcadia voices raised to him shouted Pan! Pan! And thus he chased the nymphs of legend. In Gaul the venerable Cernunnos raised his antlered head and taught the children of man who sought his wisdom. Thousands of names, thousands of divine children all sprung forth from his primordial core. Some themselves going back into the cauldron of rebirth, others igniting and growing their own divine spark, all tracing their lineage back to Him and in some deep part of their being remaining part of Him.

The child of the Earth watched man as he grew and changed and learned and He in turn changed and learned with them. He grew to understand and protect them, though his core remained the wild stag of ages long past. Until the day finally came that man abandoned their champion of old, and in some areas turned on him and vilified him, even sought to destroy any mention of him. He slept, needed no more as man turned to their own ingenuity and clever thought. Yet still from time to time a voice would call out in remembrance, their blood screaming out seeking to reconnect to the bond that was forged between this unnamed God and his own earliest of ancestors. Man may had forgotten him, but their blood remembers, and the blood never forgets.

As more call out to him, heeding the urgency in their blood that cried out to be reconnected to the one who cared for us and shaped us, he finds himself drawn back to this world once more. A simple unassuming spirit that would of lived and died and been reabsorbed like the teeming billions of lives before him became something more, and as He did so can you. This is perhaps the most important lesson he teaches.

Hail The Horned God!

[Willowhawk]

This is the story of my first experience with a public Pagan gathering, which occurred at Beltane. To say it was not what I expected is... an understatement. ~Willow

Topanga Witches

Topanga Canyon, California-- an idyllic little community tucked in a narrow, verdant canyon between the San Fernando Valley and the Pacific Ocean-- is a beautiful place, deservedly adored by its fortunate inhabitants. It winds for about nine miles from Woodland Hills right down to the ocean. The road curves no less than 87 times in those nine miles, according to locals. Some of those curves are very nearly hairpin, which makes the canyon difficult to navigate at the high speeds Los Angeles drives insist on. But taken at reasonable speeds, the drive is exhilarating and offers spectacular views of the canyon, the valley, and the surrounding mountains. Topanga Canyon is an oasis, a sanctuary for Nature (and for those who honour her) in the middle of one of the most urban areas of the country.

I have never heard of Topanga until I moved to Los Angeles in 2000, and to this day I don’t know where my impressions about it originated. Maybe it was on a website I saw, or an address for occult supplies in a book. In any case, I quickly formed a definite opinion of Topanga and its residents: They were Witches.
I was absolutely certain of that. I had heard that Topanga had been a “center of the 60’s counter-culture,” and that it was populated by ageing hippies and Pagans. Therefore, Topanga must be LA’s Witch Central-- and I had to go there.

I went at the first opportunity. I found-- nothing. Well, there was a post office and a small grocery store and an elegant restaurant in a lovely woodland setting. There was an adorable cottage in a sun-spangled glen that brought to mind a tidy hobbit hole. I drove back and forth, looked high and low, but there was no sign of those storied nature-loving inhabitants.

One sunny April morning in 2001, I was driving through Topanga and saw a handwritten sign on the side of the road advertising a “Celtic Festival” on the following Saturday, featuring food, fun, and a maypole. Beltane! I had found the Topanga Witches! I immediately made plans to be there with my 18-month-old daughter. I hesitated over the cost-- $10 a person, which seemed exorbitant-- but decided it was too good on opportunity to waste. So on Saturday, May Day, we went to the Festival.

We arrived around 10 a.m., paid $20 to enter, and wandered around the (disappointingly small) gathering. Almost immediately I began to feel… mislead. As it turned out, it was a fundraiser for earthquake victims in India. It appeared that the organisers were devotees of some Indian guru or swami or whatever (I’m not trying to be disrespectful; I don’t know the proper term). There was indeed a maypole-- a very lovely one, in fact; yellow with green and purple ribbons. Mardi Gras colours, in fact-- odd, that, since this was Beltane. I associate red and white with this particular sabbat, but maybe this particular combination had special meaning to the guru and his disciples.

