A Priestess Speaks

We went to a day with Michael Meade last week.  Michael is someone who never fails to inspire me.  I guess that's no surprise, given that he's a mythologer, storyteller and mystic.  The day was all about genius, which Michael describes as the soul's calling.  A topic I dwell on a lot.  I truly believe that we are all born with a unique set of gifts and talents that need to be given to the world; what Angeles Arrien calls our "original medicine."  Hanging out with Hecate as I have been doing, I am in a period where the call isn't as clear as I wish it would be.  It's okay.  I know I'm in a liminal stage, and the new phase of life will open up as it needs to.  But I have felt it strongly at other times and know how satisfying it is to be inspired and to be moving that inspiration into manifestation.

What I do know is that I need to keep writing every day, and I need to meditate more regularly.  I may have to take up William Stafford's plan of writing a poem every day.  The thing about blogging is that these things may come out here unpolished and unrevised.  Oh, well.  So be it.

This is what came this morning:

It is my calling

to be hollow and empty

as a bamboo reed.

The wind may blow through,

or a song,

or the breath and spirit

of one who dwells

on the other side

of the veil.

I could be a messenger

or a vehicle for love’s rapture.

I could be a voice in the wilderness

or a hawker in the city.

I could be a puppet

or a whirling dervish.

I could be a clown

or a mourner.

My crown opens.

My feet are planted.

My arms rise up.

I must take my desires and my preferences

and stash them away.

Empty.

Hollow.

Come, goddess, come.

The Maze: Reflecting on a SoulCollage® Card

The maze goes on, green and deep.

I am weary of walking its winding way,

Of chasing an elusive blue butterfly.

This body cannot conjure the joy of the journey now.

It is not that I am lost;

I have merely lost sight.

So, I sit, slump, close my eyes, rest.

And the Water Bearer comes.

She comes!

Her benediction rains down on me,

Her raised hand a sign of acceptance.

She does not tell me what or why;

She simply blesses.

I will resume my search.

I may never find the center

And what may or may not reside there.

Like Rilke, I circle

And still have no idea of what I am.

The endeavor is all.