• WONDER

    That witchy sense of touch

    July 20, 2021 /

    We go into Nature and LOOK and are enchanted. Yet there’s another way to glean Wonder from landscapes, one that is uncommonly spoken of or practiced. And a little witchy. 

    The sense of touch.

    Let’s go for a walk, right now, in your imagination, to see how this works. (Wonder and walks naturally hold hands, as you know.) Off you go, out a hidden portal of your home. See the canopied path leading to a forest like any other.  

    Take off your shoes, for this is holy ground.

    Set bare feet on the grit of earth.

    As you go along, please know you may find yourself attempting to use descriptive words for what will come to pass. However, it’s most divine to Go Wordless. No vocabulary will be needed (on your part) for this imaginal experience. The point is to conjure sensations, not syllables.

    Dip your head as you slip out of bright sunshine into the realm of what is emerald and sage-deep. This is you, bowing to the forest.

    Pause. Feel the coolness on your skin. (Take your time with this.)

    Press your palm against the flaked crevices of tree bark. (This is just the beginning.)

    Graze the back of your hand along the velvet stockings of moss on exposed old-growth roots.

    Allow the raspy tickle of a caterpillar’s crawl on your arm. Rub a ridged leaf against your cheek, next press it to the space between your eyes. It may happen that you intuit the wonder of wood breaching earth to stand inside a sky, to grow star-shaped hands to fall upon your head, autumn upon autumn.

    Caress the perfect curvature of a river’s stone. Feel the sacred weight of it in your hand, how clean it is from rushing ice melts.

    Do you understand? With touch comes closeness—a felt intimacy with Mother Nature.

    Who notices when she’s being courted.

    A fallen twig from a pine takes care to bump and prick beneath your fingertip. This is the braille of dryads, and as you read by touch you discover what the tree knows by heart:

    Silence and birdsong and wind, the trifecta of primordial comfort.

    A storm arrives. Tilt back your head and drift your eyes closed. Float your arms. Catch puddles of cloud; accept the thrumming patter of cloud-drops in your cupped hands. Become a chalice-goddess in the rain.

    Push your toes into the mud.

    A plant of spindly stems scratches. Breathe deep and ‘see’ the stems undergo a metamorphosis into gray-green tendrils of hair belonging to some tiny, wild creature straddling this world and the realm of Fae.

    You may be surprised at this ability you have, at your age, to make-believe. Brace yourself. Images will flood your mind through the sense of touch, just as eagerly as through the sense of sight, if you come to the world as does a child.

    Playfully.

    Open, open, open. 

    Know this:

    Mother Nature wants to tell you stories any way she can, using every last one of your senses and all of the world. To this end she’ll cross any boundary because she knows no boundaries.

    Imagine if we all welcomed her outreach efforts. She might just extend her beauty and story so deep inside our psyches that we all move in a synchronized dance to tend our blue and green and creatured Home. And, one another. Earthy, natural miracles might happen.

    The other day in my back yard, of a sudden an unexpected and seemingly related-to-nothing image arrived inside my mind:

    War submarines beaching themselves like whales upon shores. Stiff uniforms popped out of metal-lidded spouts to spray onto a lapping beach and become people, relaxed and natural people, strolling on sands of all colors and origin stories.

    It remains mysterious to me how such images and meaning-making come out of nowhere, out of imagination, which is the sublime stuff of the heavens. Just remember the axiom goes like this:

    As above, so below.

    Tactile immersion in Mother Nature holds power to transport you into Wonder. Go on and try it. Make it a practice to be witchy in wild places by way of the wondrous, liminal threshold that is your skin.  

    Much good will come of it.

     

     

    “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”
    ~ Margaret Atwood

     

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    Pretty please leave a comment to share any thoughts you have on this piece 🙂

    featured image by Yvor Punchev

    image of forest by Lukasz Szmigiel

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  • CRONE TALES

    THE WILLOW TREE OVERTURE, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    September 23, 2020 /

    Lanterns light a path where the crone gathers what she needs to brew a tea that shimmers. Take three sips, recite a love poem, and offer the crone a kiss. Come, sit by the blazing fire. The crone is ready to tell the tale of long-lost bliss. Listen.

