01.02.17

Winter Solstice 2016 (Yep, It's Dark.)

Winter Solstice Chant - Poem of the Day: By Annie Finch

Shit.

My Muses! Oh, how I miss you!

Moma Fauna and a Muse.

Shit.

Some days the wait seems insufferable. 

Poetry for the Esbat: Bliss Moon, 2016

Lunar Devotional.
A Resh K'eljesh member.
Masterfully captured by my friend/charge/muse Z.

Moon!

Lady, slow down!

It is January... so many plans, so much to do on my Huge-Ass-List.
But it is a sprawling splatter of creativity & that pleases me. 
It is the Bliss of the Create-Thing. 
It is a Winter Thing.

If it is possible to suffer from excessive inspiration, this may be my affliction.


As I return to my journal Word-Place here in the ether, I see that I have missed many messages from my people. For this I am very sorry. I seem not to have received any notifications. Can we just blame it on Mercury Retrograde? 


In this current create-phase, I find myself a little without words. So maybe just pictures this time:

Luna, my ever-muse.

Sophia, #89. A recent muse.

Charging a project.

A finished project. Sort of.

Project detail.

An old friend who assists with many projects.

Creatrix.
Curiously marked by the Moon.

Project in progress. Many layers, years to come.

Create-space.

Learning, feeding, growing from tenuous dynamics.

Project in progress.

Needful things for tricky business.

Project-vision born from necessity.

And of course, the POETRY.

This Esbat, I take a piece published in Poetry Magazine in December, 1992. Written by poet May Sarton, I think it says it all: 

"Bliss" by May Sarton as published in the
December 1992 edition of Poetry Magazine.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

cRaZy Fool. cRaZy Alive.

Consider the last event which called to your attention the basic reality of being ALIVE.

Moma Fauna, on Ice.

Was it an extreme sensory experience? One of great trauma or pleasure? What is it that brings us pause, muzzles the monkey-mind & reminds to treasure this basic gift?

Consider the most spectacular Sunrise on the Turnagain Arm, a sliver of Alaska's larger Cook Inlet. The temperature is 6º F/-14ºC, but the winds along the steep slopes & water-turned-ice make for a more chilling sense of cold. I am standing on the beautiful & very frozen ocean below the very bluffs from which we had such hopes of seeing the Northern Lights. I am here to take a photograph of myself with a book -- a book written by a woman I admire enough to perpetrate this act of sheer madness. 

I am wearing a crocheted dance halter, complete with beads, fringe & a full makeup & jewelry compliment. I am also wearing tall, baby-blue Sorrels, knit fingerless gloves & stocking hat complete with ear flaps.

It is nothing but cRaZy. 

If you think about it, it is the precise costume of The Fool -- dressed for adventure, yet painfully ill prepared. I am stepping off the bluff into the abyss...

This entire production lasted perhaps 30 minutes from beginning to end, my time of extreme exposure even less. But it was enough time for my large ring made from a bent silver spoon to freeze to my finger. It was enough time for me to have to ask my partner to press my phone screen for the last few shots because the phone no longer registered my touch as among the living.

No longer registering as among the living. How quickly, how easily this can happen.

Yet there was no terror about this -- it was in fact, exhilarating. Framed by the sweeping, impersonal majesty of this Landscape, bitten by the cruel, unyielding climate, I felt more alive than I usually do when I resister as living.

The Fool tells us to take the plunge, experience the consequences & ride the Arc of Zero anew, back around, full circle. Do it again. Again.

When did we fall off the Circle onto the straight line?

Cultivating Tradition: Mother Hulda's Night

Welcoming Mother Hulda's Ascendancy, 2014.

tradition |trəˈdiSHən|noun1 the transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the fact of being passed on in this way -- Apple Dictionary

To cultivate tradition is to work with repetition & consistency. Not really my forte if the truth be told, yet here we are, three years in the making of a new tradition: Mother Hulda's Night. 

What is this about, really? What began as an act of intuition shows layers of meaning, symbolism & import. There is a strengthening of familial bonds, a sense of shared ceremony -- one which includes the children in essential roles, a recognition of changing seasons & the passage of time, a recurrent reinforcement of values through the wisdom of fables -- the lesson books of the Ancestors.

I believe this one works in part because of its simplicity & clarity. It must be available to happen when Hulda makes her move, there is no room for elaborate elements or preparations. We must be ready when she is.

Two more years of memories, each a reflection of the other, yet always the differences brought about by the passage of time.

