Posts Tagged With: Grandmother

A Visit With The Crone – A Short Story

A Visit With The Crone – A Short Story

Author: Jadalya Boudicca 

The inspiration for this short story came to me after a very turbulent and uncertain time in my life. I had just taken a major leap of faith that would have long-lasting effects, and whether it was positive or negative I didn’t know. Basically, one period of my life was ending, and another was beginning. I was terrified and unsure of myself, peering over the edge of the proverbial cliff and readying myself for the leap into Goddess-knew-what. I was coming face-to-face with the Crone, that unpleasant and brutally honest Hag that always appears when a death is imminent.

For those unacquainted with Crone energy, She can be one of the most terrifying aspects of the Goddess to face. Whether She be Black Annis, Baba Yaga, Kali, or one of the Fates, She always evokes a sense of foreboding, and it is well that She does, for She is not surrounded by flowers and sunshine, like the Maiden, nor does she carry a countenance of nurturing comfort, like the Mother. She is the essence of wisdom in its most raw form; She sees what lies in the murky darkness beyond and stares into it without fear. By communing with the energy of the Crone, one learns to accept death in life and acknowledge its necessity in growth. This is a hard lesson to face, and many of us will continue to struggle with it time and time again; however, when we learn it, we are graced with the ability to accept life’s flow and live in continuity with it’s cycles rather than fight it, and by doing so, we grow.

Let me introduce you now to the Crone.

A Visit With the Crone – A Short Story

I have met the Crone once or twice. Her fearsome eyes look you through to your bones, the houses of your stories, and read there all that you are and from whence you have come. She judges there where you will go, for she knows where all things must go.

The first time I met her, she scowled at me. “Your stories are dry; your words have no flavor and your lips are all but dead. One day you will die, and then what? Ha! Come back to me when you learn of it, and THEN share with me a story worth hearing, and I shall give you one as well.”

“But I do not know how, Grandmother, ” I said. “The only way I know to learn IS to die, or become near-death, and I fear it…Grandmother, I fear it’s grasp!”

“Heh…you are dead enough now, living as you are, “she replied, her voice harsh and rasping. “Go from me, now, and do not return until you have something worth saying and something worth hearing.”

I departed from the Old Hag then, forlorn. What is this she asked of me? To die, and THEN tell a story? One cannot do such a thing; it is impossible! Foolish old woman, I thought. Better to never go back…she spins old wives’ tales from the cobwebs of her senile mind!

I went to sleep then, and dreamt of great suffering, and of the Grandmother gnashing her teeth and swallowing me whole. “No, Grandmother!” I screamed. “Do you not recognize me? Do your eyes not know me?”

“I do not know you, ” she said, her eyes dark and glistening, her teeth yellow and tearing at me. “I do not know you because you do not know yourself.”

I leapt awake then, sweating and gasping for breath. Just a dream, I told myself. The old Hag has me scared out of my wits, with all her talk of death and dying! Let me throw her off now, out of my mind. And with that, I rested my head once more, and fell back into dreaming.

Once again, the Grandmother appeared in my dreams, with her fearsome grin and watery eyes. “Grandmother, ” I screamed, “why do you do this to me!”

“I do not do this to you, ” she smirked, “for you do it to yourself.”

Once again, I leapt awake, trembling and fearful. Were these just dreams? I shall face the Hag, once and for all, I thought. And a third time I slept, and a third time she appeared, more terrible and ferocious than before, making wrathful sounds and threatening to tear me apart.

“Grandmother, ” I said, my voice small from fear. “Three times you have appeared to me, and three times you have come to me with death. I am afraid, but I am here to face you now.”

“Then face me you will, ” she said, and swallowed me up. Down into the darkness of her belly I fell, but it instead of pain, I felt only warmth. How strange, I thought. The softness cradled me, and down I went, until a light could be seen. The light terrified me, but on and on I went, until I was enveloped no longer in darkness, but in light, and I felt arms around me, cradling me. “There, there, my sweet daughter, my beautiful one, ” a voice whispered, and when I opened my eyes I saw not the Hag beast, but a beautiful woman, and I knew this to be Mother.

“Mother, where has the old Hag gone?” I asked.

