Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Waiting
So the Mother comes to the birthing-stool. Painted with white clay patterns of birth, she waits.
Around her the animals gather in silent expectation. They say that at midnight on Midwinter's Eve, they will speak. They wait.
They say that at midnight on Midwinter's Eve, the trees will burst into blossom. They wait.
They say that at midnight on Midwinter's Eve, the rivers and springs will flow with wine. They wait.
They say that on Midwinter's Eve, the Sun will blaze forth in glory at midnight: and, indeed, our eyes shall behold it.
We wait.
Comments
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Thursday, 18 December 2014
Around Big Mama on her stool, the under-the-tree menagerie just grows every year: the Minoan bull, the faience hippo, the Proto-Geometric horse, the Netsuke rabbit, the pipestone turtle, the Hopi muskrat, the Scythian stag....
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Wednesday, 17 December 2014This is lovely!
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Thursday, 18 December 2014
Just pulling together the pieces, Molly. Glad you like it.
My experience has always been that the best stories are the most specific ones. It's all very well to talk about the Rebirth of the Sun; I think it's impingent on each of us to ask, In this landscape, how? -
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Makes me want to get clay in my hands again and make some little figurines for yule time!