Anyway, they had the maypole, but at its base was a large picture of the guru/swami/important personage, and I saw several people bow or otherwise pay their respects to it as they walked by. There were a couple of psychic healers, massage therapists, henna artists, et cetera, and a couple of craft booths (sadly, no Craft booths, which would have been more helpful), and few people selling food. It was all vegetarian and organic-- one booth went all the way and offered only raw food. I heard one poor man innocently ask the girl running that counter what kind of menu items she had, and her response was predictably zealous:

“This is raw food! The best food! Best for you, best for the planet, best for-- ” Here she waved her hands vaguely at the motley gathering-- “for India… ”

Although I’ve learned more about it since then, and now understand that there are arguably sound reasons for going raw, I have to say that the items served by the chirpy and devoted seller that day looked, well, pitiably raw and unappetising. It consisted mainly of large, unidentifiable leaves wrapped around some sort of pale paste-- hummus?-- and handfuls of chopped onions, tomatoes, and other bits of greenery. This was called a “burrito.” A similar dish, consisting of the same ingredients in a bowl, minus the giant leaf, was called a “stir non-fry.”

The same booth also featured whole coconuts, topped and tailed, so to speak, with straws stuck in them. It was a nice concept-- the idea was to walk around or sit in the shade sipping fresh coconut milk, but in practice it was less than palate-pleasing, at least in my opinion. To me it tasted strongly of corn chips-- I’m guessing because Fritos and their ilk are fried in coconut oil-- but honestly, if I wanted to drink Doritos, I’d puree them in a blender (for substantially less money) and go from there. After the liquid was gone, we went back to the Helpful Raw Food Folk and had them split the coconut open. I tried the coconut meat, which, aside from being wetter and less sweet than I imagined, tasted like… corn chips. Even the baby spat it out.

There was other food, which I did try, and which was actually quite good, albeit expensive. There was Indian-- vegetarian, of course, but at least it was cooked. And the best value-- if not the tastiest thing I ate all day, it was better than the coconut-- was a plate of cold mac’n’cheese (presumably organic and non-dairy) with a SmartDog, a soy protein “frankfurter.” It was edible, it was reasonably filling, and it was cheap: $1. I think the moral of the entire experience, though, was clear: next time, pack a picnic.

The attendees were the main attraction, though. The women consisted primarily of young, thin, yoga-and-bean sprout types in various states of undress. Most wore bikini-type tops, long, filmy skirts, and anklets with tiny bells. They danced sinuously to the live music, all flowing limbs and closed eyes and ecstatic expressions. Very pretty, except that several of them had armpit hair longer and bushier than most men I’ve seen. I’m all for personal expression, but I just don’t find underarm hair that could conceivably be braided and dressed out in ribbons to be especially compelling.

The men were, by and large, less interesting, though there were a few exceptions. Some wore Renaissance Faire-style costumes, and almost all had copious amounts of facial hair. One wore knee-length lambskin breeches and nothing else. Another-- the swami’s representative here in Topanga, presumably-- was dressed like the man in the picture, in sheer white trousers and tunic. To be perfectly frank, none of the males there were as compelling as the girls’ axillary hair.

I eventually reached the conclusion that there were actually two separate events going on that day. One was a Beltane celebration, hosted by a very small and understated coven whose membership, I estimated, stood at six or seven, no more. The other, larger event was the earthquake relief drive, hosted by the guru’s energetic and driven devotees. My guess is that they joined forces to accomplish their various ends: the swami people got money to send to India, and the Witches got enough people to dance the maypole properly.

The ritual itself was nice, although I was excluded-- either because I was holding a baby, or because I‘m actually invisible. I was a bit miffed at that-- I came to join the circle, but when the woman acting as High Priestess came around to reorder it “boy-girl-boy-girl,” she skipped me, walking past me as though I weren’t there. Too shy to challenge her, I stepped back and watched as they called the quarters (in Gaelic, which was a nice touch), acted out some inaudible dialogue between an older divine couple and a younger, pregnant one, then they danced the maypole, winding the ribbons down the pole in an untidy but attractive pattern. Finally they made a good attempt at a Spiral Dance, finishing in a laughing, exhilarated pile beneath the maypole.

All in all, the experience was less than inspiring. The first public Pagan event I attended was, in a word, a bust. I was irritated at how thin the Celtic veneer was-- I wish the guru’s followers had advertised it more honestly. I would not have been so keen to go if the sign had said “Earthquake Relief Agenda Masquerading as Spring Celebration Which, For the Sake of Argument, We Will Call Celtic.” I was unimpressed with the Pagans as well, who completely failed to welcome-- or even acknowledge-- a sincere seeker. I found the Topanga Witches, but instead of finding spiritual inspiration with them, I discovered that the words of the Charge still resonate: “…if that which you seek, you find not within yourself, you will never find it without.”