“She is here, too, ” the Mother said. And with that, I awoke, no longer afraid.

I rose and sought out the old Crone. “Well, ” she croaked. “What have we here! You are not the same sniveling girl that was here yesterday. Sit, and tell me what has changed. Tell me your story.”

I told her of my dreams, and as I told her my story, her eyes softened. “I have learned not to fear endings, Grandmother, for with all endings come beginnings.”

The Crone nodded, and her bones creaked as she roused herself. “That is a good story, child, ” she said. “Now, as promised, I shall tell you one myself.”

She looked at me then, and the darkness of her eyes drew me in until I once again could see nothing but black. In the darkness I saw swirls of light, small suns and stars. I saw these lights split and come back together, until they took the shapes of animals, great and small, all coming from the same light, and all returning to the same light. I saw men singing their songs, and women weaving their tapestries, until sound and material became one, intertwining all life together.

“You see, child, ” she whispered. “All comes from One, and all is connected. You are I, and I am you.”

Categories: Articles, Daily Posts | Tags: , | Leave a comment

Elder’s Meditation of the Day – October 14

Elder’s Meditation of the Day – October 14

“Each soul must meet the morning sun, the new sweet earth and the Great Silence alone!”

–Ohiyesa (Dr. Charles A. Eastman), SANTEE SIOUX

The most important thing we can do during the course of the day is pray in the morning. There is a special time in the morning that has great power. This is the exact time the sun is rising. During the rising of the sun, everything on the Earth is waking up. Animals, plants, birds and humans will be blessed at the rising of the sun. This is a special time to help us prepare for the day. During this time we ask the Creator to bless our day. We ask Him to guide us, to protect us and to give us courage to overcome the day’s obstacles. Doing this everyday will give us knowledge of God’s will for us.

Grandfather, Grandmother, guide my path. Let my thinking be guided by You.

Categories: Articles, Daily Posts | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ancient Knowledge, Dreams, Visions And Understanding

Ancient Knowledge, Dreams, Visions And Understanding

Author:   Lady Abigail 

Dreams, impressions and visions have been a part of my life since my first memories. How excited I became on those special nights, nights my Great Grandmother called “dream nights.” Those special nights only came a few times a year. Sometimes it was cold with ice or snow on the ground, so being outdoors was impossible. But for those that came in the summer, what magickal nights they would truly be.

I was awakened in the early morning by thunder shaking the house. It was wood framed and the windows rattled with each clap. I could hear the wind slapping the branches of the willow tree against my bedroom window. The rain was beating so hard against the glass that it looked like a blue waterfall each time the lightening flashed. I was sitting up and watching out the window to see what might come next, when my Great Grandmother’s gentle voice called out for me.

She was up and already dressed. She was lighting the small candle on the table; I could see her long skirt with the clean, white, crisp apron tied in back. Her hair, braided long, was coming across her shoulder and looked like a thick silver rope. As she pinned her hair back into a bun, she said, “They’re just cleaning the sky, little one, so we can see the dreams in heaven tonight.”

She knew I had no fear of storms; I liked watching them. But I was worried that we would have to wait until another night, because of the rain. I was assured it would clear in plenty of time to read and enjoy the night.

Dream nights began in the evening, on the eve, as the sun would just begin to set. I would later understand this was the eve of the Winter and Summer Solstices. These were days of balance and harmony, days for seeking understanding.

It had been an especially long day for me. The storm kept us inside until afternoon and then I had to take a nap. Naps were something I really didn’t like.

By the time I had awakened, it was late afternoon. I could hear my Great Grandmother working in the kitchen; she was frying chicken for our picnic. I could smell the fresh baked corn muffins. I was allowed the special task of making the honey butter for our holiday night.

The sun was hot and the morning’s rain had made the day muggy. It seemed like a lifetime to me, as a child, waiting, as we got our baskets packed and ready to go. But soon my Great Grandmother picked up the blanket and it was time to go. I was so impatient; it felt like I had a swarm of bumble bees flying around in my stomach.

We walked the narrow path through the back woods to the meadow. I can still hear the birds, singing as we walked along. That meadow was miles from the house and used for growing hay that would be harvested in early fall. It was overflowing with flowers, giving off the sweet aromas from the hot summer day.