    It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.

     

     

    It came to pass one late summer’s day that a princess grew tired of being in a long, deep sleep and escaped a castle tower. 

    Taking an unknown road, she came upon a faraway forest village. She was exhausted from traveling and decided to stay for a while. This, despite the fact that the people who lived in this faraway forest village could only offer the princess a crude hut made of branch and not stone.

    Come morning of the autumn equinox, a crispy wind blew across the land to swirl and settle over a patch of nearby willow trees on a lake. The spirits of the women within the trees wakened. They stepped free of root and limb and leaf. The weight of flesh came upon them—mostly—and they walked, their nearly boneless arms blowing in the wind, up to the village to give their kissing blessings upon it.

    The princess was in a foul mood that fateful morning, for torrents of rain the day before had made a muddy mess of the village. She stood at a well drawing up a bucket of water when she caught sight of the willow women.

    Her eyes grew as big as those of any wolf. Quick as a hare she scampered to hide in her hut. Peeking through a crack in the half-rotted wood of the door, she shuddered at the impossible. For she had no idea such a thing could exist:

    Willowy women, with strange arched backs, whose supple arms billowed in the wind! 

    The princess drew back just as a willow woman’s kiss was set upon her hut’s door.

    For the rest of the day, the princess found herself in bliss. Every single thing she laid eyes upon was sheer beauty—be it the splash of chrysanthemum color, a spider’s knotted silk net, or mud upon her skirts. All of it seemed as impossible, as wondrous, as a tree woman with waterfall arms.

    Every breath the princess took was deep and fresh and new. Never had she felt so alive.

    Right then and there, the princess fell in love with being in bliss. And the mystery of the willow women who knew how to give a kiss.

    It so happened that the very next morning the bliss was gone and everything was ordinary again for the princess. Worse, she was found by a royal scout and whisked back to the castle. The king had died in her absence. She was crowned queen and now could not leave. She had responsibilities.

    As she performed tiresome duties of decreeing whatnot, all the queen could think of was her blissed-out day bestowed upon her by the mysterious willow women. Nothing at all about the castle or crown interested her in comparison.

    “If only I could shirk the burden of this crown and return to the willows,” she complained to the moon as it waxed and waned. She was so desperate over it all that one bitter winter’s night, the moon spoke back:

     

    Bliss

    must be courted, now, by you.   

    Her name is Mystery—

    and she must be wooed.

     

    “This is beyond me to do,” the queen said after thinking it over. She wasn’t one for romance. “Is there another way that’s tried and true?”

    But the moon in its glowing white wisdom refused to say another word.

    It wasn’t long until the queen developed quite the reputation. She sulked despite her bejeweled gowns and only ever wanted to talk about being kissed by willow trees. Time and again she sneaked out a castle window to run away to the faraway forest village and the willow women, but she never got far before she was caught and returned to the throne.

    “This is a horrible, boring place to be,” shouted the queen from where she sat above them all. “What I really, really want is the kiss of Mystery!”

    Her advisors gathered together to confer about the state of their queen. “If we satisfy her with Mystery, perhaps she will behave better,” they agreed.

    A wise woman, a crone, was fetched. She wore purple flowers in her hair.

    “Do something about the queen and her desire for Mystery, please,” the advisors beseeched the crone. They shoved her into the throne room, then slammed and locked the door.

    The queen perked up. She recognized that before her stood a crone. “Tell me,” the queen wheedled, “do you know the secret of courting Mystery? The moon told me that to be in bliss, I must woo Mystery. The problem is that I find romance ridiculous, so I need help with this.”

    The crone tittered. “You don’t know how to be in love with the world? Is this true? How very sad.”