[Wailand]

Bones of the tribe

Once in the time of this land lived a great warrior, a giant of man with long flowing hair and voice of thunder. Long time had he stood by his people, chief of his tribe
Never elected, never appointed often challenged ever reconciled, knowing both victory and defeat all his long life.
Now, as the year turned towards the long dark of winter he felt his time approaching. His eyes, still blue as the sky but unable to follow the hawk so far as the distant hills, his breath shallow, his bones ached, his heart heavy with the disputes and discontent of his people. He felt the world changing but being old, now unable to change the world.
Leaving his bed early one bright autumn morning he slowly climbs the steep back of the downs, leaning heavy on his staff, to that place where he was wont to brood and watch out over the lands stretched far beneath him. Hear on the high hill lay the burial place of his ancestors where soon he knew he would rest among them in the earthen mound of his fathers.
As he climbed the breast of the hill he came upon that grey cloaked and feathered seer, his Druid, hunched with knotted staff of thorn clutched in both hands and slowly turning this way and that. The ruid had maintained a meaningful absence as the days lengthened from the feast of Equinox and then, as the nights darkened towards Samhain, far from his ear and sorely missed. Only now, standing in this place of visions, upon the windswept hilltop did the Chief suddenly know he had been called.

“Speak my Druid! Why do you stay apart from us when you know my heart is heavy with foreboding? What visions detain you in this sacred place of my forebears? You must not hide them for the tale of my life is almost told and you know that I will not see another spring. I had my time and I will depart with joy to a place of peace long prepared. I have no regrets always trying to act according to my truth. But you know my fear, none better! It is for the world to come and those I leave behind.”

“But what can you see of the future for my heart is troubled, my tribe is troubled!
It was never thus in my youth but now it seems to me that disputes multiply over trifles!
What will happen after I am buried and gone to my ancient home?
Will the people remember and what will they say of us?
What tales will they tell?
When we have taken our place beside the ancestors in the hollow hills?”

The Druid stirs to look up and blue eyes narrow to the far horizon under the slanting shade of a withered palm. North over the wide green valley and the high green hills beyond and the words came slowly as a chanting, hard to hear above the whipping of the wind.

“The future asks many questions of the past!
There will be a green mound raised more than one in this place
Hear you will be guardian in death as you have been in life
Your tribe will not forget your deeds; they will pass into song and story
When your tribe is no more the very land will be your witness
The green mounds will remain, unbroken for a time
You will stand in their hearts as a giant upon the green flowing grass.
Far beyond this time, when all living memory fades you, with those gone before, will stand as guide to those who seek for truth among these hills. As a giant you will walk the bare hillside and hold open the door to the mysteries!
Then will our spirit be ever in this land, in the wind, the rain and in the whispering trees. The birds of the air will sing our songs and the fox and badger earth in our memory! Now a time of darkness comes upon the land, a time of greed, war and ignorance and our tribe will scatter to the winds, but we will remain, patient as the hollows in the hills.”

“Upon a time our tribe will return, not of blood but strong in spirit,
Which in all things must needs be changing and flowing.
After the plagues of power, of burnings and the wars
When sufficient blood is spent in changing the world and,
When the false gods give way to emptiness and a silence in their souls?
Then they will go searching, inquisitive as owls.
Seeking some knowledge of their past, for frail certainties and for truth?
Then they will come digging with picks and spades while
horses of iron will cross this land to carve up the land, sea and sky.
But these will not speak our story.
They will argue and dispute but will not find
One truth to call their own.
Then will they open our tombs and finger our bones?
But these cannot speak our story, we are not our bones!”

“But in the wind, in the dark and in the silence we will speak
To those with ears to hear us in the flowing stream of time.
In circles, in forests, by seashore and in stories told by the living fire,
By star and moon they will find again a long buried hunger!”

“Then will they lie back upon the grass and,
Closing their eyes, rest awhile from their scribbling and scratching.
They will come to know us through the dark soil
The sun warmed face, the music of wind and sea
And then shall we return also! Awakened! Reborn!
To walk the land in their footsteps
Touching green grass again with their fingers
Breathe in their breath
Seeing the world renewed
Through the eyes of their children!”