The sun was just lowering and caused long shadows on the ground as we arrived. I knew my way from there. It wasn’t long until my Great Grandmother was calling me down out of the great oak tree. She had placed our picnic underneath it, in the shade, where we made a small campfire in the ring of stones placed there since before I could remember.

It still brings joy to my heart, remembering how I had listened to my Great Grandmother as she would tell the legends of her family. As the sun began to set, I liked to lie on the blanket and watch the sky as each tiny star began to show. I would memorize my Great Grandmother’s face as she spoke to me of amazing stories and visions.

This was the time and place I learned to dream. Not the dreams that come from sleep, but the dreams that come as a gift; guided dreams, vision quests, impressions, the time in which we seek knowledge and understanding from the powers of light and dark.

By whatever name you call it, this is the power to walk the veils and travel time by means of energy, sight, or shape-shifting to gain knowledge in divination.

As I lay there, with my head on my Great Grandmother’s lap, I watched the moon slowly rise, making the night as bright as day. Visions and dreams, sounds and songs, came racing across the sky like brilliant flashes of lives recorded from people and places I did not know.

I saw those that lived long before the others came. I saw vast oceans, snow covered peaks, deserts, and lands alive with nature. I walked in lands erased by time and covered by progress. I joined my hands with those that had passed on before me; those that had paid the heaviest price for being different. I learned that I was made up of many parts, past and present, hopes and dreams, not all my own.

My first visions were times of learning. Learning who and what I was, learning that, even as a small child, I carried the knowledge and history of many lifetimes. They were memories of different people, spirits, some passing through, some native, and some that never walked this earth.

This gift of visions comes from learning how to utilize your magick and technique to access the powers of transforming and transformational control. This is found within birth, life, and death, as experienced in the seasons of all existence. To travel in this existence, you must learn to develop and deepen the use and understanding of ancient magickal traditions. Like my Great Grandmother, those who excelled in this ability were called Shamans, the Wise Ones, or Witches.

Again, the name is less important that the feat. It does not matter if you are female or male; it is in learning to respect all things, no matter the direction in life or beyond. If you seek understanding, then you must learn of all the worlds, seen and unseen. You must learn to be a master of your own state of mind. If you desire to enter the trance state, that which is both dreams, sleeping and waking, you must desire understanding of yourself, living and past. You must seek comprehension of who and what you are, before seeking to find answers in the veils of conscious and unconscious thought.

This gift, this power, comes from a consciousness beyond mere idea. Some may enter through meditation, beating a drum, dancing, chanting, or by using mystical brews, or joining with those who have passed before. These are only a few ways some begin this journey.

Once you call for a vision by way of a vision quest, lucidly dreaming, or trance, you must remain focused and conscious, always well aware that journeying into the veils means crossing boundaries of many worlds. This can only be done by seeking to gain insight and knowledge; information that can be brought back into this world and made real. This is done by validating what you learn through words and works, ritual, healing, and magick with complete respect.

I believe that to communicate with the spirit world, you must have a belief in the existence of individual spirits; spirits that not only exist within the consciousness of nature, but inhabit the consciousness of natural objects, as well. This comes as you learn that existence is both spiritual and physical. The two are one. We are both our spiritual and physical bodies. Once this is understood, you can unlock the possibilities to all.

Over the years, I have had to be careful who I allowed into this part of my life. To allow others to know the gifts I have been blessed with could have not only brought disbelief, but danger as well. Reactions from some can be saddening and painful. There are those that have no eyes to see beyond their own minuscule world.

Why? Is the idea of seeking insights by way of personal journeying and visions less acceptable than going to a psychiatrist to get understanding of our inner demons? Both are a seeking and finding within our own spirits; only the philosophies differ by time and traditions.

If this vision questing is your desire for seeking and divination of insight, first learn to visualize and guide yourself to your own personal goals. Then, be wise; learn how to form clear mental images. Learn to focus and direct energy in magick and ritual. As you seek and grow to appreciate your visions, they will come with greater clarity. This clarity will begin to open the door to understanding your own spirit. Then, in time, and with patience, you will begin traveling further than any physical existence.

