Stayed in the big cabin.

Swam naked in the lake in October.

Played with clay.

Celebrated Autumn and the harvest and gave thanks.

Built a nice fire.

Played games.

Ate lots of food.

Said bon voyage to a friend. Crash was there too.

Now I have to … Zzzzzzzzz …

Related posts:

1. Dyeing for Midsummer
2. The Way it Goes
3. Random things that have been on my mind

As I do so I murmur quietly. I have learned the power of words. I give it voice. Using my breath. Vibration.

I wash myself in the river. The cool water runs down my legs and arms and neck. Though the hem of my skirt is tucked up into my waistband it still gets wet. My hair is the color of clotted blood when it is damp and under a night sky, it drips river water down my back. It is not dirt that I remove with the water … but it is swept away by the current nonetheless.

Crash paddles to me, returning from her attempts to follow the offering tossed in the river as they floated away. She gives me a look that says “Why the hell are you throwing sticks  and bits of plants into the river if I’m not to chase them?”

I laugh and beckon her to follow me unto the shore. My sandals make squelching sounds as I work my way up the river bank.

I come to a tunnel of vegetation that runs parallel to the river. One side is the weeded and wooded river bank, the other a hodgepodge hedgerow. Through the tunnel, a little beyond it, stand three sister hawthorns. I have no need of visualization techniques tonight. I have a living model to work with.

I slip out of my wet sandals. My feet come upon the earth plainly, nothing between us and unadorned. The prickle of grass under my soles. Night cooled soil. The rough of a rock. I dig in, dig down. Dig deep. I do not move. I breathe.

Crash quiets beside me and sits. She waits. My experienced dance partner.

I close my eyes. I suck air in and then out again. Slowly in through my nose and then forcing it out fast. Completely. Again. Full and empty, full and empty. Again. A few more times.

I open my eyes and step forward. Slowly and with great care given to my step. Fully and firmly setting my foot down upon the earth. Slow. Careful and conscious. Precision. I breath slowly and deeply. As slowly and deeply as I can.

I walk. My arms reach out. Finger tips and palms brush against the vegetation. I tip my head back. I view my goal, the end of the tunnel, looking downwards and over my nose.

I slip one foot across the earth, lifting it lightly but maintaining contact. Planting the foot fully, firmly. Shifting weight. It might look like a yoga pose to the uninitiated.

I shift my weight forward. I lift the other foot, maintaining contact. Planting the foot fully, firmly beside its twin. Then it slips forward, across the earth.

Slowly. Painfully. Gradually.

I push forward. I breathe. Something builds. I push against it. I push through it. Like walking in a sea of mildly electrified jelly. It starts so softly, it builds from below me and trembles through me. I push against it. I push through it. I walk, Crash at my heels. By the time I near my goal it is as if I might drown.

I know how to tread water.

I breathe. I walk. It is only about a dozen steps. It is a far greater distance than that.

I slip through. The last step leaving me feeling like a greased pig slipping through a farmer’s grasp. Momentum, though I moved so slowly.

I reach the end of the little tree tunnel in my local park. I step through. It is like taking a long air plane ride, walking through an airport and stepping out into a climate the opposite of your own. It smacks you in the face and drives the breath from your lungs.

I come to standstill. I close my eyes. I suck in air. I relax my body. I open my eyes and tilt my head back down.

The land thrums with power. My body throbs in response. Energy ripples through me. There is pressure. Heightened senses. Contrast and sharpness.

I gaze at the trio of hawthorns sanding under moonlight and urban light pollution as the city sleeps. Some tiny light flickers amongst the branches. Seen and then unseen. A dark shadow moves behind one tree.

More than trance.

Things unseen are now seen, or at least sensed.

I stride towards the trees. Under hawthorns that sing of the strength of the land … and of roots and of the anticipation of autumn. Branches reach out and meet over my head, roots twine together under my bare feet. The dog lays down just outside and sighs.

I greet the trio of hawthorns and they greet me. They sing though I do not hear with my ears.

With my heart, my body, my soul.

I pick up my tambourine.

Related posts:

1. The Dance
2. Dragged into Dream Walking
3. To Be Alone and Useless

The city is quiet, the neighbourhood is sleeping. Gone are the city sounds of traffic and blaring TVs. I can hear the crickets chirp and the wind in the trees. I can hear the river as it passes over scoured stone.

The street is lit by street lights, garden lights and the waning moonlight. I can see the stars tonight.

Our street is cooled by the night breeze and a rain storm that passed by hours before.

Surrounded by people, we are alone.

Crash takes off for her favourite corner, where the big rose bush blooms and the weedy mustard whispers of wilder places. I gently stroke the pink roses and a few petals are given up to me. I murmur my thanks. Crash gives her water to the shrubbery and weeds.

We turn and head for the river. As we get closer, the old dog’s ears prick. She wiggles with excitement. She loves the river. She races ahead, through the green park, under maple trees and to the promenade. The poor old thing is too short to see over the concrete banister that blocks her view of the river. Put up by man to keep us fools from falling in. She hops impatiently, trying to get a glimpse of the water below.  As I approach she looks at me with frustration. She wants to visit her friend. I speak soothing words and turn, following the course of the river until the promenade gives way to earth and grass.