The words faded to an echo in the warriors mind
As if waking from a dream he saw the druid had risen
Black feathers shimmered in the sunlight, reached out a hand
Thin but strong. He takes her hand.
“Let us return home together!”

[Bruane]

Cruthu

Woe to the uninspired masses, look about you and recognize the World for what it is.
Realize that this is no longer the place, or time in which you are familiar. It is a new Millennium, a new age and new era. It is a time for things new and all must get used to it, and be ready.

All throughout the ages, voices from around the globe have forewarned about these times.
Who among you are listening? Even now as the Sun has masses whirling about it, we as a whole are divided. Oxymoronic isn't it, believe the very truth.

For as the tides rise and fall, we fight amongst ourselves and defile all, around us.
It is an unmendable wound, forever in our sides. Many different views have seen bloodshed due to them. Yet it can not be halted, for it has existed all our history.

Many times, through many lands, voices have spoke out against the ways, that wound us and keep us apart. As the seasons flow, voices speak now, remembering the people who ages before us, gave heed and warned of what may come.

Today, those people are fewer and fewer. The conflict still divides us and makes the voices seperate, and so one voice has become many. It is my responcibility as it is of all, to unite those seperated.

Every culture has its chosen to represent that responcibility. As the air we breath gives us life, I am one of those people. After so many ages of unknown times, we fight and have not a memory as of what we fight about. Now nearly every culture has divided, keeping the wound from healing making it worse...

As every thing moves in a cycle so to must we. It is after all a new time and a time for the new. A gathering has to be held and all must account for themselves. The World over must attend and all should listen.

Until just that happens, nothing we do will reverse whats going on. Until the last leaf has fallen and the last tide falls, as the monarch is floating, and Earth still flows in tune with the blood in my veins. My voice will carry the words spoken before us.

/|\

[Klandaxa]

With Djidi-djidi I dance

I stand alone within the circle of stones. My hood down, my face concealed, my identity is known only to Her. She welcomes me, greets me tenderly, beckons me to sit and share this moment. Slowly, my spirit radiant at her touch, I sit. She soon speaks to me. Through me, I feel Her words. She touches my feet and I hear Her voice enter me; filling this familiar cup. Around me, the trees shuffle, ruffling themselves in sync with Her melodies. Her music gathers inside me, moves through me, flows outwards like ripples across a lake. The sounds I hear and feel mesh with the sounds of the grove. I am no longer able to distinguish my body from Hers. I am no longer able to distinguish my voice from Hers. When I speak it is Her voice that whispers across the grove and is heard by all. With Her I remain, my heart and body, my mind and soul as one. Within Her I remain. My breathing becomes the movement of the winds that dance back and forth across the stones. I feel sand grains beneath my feet and Her breath on my skin. Old echoes and ancient songs reverberate upwards from the earth far below where I sit. I sense rather than see the tiny Djidi-djidi that dances outside my circle. Its tail sweeping the air hypnotically, it awaits my permission, sensing the sacred, understanding the moment. My mind’s hand outstretched, I cup the small bird gently, ushering it into the grove, inviting it to dance. As it moves across the ground, I enter it, know it intimately. Feeling the sun’s warmth on my feathers, the sand between my toes, I shuffle across the circle. My feet light, I stomp and step, hop and leap, allowing strong wings to lift my spirit. With control and purpose I rise upwards, gliding still within the circle but now hovering over my seated self. Gently easing myself downwards, my small feet grip my relaxed shoulders. Perched on myself, within myself, I withdraw from the small spirit, the blissful memory of flight and dance lingering as I open my eyes. A sudden giddiness overwhelms me and I concentrate on my breathing, bringing myself back into the present. The sensation soon passes and I am once again aware of Her around me. She sooths my inner voice, calms my spirit. I thank Her for Her gift. I slowly stand, my hood still covering my face, my identity concealed, yet She knows me and I Her.

Klandaxa

[Teileag]

Change

This morning I woke up slowly, having to tear myself from sleep. It has been difficult for a while to get up and face the day... Why? I don't know, I only feel a slight malaise. I am not happy, don't want to do my work. The sun doesn't seem very bright any more, colours around me are dull, sounds seem muffled.

Finally I do get out of bed and make some coffee. The smell always lifts my spirits and it does today as well. The view into the valley is not clear on this morning, there is mist accumulating and rolling into the garden. A few birds are fluttering around, picking at the greaseballs hanging from the pergola. They look a bit grey themselves...