For me, a vision quest is a quest for the visions within my soul. They help heal us or make us whole, both spiritually and personally. In times past, the elders taught the young how to find their path in life and find their spirits to aid them. I was fortunate; I had a Great Grandmother that taught me the old ways. Today, that is not as common; many have to be self-taught and travel alone.

Today, I can only travel back to the meadow within my visions and dreams. The field that was once filled with life is now gone; the great oak tree cut down, and the stones erased by time and progress. But this will not stop me from lying on the quilt beneath the great oak tree, or talking with my Great Grandmother.

Many have learned too well not to see and not to hear. They live in a world without color, afraid of the truth. Children of the light choose to be open to the visions, the dreams, and the spirits walking with us. We are unafraid of the truth.

Be blessed as you walk in the rainbows of life and witness all the colors before you.

Categories: Articles | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My Broom is Bigger than Your Broom

My Broom is Bigger than Your Broom

Author: Lady Abigail

Walking across the freshly harvested field of hay, I watched the sun as it sank, little by little, between the great oaks on the hillside. The trees seemed to be burning in the autumn colors of orange, gold and red. The air quickly became crisp and cool.

Smoke from my Great Grandmother’s chimney lay heavy in the air, like it was dancing in the vanishing twilight. The sweet aroma of the evening placed images within my mind. For me, it was as if the essence from times past were encircling me in a mist of stories not yet told.

I could hear the crunch of each of my footsteps as I walked across the field home. Suddenly, the sounds changed around me. I heard more footsteps, a wagon bouncing across the bridge, and cars turning down the dirt road, chased by the dusty shadows behind them.

I ran as quickly as my short legs would carry me to reach the house so I could hug those that were my family. My heart was pounding like a drum from some distant land. This night was special; this was the night of the ancestors, the night of the calling, calling the dead.

I had been watching all day, for I understood the magick that this night would bring. The energy found within the veils and the mystical visions that would be called to those that stood within the circle to be cast.

They were called the sisters, my aunts. Each one filled my life with stories and knowledge of the old ways. Each was a Witch and Crone in her own right. Each one was different and each was a force of nature, independent and strong. Not one was accountable to the other until they stood beneath the moon as a covenant of power.

My aunts, my family, were not as other families. We didn’t look the same, we didn’t speak the same, and we didn’t even think the same. But that was okay. Now I see what a wonderful and magickal gift that was; diverse energies, histories, and traditions that came together as one all-encompassing power.

My Great Grandmother was Cajun. Her Native American beauty gave her dark skin and silken raven hair marked with silver from time and wisdom. Myself, born of mixed blood, had been given extremely light-colored skin and white blond hair, what those in the old south called a “toe head.”

Even as a child, I learned the judgmental hearts of others. I saw how some treated my Great Grandmother, how some looked at us as odd when they saw us together. Sometimes people could be extremely rude and say hurtful things.

Many would turn their backs as we walked by. Some didn’t understand and didn’t realize that this dark-skinned woman was my Grandmother. But within all the dim-wittedness of those around us, what I remember most was my Great Grandmother’s pride and forgiving heart.

As twilight turned into night, the great feast was placed on the long table in my Grandmother’s house. The sisters respectfully placed the setting on the table for the ancestors. I was now old enough to help and got to light the candles all around the room.

There were countless candles. Most were the bees’ wax candles my Great Grandmother and the sisters had made during the spring and again just at the break of fall. I walked quietly from table to table, lighting each candle with a blessing. The honey-scent fragrance, mixed with the smells from the food and the holiday, gave way to an energy that made my skin tingle with excitement.

Once the feast was ended, it was time to ready for the calling. My Great Grandmother asked me to go to the back porch and bring her in her broom. I stood for a moment outside on that tiny wood porch held in place by the stones under each corner.

I looked at the glow coming through the windows and falling on the sparkling ground, now wet with dew. The sensation of my family gleamed in the warmth that shown from within that small house. I had no doubt that the spirits would be moved to join us that night. My spirit had found flight with the energy of love that surrounded me.

The sisters now walk within the veils with my Great Grandmother, and at this time of year, the time of the calling, I will welcome them all and ask that they join my table for the feast. Now I am the Crone; I seek within my Great Grandmother’s teaching to be a wise woman.