***

In 2013, Mother Hulda's enduring, fat flakes arrived on November 10th. The Changeling had the honor of being "officiant." Hulda's welcoming ceremony didn't change much from the inaugural event in 2012...

First, pyjamas. Next, the same filigree, wheel-trimmed bowl with candle nestled in freshly fallen snow,

The Changeling with Welcome Light for Mother Hulda, 2013.

Followed by a short procession to the windowsill (a new one for us in 2013) to place the votary as a sign of heartfelt Welcome,

 

Then to bed for the reading of Grimm's "Mother Hulda," illustrated by Arthur Rackham.

Illustration from "Mother Hulda" by Arthur Rackham.*

And when we are finished, we talk about the new snow, Winter & the story -- what it means to be helpful, conscientious & thoughtful of others. We all lay back to imagine Mother Hulda shaking her fluffy white bedcovers & thusly, we go to sleep.

***

In 2014, Mother Hulda's enduring, fat flakes arrived on November 29th, but because we were not at home that night, we celebrated her arrival on the evening of the 30th. This year the Little Lad (who isn't so little anymore) did the honors...

Little Lad with Welcome Light for Mother Hulda, 2014.

And because this is tradition, you know what came next...


*To read the story (in a variety of languages), visit "Mother Hulda" at the Grimm's Fairy Tales website.

Good Morning Moon.

Just another morning with the Moon. November 2014.

Steeped in Darkness we are.

"Good morning, Moon!" This may be among the few blessings of this time of year in the far North.

We wake in complete Darkness, save for human luminaries, of course.

We deliver the children to school in Darkness, save for human luminaries, of course.

And we pass the sliver of daylight hoping the Sun might make headway through the clouds, if even for a brief moment. Then we relish it. 

Or at least I do.

Making Time with the Winter Sun. Moma Fauna.

The merciful Whomevers have thrown us a bone & it has been unseasonably warm. And despite the ominous undertones of that climate indicator, I am thankful for the respite from sub-zero temperatures because I just wasn't made for this.

I am a desert critter, but I am here for Love.

And with that thought, I will whisper to the Moon secrets & stories of Love because She is Here is Her Fullest presence at this time, all day, most every day.

And it is most appropriate that I return to writing with Her at the forefront because She was & is the impetus for this whole Thing, whatever it is or will become. 

And I would offer some POETRY this day, but it seems I just uninstalled my Poetry Foundation App in a fit of spaztic finger flailing & since I seem to have merged like the Borg with my little know-it-all phone, I am now at a loss for (other people's poetic) words.

Maybe then, just one. 

Love.


Blessings & Love to you this Esbat, my friends.

Poetry for the Esbat: She Is (Cultivating) Moon

"Die Sentimentale" ca. 1846-47, by Johann Peter Hasenclever.
Image courtesy WikiCommons.

Was there poetry this Esbat? Yes. Yes there was. Was it Windy? Why, yes. Yes, it was uncharacteristically windy here... But you see, I have been struggling -- so much so that I have made a slightly desperate & very conscious shift towards cultivation. Hence, this Moon's moniker.

cultivate |ˈkəltəˌvāt|verb [ trans. ]1 prepare and use (land) for crops or gardening.• break up (soil) in preparation for sowing or planting.• raise or grow (plants), esp. on a large scale for commercial purposes.• Biology grow or maintain (living cells or tissue) in culture.2 try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill) : he cultivated an air of indifference.• try to win the friendship or favor of (someone) : it helps if you go out of your way tocultivate the local people.• [usu. as adj. ] ( cultivated) apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners) : he was a remarkably cultivated and educated man.ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from medieval Latin cultivat- ‘prepared for crops,’ from the verb cultivare, from cultiva (terra) ‘arable (land),’ from colere ‘cultivate, inhabit.’ -- Apple Dictionary
There are layers upon layers to which this applies. Bioregionally speaking (since I do so love to "think locally" about the Moons), it has been the waxing Moon window for planting in the house for transfer to the greenhouse -- a task I have dutifully accomplished, much to the neglect of other things, like writing. Seeds are now in soil, crowded on a tabletop in the living room, while a temperature data logger keeps watch for signs of Spring in the greenhouse. Let it be soon, please.This cultivation of flora segues seamlessly into another bioregional theme: SADD. It's a bioregional plague. I am officially SADD incarnate. Some of my friends are too; they say things like, "It took everything I had to get out of bed today..." This climate is not for the faint of heart. On Earth Day, the Changeling & I were planting in the sunny greenhouse which reached a sweaty 80° F by late afternoon. The following day it snowed, so I cried. The next day, staring balefully at another rainy, cold day, I cried. About two or three weeks ago my body declared it was done with Alaska & informed me that the neurotransmitters were spent. Those of us who have a hereditary predisposition for the drying up of dopamine & sequestration of serotonin develop a knack for catching the cues quickly. So, with all this waxing, I went to work on cultivating mental health, planting precursors (which, strangely enough, relates to dreamwork & more specifically, lucid dreaming, but maybe more on that later).I have also been cultivating something much less determinable. There is no explaining this, you will either understand, or you won't. It's like a mystery prize in a cereal box (do they still have them?) -- it is a given that it will be something special & completely worth the effort, but you have to dig deep & you still cannot know exactly what it will be until you get to the bottom...And that segues seamlessly into the poetry for this Esbat. Yes, just like there was the Moon, there was poetry. Yet another priceless piece by a brilliant alumna of my alma mater.* Oh, to cultivate talent, skill & purpose like this: "Fluent in several languages and dialects—including Tibetan, Hindi, and Nepali—Dhompa writes in English. Through innovative structures and schemas, her poetry articulates the nostalgia of displaced Tibetans, recording the memories of elders in Tibetan communities." (Read more of her work at the Poetry Foundation.)  

