I’m not sure what the thread is that I’m following here, but William Stafford agrees that this is “The Way It Is” (see poem at the end of the post). And in my mind, the thread is always red. Like the red rose that I was gifted in my dreaming way back when, that I took as a sign of divine assurance of my becoming a mother, but perhaps, it turns out, was a thorny foretelling of my apprenticeship to the red flower of my soul’s questing, with its betrayal of the neutered fairytale, in faithful service to the wild myth…
Where the dark nights are truly dark, the tent holds me in blind liminality to the edge of despair, but the fox pelt or wolf milk or seal skin somehow sustain me in their quiet promise of my re-wilding… following the scent of that which has left its invisible yet unmistakable trail especially for me; keeping a witchy eye on me from within the trees as I make my way through the pathless path of the forest. With no hands.
Magic pear trees and handsome princes seem to save me, but prove just a brief reprieve, or catalyst for the next fiery chapter and page.
Gripping the red thread with every ounce of faith I can muster (or is it simple desperation?), drawn by the clarion call echoing from Lighter Lands, I re-enter the forest, assured that this time would not be like the last. For now, I have my child in my arms - the gift of devotion to the sounds and songs of my birthing, and something is burning in the scars of my wounding, drawing me to the hearth-fire of my True Belonging.
The Blue Smoke captures me, the red thread steadies me, and the round door of the round house opens, revealing the warm glow of the flames and the scent of a stew.
You are there. Smiling. Welcoming me by name. The golden serpent coiled around your arm stirs a writhing in my body and ignites my longing for the visceral revelation slowly awakening. I feel a pulsing in the thread now leading from my hand to the intricate beauty of crochet tapestries cloaking the walls and lacing the ceiling; cocooning me in an warm womb of Wonder and inviting my full surrender into a soft embrace in this place of my Wintering.
Rest now.
Sleep and trust the Dreaming.
Others are coming, they’re on their way… but for now, find the peace of the wilderness within you, in the music of the magic breathing through you. Stoke the fires under the cauldron of Cosmic Chaos cradled in your potent womb, and open to the abundance of your Source. Drink from the golden rivers, play in the spouting geyser, eat from the royal banquet and laugh with sweet abandon.
You are Here. I am Here. All is Here.
There will be brews to stir and incantations to sing, for the task ahead will demand your full participation - the unleashing of your truly Wild Power. Bring nothing less than your bare incandescence.
These are formidable times.
The circle will sustain you all as you hold its sacred geometry. This is holy play. This is what the wisdom-keepers have been singing about in the deep caverns of your bones, since the stars set you on your path.
Trust it.
Fall all the way in, and through, to find yourself in the embrace of the Beloved, asking you to dance the Dance that can make real Love on the loom of the Weaver of that red thread you are holding.
The Way It Is by William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow
It goes among things that change
But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die;
and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
Beautiful. I hear you ♥️