I endeavor to teach all those that walk our path in the old ways, with acceptance, truth, and light. My family has aged, changed, and grown. My circle is filled with those that I love, both brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, in a blending of various traditions. I am truly blessed.

Not long ago, while attending different gatherings, I sadly watched and heard many that walk our path begin to rank themselves among each other. For lack of a better term, I would have to say it was a syndrome of “my broom is bigger than your broom, ” or my tradition is better than your tradition.

It frightens me that we have somehow decided we are better than another because of what name they choose to call themselves or what magickal path they walk.

Do we really need to judge each other?

Many of us proudly call ourselves Witches and Pagans. Some use the traditions of the path they have selected within their title. Some will call themselves by nothing at all, but simply know they have found themselves within their own hearts.

Along this diverse path, I have spoken to many within our communities, and they speak of finding their way home and reclaiming life within our varied and blending traditions, escaping the critical judgments of past beliefs.

The sisters, my aunts, were also very different. They came from all over the Ozarks. Some of them were old, some younger, some dark, some light, some with grey hair and some with red. They were scholars, teachers, mothers, and wise women. Each was as different as the night is to the day, yet each was respectful of the other beyond question.

They did not talk about what the other family members were doing or not doing. They did not discuss in what manner one worked within magick over the other. They respected each other with honor and shared their understandings together.

In truth, we are each individuals; our practices and beliefs are equally individual. We are all following our own spiritual and magickal path. Let us be a gathering of like-minded souls, yet, at the same time, strive to be open- minded and accepting of each other’s personal differences. We are all equal as we walk together, no matter which path we take in the walking.

It is not necessary to pull others down to strengthen ourselves. Strength is found as our circle grows in understanding of each other. As we enter this time of welcoming the ancients and the wise ones, let us stand as a cohesive brotherhood and sisterhood, brought together by the belief, that within understanding, all things are possible.

It is time that we all, each one of us, reflect on how far we have came, and how hard a path we all traveled. Remembering the sacrifices of those that walked this path before us, let us think before we judge or criticize another. Then shall we truly stand together in this magickal circle as it expands within the universe.

Together let us be as one family to celebrate our beliefs within life and magick.

Categories: Daily Posts | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Visit With The Crone – A Short Story

A Visit With The Crone – A Short Story

Author: Jadalya Boudicca

 
The inspiration for this short story came to me after a very turbulent and uncertain time in my life. I had just taken a major leap of faith that would have long-lasting effects, and whether it was positive or negative I didn’t know. Basically, one period of my life was ending, and another was beginning. I was terrified and unsure of myself, peering over the edge of the proverbial cliff and readying myself for the leap into Goddess-knew-what. I was coming face-to-face with the Crone, that unpleasant and brutally honest Hag that always appears when a death is imminent.

For those unacquainted with Crone energy, She can be one of the most terrifying aspects of the Goddess to face. Whether She be Black Annis, Baba Yaga, Kali, or one of the Fates, She always evokes a sense of foreboding, and it is well that She does, for She is not surrounded by flowers and sunshine, like the Maiden, nor does she carry a countenance of nurturing comfort, like the Mother. She is the essence of wisdom in its most raw form; She sees what lies in the murky darkness beyond and stares into it without fear. By communing with the energy of the Crone, one learns to accept death in life and acknowledge its necessity in growth. This is a hard lesson to face, and many of us will continue to struggle with it time and time again; however, when we learn it, we are graced with the ability to accept life’s flow and live in continuity with it’s cycles rather than fight it, and by doing so, we grow.

Let me introduce you now to the Crone.

A Visit With the Crone – A Short Story

I have met the Crone once or twice. Her fearsome eyes look you through to your bones, the houses of your stories, and read there all that you are and from whence you have come. She judges there where you will go, for she knows where all things must go.

The first time I met her, she scowled at me. “Your stories are dry; your words have no flavor and your lips are all but dead. One day you will die, and then what? Ha! Come back to me when you learn of it, and THEN share with me a story worth hearing, and I shall give you one as well.”

“But I do not know how, Grandmother, ” I said. “The only way I know to learn IS to die, or become near-death, and I fear it…Grandmother, I fear it’s grasp!”