She Is

BY TSERING WANGMO DHOMPA

Her voice is a roundness. On full moon days, she talks about
renouncing meat but the butcher has his routine. And blood.

M’s wisdom. Still reliable.

There are sounds we cannot hear but understand in motion.
Slicing of air with hips. Crushing grass, saying these are my feet.
I want my feet in my shadow. Suffice to meet desires halfway.

Quiet. We say her chakras are in place.

When the thermos shatters, she knows the direction of its spill.
She knows how to lead and follow. Know her from this.

Sounds we cannot hear. The wind blows and we say it is cool.

Night slips under the door. We are tucked into bed and kissed
a fleeting one. Through the curtains, her voice loosens like thread
from an old blanket, row upon row. We watch her teeth in the
dark and read her words. She speaks in perfect order, facing where
the breeze can tug it towards canals stretching for sound.

Her faith abides by the cycle of the moon. See how perfect she is.



Belated blessings to this Esbat, my friends.

*(Wow, how weird -- I just now realize in creating links that I used the Cabrera (also a UMass alumni) poem this very same Moon last year.)

Wandering: The Sudden Return of the Sun (A Very Strange Light)

Someone's Late Winter Wand.
Oh, how this strange light & snow draw the eye to places unnoticed. 

10:45 pm, April 18. I am sorting images in bed. I find myself astonished at how light it is outside. When did this Sun-thing happen? The all-knowing, data-oozing, cyborg-phone tells me that the sunset was at 9:30, but had I been insane enough to sit in the cold, I could have easily read a book out of doors for an hour beyond that time. 

Assorted cues are telling me that Spring may actually be in the process of springing, although here I think it snaps. I don't know this Place in this season, so I cannot be certain. Abdicating my snowbird status & enduring this Winter from its early beginning to its painfully late end, I believe I am allowed to exchange my "Cheechako" badge for some kind of "Sourdough" status. As I do not care much for labels, I will be satisfied with direct Sunlight on my face every day & retiring my pillbox hat, thank you. 

So here is this Sun, returning with a vengeance. Rising before 6:30 am, it will set fifteen hours later. Already. But the snow persists, enough so that when I make the (admittedly repeated) mistake of straying from the security of the groomed trail surface I will sink to to above my knees, often to my crotch. It is moments like these, clumsily flopping & wading about, hoisting myself back upon the the trail, when I am reminded why the Moose have such long legs. If I had their legs, I would have some amazing photographs. But, I digress. The Sun, combined with the lingering snow creates this weird light & hypnotic shadows. Try as I might, I cannot effectively capture the atmosphere with the camera.

Strange light, strange lines I cannot capture.

This strange dance of light & shadow is particularly mesmerizing in the Ice. I am certain, were I to remain for more than a long moment, that these places would share visions -- spontaneous scrying surfaces of Place.

Late Winter lines & shadows, trees & Ice.

Late Winter scrying surfaces: what do the shadows reveal?

And although in my tending to small persons, I neglect the opportunity to stop for visions in this world of light & shadow, I do find that so many things gone unnoticed are suddenly revealed. The strange contrasts bring them to the forefront.

