When the warrior finally reaches the green pastures and sunny meadow,
when the warrior puts her weapons down,
she feels the heat rise from the ground beneath her and lies down to rest
under the high grass,
smell of lyrical flowers.
Further no purpose, no quarry in sight, she dreams of battles
and then when she rises, all comforts greet her body
and she sighs, and she sleeps again.
When the warrior has found her way out of the darkness
into the light of her own heart
there is no longer need to strive
for arrival is come
and the land is still.
There is nothing left to seek,
yet the song still awaits,
and she waits for the song.
Soothe the jagged remembrances of evil.
Remember the misplaced soothing of jagged affairs.
Awake she is, like never before and
like never before, she draws from her sleep,
her being whole now,
glistening and listening to the holy voice within.
I asked, “Once the debris has been cleared, the demons faced and transformed, what is left in the sacred vessel, in the shadow within us?”
and I heard the reply,
“That which one is connected to
but has no words for.
That which gestates and must not be disturbed,
lest it be damaged in the process.
The Great Mother, who holds us, who nourishes and weeps and cheers for us.
This is also the realm of the White Raven, she who has been burnt through and still lives. She who is Grace with a thin cloak of iron unseen and unshakeable. She who is container, soft as feather, hidden power capable of those very things she yearned to do when in pain but put down as soon as she was able. She is Death, she has seen and understood every aspect of Death and yet she has no need to bring on Death. She holds forgiveness, her compassion gently touches us with the naked light of presence aware.”
Once the stagnation is broken in the sacred vessel of shadow,
once the river is flowing freely,
dreams of the Gods quickly,
our journeys clear in the slipstream of their inspiration.
Then when we tell, we tell from a place of the Gods.
This is all I know and I pray for.