“Heh…you are dead enough now, living as you are, “she replied, her voice harsh and rasping. “Go from me, now, and do not return until you have something worth saying and something worth hearing.”

I departed from the Old Hag then, forlorn. What is this she asked of me? To die, and THEN tell a story? One cannot do such a thing; it is impossible! Foolish old woman, I thought. Better to never go back…she spins old wives’ tales from the cobwebs of her senile mind!

I went to sleep then, and dreamt of great suffering, and of the Grandmother gnashing her teeth and swallowing me whole. “No, Grandmother!” I screamed. “Do you not recognize me? Do your eyes not know me?”

“I do not know you, ” she said, her eyes dark and glistening, her teeth yellow and tearing at me. “I do not know you because you do not know yourself.”

I leapt awake then, sweating and gasping for breath. Just a dream, I told myself. The old Hag has me scared out of my wits, with all her talk of death and dying! Let me throw her off now, out of my mind. And with that, I rested my head once more, and fell back into dreaming.

Once again, the Grandmother appeared in my dreams, with her fearsome grin and watery eyes. “Grandmother, ” I screamed, “why do you do this to me!”

“I do not do this to you, ” she smirked, “for you do it to yourself.”

Once again, I leapt awake, trembling and fearful. Were these just dreams? I shall face the Hag, once and for all, I thought. And a third time I slept, and a third time she appeared, more terrible and ferocious than before, making wrathful sounds and threatening to tear me apart.

“Grandmother, ” I said, my voice small from fear. “Three times you have appeared to me, and three times you have come to me with death. I am afraid, but I am here to face you now.”

“Then face me you will, ” she said, and swallowed me up. Down into the darkness of her belly I fell, but it instead of pain, I felt only warmth. How strange, I thought. The softness cradled me, and down I went, until a light could be seen. The light terrified me, but on and on I went, until I was enveloped no longer in darkness, but in light, and I felt arms around me, cradling me. “There, there, my sweet daughter, my beautiful one, ” a voice whispered, and when I opened my eyes I saw not the Hag beast, but a beautiful woman, and I knew this to be Mother.

“Mother, where has the old Hag gone?” I asked.

“She is here, too, ” the Mother said. And with that, I awoke, no longer afraid.

I rose and sought out the old Crone. “Well, ” she croaked. “What have we here! You are not the same sniveling girl that was here yesterday. Sit, and tell me what has changed. Tell me your story.”

I told her of my dreams, and as I told her my story, her eyes softened. “I have learned not to fear endings, Grandmother, for with all endings come beginnings.”

The Crone nodded, and her bones creaked as she roused herself. “That is a good story, child, ” she said. “Now, as promised, I shall tell you one myself.”

She looked at me then, and the darkness of her eyes drew me in until I once again could see nothing but black. In the darkness I saw swirls of light, small suns and stars. I saw these lights split and come back together, until they took the shapes of animals, great and small, all coming from the same light, and all returning to the same light. I saw men singing their songs, and women weaving their tapestries, until sound and material became one, intertwining all life together.

“You see, child, ” she whispered. “All comes from One, and all is connected. You are I, and I am you.”

Categories: Daily Posts | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Visit With The Crone – A Short Story

A Visit With The Crone – A Short Story

Author: Jadalya Boudicca
The inspiration for this short story came to me after a very turbulent and uncertain time in my life. I had just taken a major leap of faith that would have long-lasting effects, and whether it was positive or negative I didn’t know. Basically, one period of my life was ending, and another was beginning. I was terrified and unsure of myself, peering over the edge of the proverbial cliff and readying myself for the leap into Goddess-knew-what. I was coming face-to-face with the Crone, that unpleasant and brutally honest Hag that always appears when a death is imminent.

For those unacquainted with Crone energy, She can be one of the most terrifying aspects of the Goddess to face. Whether She be Black Annis, Baba Yaga, Kali, or one of the Fates, She always evokes a sense of foreboding, and it is well that She does, for She is not surrounded by flowers and sunshine, like the Maiden, nor does she carry a countenance of nurturing comfort, like the Mother. She is the essence of wisdom in its most raw form; She sees what lies in the murky darkness beyond and stares into it without fear. By communing with the energy of the Crone, one learns to accept death in life and acknowledge its necessity in growth. This is a hard lesson to face, and many of us will continue to struggle with it time and time again; however, when we learn it, we are graced with the ability to accept life’s flow and live in continuity with it’s cycles rather than fight it, and by doing so, we grow.