Frosty meanderings of critters rarely seen in the green months:

Small mammal tracks.
Did they make them in the Moonlight?

The steadfast snow-resistance of certain plants -- usually obscured in the dense summer foliage -- offers them a showcase:

Light & Shadow draw the eye...

"Weedy" charms of the undergrowth rise to prominence.

It all makes me regret not purchasing that book about Winter grass & weedy plant identification...

Cast it away, regret is a wasteful emotion. Besides, I have survived... & none too soon. In these last few weeks I have felt the Dogs of Depression nipping at my heels, raising both my bitch-factor & my aptitude for snark by several degrees. It is with hope & gratitude that I welcome back this strange & increasingly persistent Light. Seek, hunt, soar in pure freedom, in the warmth of this great Light -- that was the reminder offered by a bald eagle circling the house yesterday. "Turn your face to the Sun & the Shadows fall behind you." I have always loved that saying, despite its obfuscated origins (is it Maori, Chinese, Whitman, Whitton, or otherwise?), so this is what I shall do. Turn my face to this strange & emergent Light. I have nothing against the shadows, but enough is indisputably enough, thank you. 

Winter Wanes: Turning my face to a strange Light.
(Rose coloured glasses help too.) 

Time to make updates to the (Alaskan) Wheel of the Year.

Poetry for the Esbat: Hyperborean Moon (The Worms are Still Sleeping Beneath the Verglas)

Mandala of Place: I am here. Generally speaking.
Mercator: Septentrionalium Terrarum descriptio. A map of the North Pole.
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

Greetings from Hyperborea, where it has now been snowing steadily for 24 hours! Our worms are still sleeping soundly under a thick, snow topped crust of verglas. No Spring has sprung for us. The consolation? We get extended navel-gazing time & (hopefully) some bonus inspiration:

"Never the Muse is absent
from their ways: lyres clash and flutes cry
and everywhere maiden choruses whirling.
Neither disease nor bitter old age is mixed
in their sacred blood; far from labor and battle they live."
-- Pindar, Tenth Pythian Ode; translated by Richmond Lattimore. (source: Wikipedia)

The Greeks almost had it right. Yes, this is indeed a land of inspiration. It is also a land where the Sun shines nearly 24 hours a day, but only part of the time. The other part, well...

Light & Dark, Light & Dark. It's a balance. It is also what you make of it.

Last year, in Utah, March bioregional Full Moon naming was a breeze -- those worms, they did all the work. This year, these Alaskan worms, oh! They are allowed liberal use of the snooze button. So, I spent some time culling the Lunar names across the ether. Nothing worked particularly well. Even the more local Haida name for the March Moon, "Noisy Goose Moon" doesn't seem to fit the bill. Those geese, they are clever. They are not venturing this way yet. 

So, here we are again. Making up names. I considered several climate-related, snow, ice, sleet, frost, cold type names, but they lack optimism. They also lack panache. I felt that associating ourselves with a place of creativity & inspiration, governed (under a theocratic monarchy) by the offspring of a snow-nymph & the North Wind seemed like a reasonable compromise to this freezing up of moniker-making. Besides, it fits. This is the North & there is still much navel-gazing & inside-ness to be had. Let us make the most of it. 

A brief digression: For some reason, I have had my mind returning to Thoth/Tahuti/Djhuti lately. In retrospect, I find it peculiar (or not really, because I was once one of those ambitious, monkey-brained, neo-pagan neophytes who only did cursory research) that I never realized that Thoth was associated with the Moon when I was keeping His shrine in the forest. 

Forest Shrine to Thoth, early 1990's.

"Thoth was still the ever-mysterious radiance of intuition, lit silver by the Moon. While Thoth is best known to Egypt and to history and present consciousness as a god of intellectual arts, his identification with the Moon continues, as though to suggest that the highest wisdom combines the clarity and penetration of intellect balanced by the insight and compassion of intuition." -- Thoth, Neter of the Moon, Comforter of Souls

Knowing this now makes an incredible amount of sense, as though a whole curve of dots in my cosmological dot-to-dot are firmly & finally connected. This mention of Thoth has little to do with this month's poetry for the Esbat (or does it?). I simply had a compulsion to transfer the thoughts into written form, here as I ruminate on all things Moon-ly. 

I am finding that the dots are connecting all over the place. Dots here, dots there. What a whole lot of dots there are, what a whole lot of entanglement we have! In last month's Poetry for the Esbat, I shared an image of the Tarot High Priestess by artist Jane Adams. I have been finding Ms. Adams's writing & imagery so incredibly illuminating, influential & challenging that I am revisiting her work again & again... & again this Esbat. 

