Grandmother pulls her shroud
and the rains, the warm rains,
it rains inside this endless cup of grey.
Grandfather blows his crisp leaves
and the smell, the earthly smell,
the smell brings me to myself.
Tis the blessed season of endless twilight,
of richly dressed sunrises,
of memories fine, memories drawn,
memories, ancient borne,
come from the crack of the horizon.
As I gaze through branches brown,
sienna tangled in my hair
I know my home, my home,
my earthly, earth home.
She waits for me in the shape of a rook,
on the other side,
in a cave,
in the dank
And I savor the moment, her beckoning,
for she is no longer my huntress, my dread.
She is my mistress, my mother, my crone.
For I have been through canyons dark, seen mirrors sharp.
I have walked the valley of the dead,
been tangled on the rocks with no matter,
I have been, again and again.
Under the wraiths’ long cry,
the songs I could not hear
the banshee did not lie,
and then I found my footing.
She has shown me the way, through myself and back again.
And this time.. I relish the time, the time.
I have listened to the cackling of crows.
I have risen from the cauldron with the white raven,
and now, I am told, it is time to be these things I so love,
to spread grace.
I have returned from the cauldron.
I have been dreaming, transcribing, laughing over the memories,
crying with frustration, reveling in the discoveries and
being prompted by my editor,
again and again, to go further and further.
It is the best of me. It is better than me, for it has a soul.
And from the bottom of my heart,
I wrote it for you.
This book has no recipes for ceremony. Instead, it takes you on a journey through each stage of creating ceremony, so you can deeply understand the energetics of what makes a ritual powerful and never need a recipe again.
Step into the mysteries of the ancient ways as you travel on an allegorical journey to explore the many dynamic aspects of what makes a ceremony transformative for yourself, your family and your community.
Weddings, rites of passage, baby blessings, funerals, yes, and also life changes that are not typically honored: loss of relationship, divorce, new home, new job, eldership and retirement.
For many of us, the formats provided by higher authorities are not enough, and imitating traditions of other cultures is controversial. We need to return to the bare bones of ceremony and create transformative events that are personalized to our own lives and the culture we live in. This is where our power lies.
With Tasara Stone’s careful guidance, you will learn to:
- Identify your heart’s yearning and turn its message into a pure, ceremonial intention
- Create beautiful metaphors and symbolic language to express your heart’s need
- Invoke and maintain sacred space
- Perform ceremony with effective, safe practices
For public ceremony you will learn to:
- Identify community needs and desires
- Empower others to participate in the ceremony-creation process
- Manage large groups of people when the energy is unpredictable
- Hold ethical and safe space for others
Tasara Stone’s lyrical writing, which includes prayers, blessings, and paeans of gratitude, transports us to a sacred landscape where our heart’s needs are treated with utmost care. We tune into the light that glows at our core, connecting us to all of life. We spend time with Mother Earth and her elemental spirits, who teach us to walk the sacred spiral path. We learn about the importance of aligning ourselves with the cycles of growing and dying, accepting and letting go. Only with this wisdom and love can we craft and experience ceremonies that are truly transformative.
Tasara Stone offers us not only a practical guide, she gives us a powerful and moving experience of the energies that will nourish our practice. Her words root us in the very soil out of which ceremony grows. Fully engaged, heart, mind, body and soul, we come to understand how the wisdom of ancient times can help us cultivate an authentic spiritual practice in the midst of modern life. This is another essential gift of The Ancient Bones. As we contemplate the lies and distortions that bombard us daily, we come to understand ceremony as a way of creating alternative stories for ourselves, ones that give our lives true meaning.
Access The Sweetness Within You.
Sing Your Song.
Shine Your Light.
Where To Find It
If this booksoul touches your heart, please give it a lift by leaving a review on the big bookseller sites.
ever fought for,
sought for, sacrificed for,
runs fresh in my veins,
It shifts my body before the notion to do so arises.
I am alive.
What I gained on the other side,
this glowing rock,
this molten lava,
this star bursting from my chest,
is not meant to be beared, but shared.
In stillness, I would cave and fester.
In movement, a booming echoes around me, from me somehow.
The magnet of my compass has grown so strong,
it is more trouble to ignore, now, than to follow.
What will I do?
What will I do?
I will discover in the doing.
[photo credit: https://downtheforestpath.com/2013/03/06/little-pagan-monastery/]
When the veil comes down, we are standing there like Innana, naked. Or maybe we are already turning on the spit.
What they don’t tell you about Innana is that by the time she gets to that point, she is so desperately relieved she could kiss the ground. She is sick of the long haul, the grasping for something, anything, the agony of loss – and she’s glad it’s finally all gone. Because now she can see that which could have never been taken. It is herself. And that undignified humiliation, that unbridled relentless unapologetic agony is what brings her to herself. She faces herself, and then she knows all that she has always known, this time without interference. And she thinks, “Holy crap. I am home”.
And all that has been stripped, she knows she’ll never want back. Her jewels, her crown, if necessary will only be a prop for the real show that needs no casing. It is the people who need it to be encased in order for it’s rawness to be bearable to them. She can give them that. Such is the power of a woman.