Let me introduce you now to the Crone.

A Visit With the Crone – A Short Story

I have met the Crone once or twice. Her fearsome eyes look you through to your bones, the houses of your stories, and read there all that you are and from whence you have come. She judges there where you will go, for she knows where all things must go.

The first time I met her, she scowled at me. “Your stories are dry; your words have no flavor and your lips are all but dead. One day you will die, and then what? Ha! Come back to me when you learn of it, and THEN share with me a story worth hearing, and I shall give you one as well.”

“But I do not know how, Grandmother, ” I said. “The only way I know to learn IS to die, or become near-death, and I fear it…Grandmother, I fear it’s grasp!”

“Heh…you are dead enough now, living as you are, “she replied, her voice harsh and rasping. “Go from me, now, and do not return until you have something worth saying and something worth hearing.”

I departed from the Old Hag then, forlorn. What is this she asked of me? To die, and THEN tell a story? One cannot do such a thing; it is impossible! Foolish old woman, I thought. Better to never go back…she spins old wives’ tales from the cobwebs of her senile mind!

I went to sleep then, and dreamt of great suffering, and of the Grandmother gnashing her teeth and swallowing me whole. “No, Grandmother!” I screamed. “Do you not recognize me? Do your eyes not know me?”

“I do not know you, ” she said, her eyes dark and glistening, her teeth yellow and tearing at me. “I do not know you because you do not know yourself.”

I leapt awake then, sweating and gasping for breath. Just a dream, I told myself. The old Hag has me scared out of my wits, with all her talk of death and dying! Let me throw her off now, out of my mind. And with that, I rested my head once more, and fell back into dreaming.

Once again, the Grandmother appeared in my dreams, with her fearsome grin and watery eyes. “Grandmother, ” I screamed, “why do you do this to me!”

“I do not do this to you, ” she smirked, “for you do it to yourself.”

Once again, I leapt awake, trembling and fearful. Were these just dreams? I shall face the Hag, once and for all, I thought. And a third time I slept, and a third time she appeared, more terrible and ferocious than before, making wrathful sounds and threatening to tear me apart.

“Grandmother, ” I said, my voice small from fear. “Three times you have appeared to me, and three times you have come to me with death. I am afraid, but I am here to face you now.”

“Then face me you will, ” she said, and swallowed me up. Down into the darkness of her belly I fell, but it instead of pain, I felt only warmth. How strange, I thought. The softness cradled me, and down I went, until a light could be seen. The light terrified me, but on and on I went, until I was enveloped no longer in darkness, but in light, and I felt arms around me, cradling me. “There, there, my sweet daughter, my beautiful one, ” a voice whispered, and when I opened my eyes I saw not the Hag beast, but a beautiful woman, and I knew this to be Mother.

“Mother, where has the old Hag gone?” I asked.

“She is here, too, ” the Mother said. And with that, I awoke, no longer afraid.

I rose and sought out the old Crone. “Well, ” she croaked. “What have we here! You are not the same sniveling girl that was here yesterday. Sit, and tell me what has changed. Tell me your story.”

I told her of my dreams, and as I told her my story, her eyes softened. “I have learned not to fear endings, Grandmother, for with all endings come beginnings.”

The Crone nodded, and her bones creaked as she roused herself. “That is a good story, child, ” she said. “Now, as promised, I shall tell you one myself.”

She looked at me then, and the darkness of her eyes drew me in until I once again could see nothing but black. In the darkness I saw swirls of light, small suns and stars. I saw these lights split and come back together, until they took the shapes of animals, great and small, all coming from the same light, and all returning to the same light. I saw men singing their songs, and women weaving their tapestries, until sound and material became one, intertwining all life together.

“You see, child, ” she whispered. “All comes from One, and all is connected. You are I, and I am you.”

Categories: Daily Posts | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com. The Adventure Journal Theme.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 2,336 other followers