    “I wouldn’t say that,” the queen said, both ashamed and confused. She fiddled with her crown. “Look. Can you help me or not?”

    The crone wished aloud for a breath of fresh winter’s air. As it happened, the queen had a secret door her latest batch of advisors knew nothing about. Soon the crone and queen were strolling the castle gardens, which were not pretty.

    “Why are the gardens neglected?” the crone asked.

    “I don’t know,” the queen answered, noticing the trampled winter flowers and vines of thorns. She rubbed her cold arms. “I don’t give attention to such things.”

    “Ah. Now we know the problem! My queen, perhaps you don’t realize, but you’re in a deep sleep. You need to wake.”

    The queen shook her head. “No, that was before. It’s why I escaped the castle tower in the first place. Should I run away again?” She clasped her hands and got excited. “Will you help me to escape back to the faraway forest village with the magical willow women?”

    “No. Tell me exactly what the moon said to you instead,” instructed the crone.

    The queen deflated. She quoted the moon.

     

    Bliss

    must be courted, now, by you.   

    Her name is Mystery—

    and she must be wooed.

     

    “Well, there you go,” the crone said. As if all was solved.

    The queen blinked. She had the distinct feeling she was missing something. “Help?” she ventured, flushing pink.

    “Open your eyes, my queen,” the crone invited. Her eyes and voice grew sharp as the biting winter wind. “Stop twiddling that crown and pay attention! Any lover desires only to be SEEN in an everlasting way. Should Mystery be different? You’ve been waiting for bliss to appear as it did once before. But the next step in this dance belongs to you. Here. Now. What will you do?”   

    The queen looked about herself. All she saw was a weedy garden, a gray winter sky clotted with clouds…and a crone with the most beautiful purple flowers in her hair.

    Something within the queen shifted. It yawned and stirred.

    “Open your eyes and see, my queen,” the crone crooned. “Open your eyes and see what has always and already been here, waiting for you to take notice.” And when the queen wasn’t looking, the crone blew a helpful kiss.

    “But I don’t understand…” the queen’s voice trailed away. A sudden warm, fragrant something passed through her body. She felt her limbs melt. She breathed in and r e l a x e d.

    And looked about herself again.

    Mystery.

    Mystery was everywhere she could see. Equally, in each and every thing, spread out for her to see and yet hardly believe…

    A vine that somehow knew how to grow thorns. A crushed flower that bled the exact same color as wine. Pin-leaves beaded with ice. A sky that was covered by clouds and didn’t mind.

    “It’s happened again,” the queen whispered through her tears. She gasped in surprise. “It was so easy! I can’t believe it. I only ever had to look and truly see!”

    The crone with purple flowers in her hair winked and went on home. The advisors found their queen serene and vibrant with bliss. How relieved they were that she made no more escape attempts after this. Of course not. There was no need whatsoever.

    Mystery was as much here as there and everywhere.

    From that day on, the queen of bliss courted and wooed Mystery in this way:

    By noticing. By paying attention. By appreciating with eyes of wonder. After all, that anything could actually exist is a thrilling and impossible bliss. Is it not?

    Are you awake?

    Another surprise was yet to come. One day, Mystery made the next and climactic move—

    And married the queen, making her One, which means wholly real and true.

    As a divine wedding gift, a willow tree grew overnight outside the queen’s tower. The branches lifted toward heaven only to arch and reach back down for the earth, in love. Wind blew, and limbs brushed the ground with leafy kisses of bliss that could be felt for an entire day by anyone who walked there.

    Mystery always makes the first move.

     

    If you enjoyed this willowy love tale of mystery and wonder and want more, I hope you subscribe to CRONE TALES. 🙂

    Featured image of hut by Florian Kurz–don’t you just love it?!

    Image of tree woman by Stefan Keller

    Image of castle landscape by Johannes Plenio

    Image of ice beaded plant by Gabe Rebra

    Image of willow fronds by Annie Spratt

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