And the veil to the outer world is torn down too. The antics of humanity, the circus show that has always tantalized in some way has now become a low hum because she no longer wants. She does not hunt. Her power, her nourishment is found, and she has become like the rocks, like the waterfall, like the moon. She channels the archaic ages of time and sips her tea while she watches. And she waits. She may try to trip us up once in a while hoping we may find our way to her, to keep her company, but she knows that no one can do that finding but ourselves.
Yes, we. We are all forces of nature, some to glow, some to build, some to sing, some to purge and some to awaken. Like waves crashing upon each other we greet, we encounter and we retreat to await the next surge. What will it be like next time? Will it be different? But who will we be? There is no other.
The wise woman, she breathes on the sea bed. She has seen it all. She has lived every form from hay flower to flea, from bat to snail. She has growled and been prey. She has birthed and she has lay down to die. She has loved and she has burned. She has prayed and crawled. She understands the value in things and the waste in trying.
The old woman, she is endlessly awake, her awareness our daylight, her dream-time our moon. And with her gaze she holds us all. She holds us with a love yet unfathomable.
I see Death in the darkness.
It sidles up to me and says, “You are depressed.”
It says, “Here, I have sickness.” It says, “Look at your rage.”
And I say, “Yes I see it. There is a seat at my table for you. Please. Sit.”
I call in the Healing Darkness, this darkness velvety deep
and in course I feel an embrace that slips into my secrets,
those spaces where my despair is known by no one but me.
The healing Love says,
“I am with you.
You are known.
I am holding you.”
Tears soft slide, quench soul-thirst, release.
There are glowing beings around me,
they are moving,
glowing as no other could but in a place such as this.
I say, “Sit. Eat with me, Death. There is much to talk about.”
and we gleam, looking far into each other.
A feast awaits us in the deep winter.
The orchid will bloom in her own time.
The dirt will lie, perfect patient receiver of the rotting life. It will change slowly as pungent passes and chaos reorganizes into readiness.
Then she will lie down too and listen as everything passes by her. She will dream her dreams and sort through all the possibilities of what to be. She will listen and listen until she remembers and then she will yearn with all of her might, her yearning the only power within her purview. Her yearning can only be truly answered by that which makes orchids, so any wrong turn, any receiving of haphazard medicine will shape her asunder.
So, patience, patience.
She yearns, her little mind filled with orchid visions and of the sun kissing her buds.
One day, in delight, she realizes that her yearning has burst her shell and she has become a seedling, thrumming with tender excitement. She dawns in her stretching and she ever reaches. Her intoxicated wonder bursts forth with her bloom and then dances a wild interplay with her new world, filled in the diversity of the cosmos. She receives and receives, sure of her vision under the nurturing great forces of moon, sun, water and wind.
Be an orchid my friends, bide time. We cannot stay forever in the cauldron, but we cannot leave until the Goddess opens the way, lest we run our dreams back into darkness. As decomposition turns to fertility, as the path is etched in dreamtime, each step is a long passage, each a juicy time of medicine to be schooled by and digested.
Our yearning is synchronistic faith and singular force of creation together. The nature of yearning is to birth, to co-create with the Gods. Hold this, my ones. Nothing is more important than the clear, unprecedented arrival of your bloom.
When the hag invites you to tea, beware, because she is going to eat you for dinner. You will go down to her cave beneath the oldest oak tree and hang your hat on her door. It will start off nice, but everything you thought you wanted or needed will be stripped away with her look from across the table. Her gaze will stop time, it will, as the blood rushes from your veins.
She will say without saying it, “I have seen you and I see you, bones.”
and if you quake she will not care.
“Truth is truth”, she says. “It is what is.”
You will not be able to charm her. You will not be foolish enough to lie to her. As she mixes the tea, her frozen look will whisper to you without speaking,
“I have been hurt more than I could ever be. I have lost it all to the very last, my children, my pride, my plans and my hide. I am alone and no one can touch me now, because I want nothing. In wanting nothing, there are no ears for illusion’s siren songs. And having lost all of this, I have lost my own fear.
You will look back at her, and drown in your foibles. And she will watch you in your drowning.
If you survive yourself over tea, then she will dance for you, her wretched dance of pain and broken clattering. Will you withstand, as her body shakes in terrible jerks, a show, a vessel of power for a raging volcano? Her eyes host lightening bolts and her frame surges. With every gesture, she has become matter of fact, and in that rawness, her sex will have awakened without her knowing it – because it has become something else. Something not found in moving pictures and magazines. It has become something normal and personal. In her rawness, her scorched throat will have been quenched, and the air will feel authentic.
And after she has cooled, if you can sit with the rock in her heart and look back her gaze with love of your own, then you will be laughing at the night and she will laugh with you as the moon blisters bright and the owl howls at the river.
When Spring comes, the hag will go outside and fall into the earth as the Sun begins to warm her. She will lie there, rotting, waiting to die, wishing to die. She will even leave her body a ways but then she will be driven home, because in her belly will be new life and she will be drawn to it’s light. She will rock and hold herself. She will hide her baby as long as she can. But the Winter will be over and she’ll be drawn to rise, uncontrollably, to surrender herself once more to the labor of love, a love everlasting and relentless.