The source post for this poetry wraps up a slew of dots, all into this lovely little package of connections. It transmutes the bits of this & that into gem pouch of personal meaning. It could mean nothing to any & every other human creature on this planet, but goodness(!), it fits together so neatly for me. The poem has been taken from her piece, "Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18" where I found not only the Moon & Tarot, but also, embodiment, Darkness & Light, dreaming, evolution, guides, change... as if my thoughts, my spiritual foci, my efforts (& post labels) were snatched up & synthesized into this synopsis of the Moon card. 

"In the western Tarot, the Moon card rules embodiment, cycles of cell renewal and repair through sleep;  and cycles also of our past lives.  It has a wave pattern, because the path of evolution proceeds in waves.   But the Moon is also associated to the personal ego.   Archangel Michael guards this domain and “the path of honesty” to the transpersonal Self." -- Jane Adams, Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18

"Arcanum Eighteen – an early interior journey looking up the Sefiroth of the Tree of Life. In the Moon’s crescent are the enigmatic faces of our guides.  The path takes us through the gate of the body (two towers, the ends of a fence) into the landscape of our dreams at night.  Beyond yet from within it, rises the sun, our Self. The pool here, is as the same as the one which the woman in the Star, card 17, gazes into.  We see with her the evolution of Life in all its forms." Image & text by Jane Adams

I am not going to attempt to summarize what I do not even fully understand. So, I suggest that you read the post for yourself. For me, it simply encapsulates this place I linger, this Hyperborean place of internal exploration, the effort of embodiment, the quest for knowledge & more importantly, understanding. Today I will dance. Tomorrow I will sing. There will be prose & poetry & relationship in between. Oh, yes... & baking.

The Moon: Embodiment
From Jane Adams, Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18

Light & Dark, Light & Dark. It's a balance. It is also what you make of it.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Spring: Not.

"Spawn 'til you die." Classic Alaskana.

Moma began this sacred & pivotal day at Sunrise with high hopes; intent on mindfulness & focused on gratitude.

Moma ended this day wanting to warn the world of the hazards of Springlike behaviour & successful spawning.

Spring it is not. (In Alaska.)

Spawning? Reconsider.

Poetry for the Esbat: Unfolding Moon, 2013

Esbats. 
'Round & round we go... Through the Darkness & into the Light... 'Round & 'round.

A Moon Priestess: "Unknown Woman" by Julia Margaret Cameron.
Image from the Victoria & Albert Museum collections.

Last year, I used the "Wolf Moon" moniker to designate this Full Moon which arrives in January. At the time, I was not thinking about bioregional naming, or I would have tossed the Wolf for Coyote. I was in Utah, after all. Cold Moon, Storm Moon, Snow Moon, Wolf Moon... they all have meaning to the human experience during these Winter nights.

As I have mentioned many times before, there are many Full Moon names to be found at the following sites: Farmers' Almanac, WWUP, NASA, FAandPP & SPACE. All these names tell human stories of culture & place. Personally, I am drawn to the Kalapuya name "Stay Inside Moon," mostly because that is what I would do if I didn't know that I must go outside, no matter what. However, this Moon-naming exercise is about being personal & relevant, so co-opting the Kalapuya name misses the mark. 

An early afternoon Winterscape with Ice.

In his Times article, "The Longest Nights," author Timothy Eagan asserts that "creativity needs a season of despair." I also believe that there are introspective & creative benefits to the Winter's Darkness. At this time, many of us find ourselves reentering musty, dark cellars brimming with long forgotten ideas. We reach deep inside our bowels to examine those feelings we so carefully wrapped & tucked away beneath layers of social convention. Somehow, some of us are even fortunate enough to reclaim time. Our beloved Sun drives us like bees. When His pressing rays no longer leave us feverish, there seems to be less demanding & more pausing... We take all the visions & feelings & time & we change, shape, transform, create.

What do I call this? Introspection Moon? Gestation Moon? Creative Moon? Not this time. This year I shall call Her "Unfolding Moon," which suggests a creative bloom & also hints at the subtle stepping towards spring. More than this, "Unfolding Moon" speaks of transformation & development which is where I find myself this season... & a bit to my surprise, already well underway. 

I find I am focusing more intently on developing tradition. Meaningful rhythm, symbolism & action are slowly rising to the surface of my consciousness. From these pieces, I strive to create an ensemble. Our small symbolic & ceremonial pieces are reflections which parallel units of the universal Whole. Bit by bit, the fabric reveals a pattern -- a pattern that makes perfect sense.