At last we come to a break on the bank, a small trail that leads down to waters. Crash stands at the top and waits for permission before scrambling down the little hill. It is just light enough to see, but I am slow and careful of my footing. At the bottom, at the edge of the river, Crash dances impatiently. She consoles herself by finding good smells in the grass and sedges that grow along the bank.

I pause and drink in the site of river reflecting city light and moonlight. The park on the other side of the river is dark and green. I breathe deep of the cool breeze and the smell of water. Crash stands at the edge and looks at me. I smile and greet the river as a friend. Then step in.

The water is cool but not cold. It is a shallow river; you can wade from one side to the other. Crash follows me in. She wades in to belly deep and then stops for a long drink. I wade in a little but stay close to the shore, it is night after all. The slow moving current takes some of the weight off from an old dog’s arthritic hips. Crash circles around me, a doggy grin on her face. I am orbited by a wet and furry old friend.

A dim light on the horizon. Pale and pink. The sky begins to lighten. The birds awaken and sing the dawn chorus. They sing the praises of Sun as it begins to return to us, bringing the day with it.

We stand in the river and watch the Sun rise. Our feet upon the stone of the Canadian shield, our legs in the waters of the river, our faces turned up to the sky and Sun. Our skin and fur are caressed by wind and fading moonlight.

With great care and reverence I raise my arms and begin my prayers. One more voice adding to the dawn chorus.  Crash slips and splashes in the water beside me, offering a different kind of prayer, one full of joy and living totally in the moment. My hand reaches into my pocket and produces the pink rose petals. One by one they are kissed and tossed into the water. Crash snatches at one and attempts to eat it. We watch the petals float away and disappear.

I am no fool. This river may seem gentle in the lazy summer but come wintertime it is as deadly as any other. It claimed the life of a small boy who fell through the ice last year. A shrine of bouquets and sadness rests against a tree not far from me.

Carefully and with great respect I bow to the river. I say my farewells.

We climb back up the hill and walk through the park. On our street we are passed by a drunken frat boy stumbling home. The cat is waiting for us when we arrive, he complains through the window as we approach. I shush the silly creature and dry off a happy, wet dog.

We climb into bed as the good people of city wake and rise to face another day.

Related posts:

1. The Way it Goes
2. To Tread Lightly
3. A Walk

Now that the snow has melted (and the streams and rivers rising!) Mom has sent me some nice photos from back at the farm.

Related posts:

1. Death by Cuteness
2. Wordless Wednesday: Boxes (and Bren reads Tolkien to the cat)
3. Wordless Wednesday: The Cat’s Tree

I do have a few friends here in Ottawa (and other places) who have done some Hedgecrossing. But they have only begun to walk those roads, or have crossed only a handful of times. I have yet to meet another spirit worker, ancestor worshipper, Hedgewalker … like me. I know that they are out there. I see them on documentaries about shamans, I read their books, I read their blogs, and I listen to their podcasts. But face to face conversation, no.

Certainly I’ve met plenty of people who seem to think they know what they are doing. Or who do Hedgecrossing and spirit work. But their Path is still very different. No Tricksters, no dealing with the Dead. Their version of the Stag God is one of grapes and fun and sex. Not raw rutting danger, running blood and rotting flesh. Its crystals and white light, healing scraped knees and broken hearts, the Earth as Loving Mother who never gets angry. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not what I get handed by my spirits and god.

I want to look in the eyes of someone who knows what its like to have the soul of a dying and beloved dog pass through you, using your inner gate to journey to the realm of the Dead. I want to hold the hand of someone who knows what its like to pick maggots from a carcass. I want to hold and be held by someone who knows what it is to be remade in the Underworld. I want to joke and laugh with someone who knows what it is like to stand in a crowed street full of people, and not fit in.

I am rough and jagged, my edged being painfully smoothed with practice and time and experience, worked by spirits and gods and those who no longer walk the realm of the living. I am a patchwork quilt. A Frankenstein sewn together by His hand. I am strange and awkward. I drum on the Land and hear its heartbeat. I know the smell of death and the scent of birth. I reach through the Veil and push it open like reaching through a hedgerow of juniper and thorn. My body thrums with the pulse of trees and the breath of animals.

I scare people.

I have good intentions that I often cannot articulate. I have a purpose that I struggle to fulfill. I feel as though I stand and peer out into the street from my shop window, waiting and watching. Will someone come to my door? Will they have need of me? Can I help them? When, when, when?

Who could possibly need me to communicate with the spirits when they can simply take a workshop? Who needs me to tell their fortune when everyone reads the tarot? I build blogs and websites and plead and beg people to read and join and write. If I tore them down tomorrow would anyone even care?

I speak of dreams of being a death doula for beloved pets. Hopes of providing hospice care and Hedgework for dogs and cats and horses … and such. Who cares? Your dog dies and you bury him in the yard. Get the kids a new puppy. End of story.

Who could possibly need me? Why do I toil and train? Why do I stay up at night reading and working? Why do I weep?

I am so very much alone, though I am loved by many. I am useless, though I offer to serve and wait on baited breath for someone to ask.

Why must I walk this Path?

Related posts:

1. Horned God Devotional
2. Defence Against the Dark Arts (When You are Locked Out of the Circle)
3. The Course of My Studies Part One

Related posts:

1. Horses, a Mule, a Dog and a Puppy
2. The Babes Are Coming Home
3. Post Cards from Misty Acres