The is a lot of work waiting for me in the house. I should really have a good clear-up in all of the kids' rooms and clean the lounge but my heart is heavy and I can't face the chores. What else could I do with this grey, dull day?

In the end I decide to go for a walk, all alone, without the dog. She looks at me reproachfully with her sad brown eyes but I need to be alone. "Tomorrow maybe...", I whisper gently, feeling guilty but not enough to change my mind.

I set off into the grey, dull morning, my feet shuffeling over the black asphalt of the road. When I turn off the road on the farmer's track, the sky stretches before me, endlessly, colourless, a sheet of steel ondulating slightly above the fields. My heart sinks even more. Where have all the colours gone? Why can't I hear a single bird twitter? the bushes are covered in tiny blossoms but they have lost their fragrance all of a sudden. Maybe I should turn around and go back... The thought is tempting but something pushes me forwards.

The track, muddy brown, leads down into a ditch. Blackthorn grows here in abundance, and elder. They beckon me to move on, step after step. Although the road is dry, I have to make an effort to pull my feet out of invisible mud. Why bother? What is the point?

Slowly I go on, up the hill, along the little road,leading to the neighbouring village, past fields of wheat. There are some meadows and the cows grazing peacefully stare at me while I stumble past them. Their eyes follow me and their gaze holds me. Their jaws move slowly from, side to side, chewing a mouthful of grass endlessly. i stand mesmerized, loose myself in their liquid black eyes. "Go on...", a quiet voice inside me says and obediently a turn to walk on. The road twists and turns, leads up to a hill and the dark quiet forest with old trees, undisturbed by villagers. Should I go there and listen to the low voices of birch and rowan? Will they talk to me today, comfort me? Or am I following an illusion? What if the earth is empty? What if I am all alone? What if time does not exist? What if I am adrift, lost in the mist of eternity? What if there is no path? "Go, find out..."
The forest is looming on my right, high trees swaying gently in the breeze. I cannot feel the wind. Slowly I move along the edge of the wood until I reach the opening between the trees. One step off the track, another step into the forest. Brambles tear at my jeans, my feet sink into dry leaves. A single ray of sunlight pierces the roof of leaves above me and falls on a dark, silvery trunk of a high tree.
"Here..."
For a long time I stand there and look at her. Her leaves move a little and the bright green suddenly strikes my eyes.
"Come and sit."
"No..."
My breathing is so slow, my body is so cold, my eyes are blurred.
"Sit."
In slow motion I move to her trunk and touch the soft bark, flaking here and there, rolled into tiny curls. My forehead touches the silky fabric and I stand the for a long time, resting my head against her. Slowly I become aware of her roots, reaching deep into the earth, slipping around rocks, sliding into cracks, weaving an intricate pattern I cannot understand. They transport nourishing water into her body, slowly, rythmically, lovingly, and her body is trembling with exitement. Up, up, up. The water courses through my body as well, releasing knotted muscles, tensions. My breathing becomes deeper and I feel myself melting into the birch. Her voice sings to me, slowly, tenderly, wordless songs. I look, up into her crown and seem to grow and stretch until I am up there, gently swaying in the breeze. Are this her branches, are they my fingers? I don't know and it doesn't,matter. My heart suddenly breaks open and I can see the tiny seed of light inside, pulsating slowly in the rythm of the water coursing through her, greenish-white and golden. The light expands little by little and encompasses us both. My eyes open and I feel.... I am old and yet so young. Wisdom touches my soul, loves fills my heart. Words are not enough.
Then I return very slowly to my normal size, my hands let go and so does my heart. I lift my head and smile into the golden green. "Thank you." I touch her roots in gratefulness and leave the forest.
My feet move faster over the caramel coloured dirt track. Deep red rowan berries glow between bright green leaves. Soon the forest lies behind me and I walk between golden corn and sun coloured fields. A blackbird sings of her joy and delight in the azure sky, chocolate brown against silver clouds. My eyes can hardly take it all in and I have to stop and marvel at the explosion of colours around me. Try as I might, I can't see any grey anywhere anymore! The sun touches my body and warms my heart. The path stretches before me, clearly defined, and then loses itself in the distance. There is still that smile on my lips and the knowledge that I have received a great gift. There are no words to describe what had happened but a door had been opened. No more doubts, for a while at least. No more dispair, for now. Clear direction, at the moment. How could I not see?

[Earthwoman]

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