Recently, the central element of this process has been a conscious movement away from silent, internal spiritual discourse, to external expression through voice & movement. I need my body to begin manifesting what I feel. My mind is no longer satisfactory as the sole instrument through which I demonstrate my admiration, praise & thanks. 

"So Doll and the cow danced the 'Cheshire round,
Til the pail was broke and the milk ran on the ground."
(Not unlike myself at dance.)
Image from Project Gutenberg: The Nursery Rhyme Book

Form. Off I trot to dance lessons. Like an ox in a coin belt, I shall conjure unseen muscles: some long forgotten, others never before encountered. It is the humbling process of unfoldment. A slow-cooker torrefaction by inner Fire. 

Voice. Mental-thought-speak & stifled utterances fail me when I am moved by Joy, Beauty, Love... the internal monologue does not properly convey my ardor, or bliss. Harnessing voice is part of entering upon a whole-body-awakening. This is a dual duel with both bashfulness & biology.

A condition of the vocal chords limits my singing voice. Reservedness silences it. Nonetheless, I intend to sing to this month's poetry to the Lady Moon. It is a plan I expect to carry out, into the future. With regularity. I was unwittingly gifted the perfect song for this new tradition, but it had to be unremembered so that I might rediscover it when I was ready to understand it... 

Ah! Winter! "...reentering musty, dark cellars brimming with long forgotten ideas..." Or poetry.

White Magic: Mira Billotte & Doug Shaw.
Image from White Magic's MySpace.

Over a year ago I wrote about my friend Sol who, being founder of a punk music label in New York, has many opportunities to experience all kinds of musical talent. He had attended a memorial service for a friend at which the talented Mira Billotte sang with her graceful, gutsy, haunting, "baroque yowl." He said it remembered me to him -- not her voice, I am sure -- but rather the moods & landscapes she creates with her music. Mira Billotte is singer, songwriter & pianist for the band White Magic which seeks to invoke other worlds & reach alternate realities through music. About her music Billotte says:

"These songs fit well in a natural setting, and that's what a lot of them are about—landscapes and natural scenes. When I'm writing or playing I fall into a different world, my own world. The trance aspect of the music helps me get into that environment and invoke this whole other world." -- "Major Arcana, Effing the Ineffable: White Magic Summon Worlds," The Stranger

White Magic tends to perform outside the box, creating "weird, piano-driven trance-folk displaced from time and locale," sometimes presented as "meditative ceremonies of song, and ritual... within an improvised temple." Seriously, how much Goodness can you fit into one place?*

But... what does Ms. Billotte have to say about voice?

"I feel like voice is the purest instrument—it's straight from your mouth, it's straight from your emotions, and in my music it's coming from my unconscious, my inner world. I don't know how to explain it, but I follow that and it takes me to these places."  -- "Major Arcana, Effing the Ineffable: White Magic Summon Worlds," The Stranger

Oh, yes. My thoughts & hopes exactly.


The poetry for this Esbat is part of Mira's invocation at the opening of her Spira Mirabilis Mundi installation at Secret Project Robot in Brooklyn, Feb 4 2011. This piece makes so much sense to me now, on so many levels, that I am not even going to attempt to explain. I have transcribed the words to the best of my ability. The live Punkcast recording is embedded beneath. 


Golden Light, an invocation by Mira Billotte

Golden light
silver at night,
out in the forest,
shining on your face.

Day seems like Night
with Moonlight on your face.

Angel of Light
fills me with sight,
out in the forest,
shining on your face.

Angel of Night
fills me with sight,
out in the forest,
shining on your face.

What lies beyond the Magic Gate?
No need to know, for this is where we dwell.

Night seems like Day
with Moonlight on your face.

Mira Billotte: Golden Light

(I suggest you turn down/off your bass to help filter out ambient music from the adjacent gig.)

Blessings to you this Esbat my friends... 
Will you sing with me?


*I could really go on & on, so to keep the introduction manageable, an endnote: May I suggest you check out the White Magic samples at the iTunes store? I particularly like "Sun Song" & "Sea Chanty," both found on the Dat Rosa Mel Apibus album. If you are curious about set & setting, THIS VIDEO found on their MySpace page includes shots of their altar, circle of candles & lunar background set. Mira also has recorded a lovely cover of Bob Dylan's "As I Went Out One Morning" which can be found HERE.