Stories are alive

Returning home after myth encounter

Home. To my wild orchard… the plum blossoms and wide eyed, unbridled embrace. And a tooth that waited for my return - (to witness its departure and a faerie presence.)

Stories and myth, really are alive. They reach across to make real the earth that is not the world that we’ve made.

Sometimes they have to traverse to find a tiny part of you left in the hell realm. Dredge to the surface a wound that hasn’t quite healed.

To work for years inside an industry where your no, or your yes, to power-wielding oblivion knocking on your door at 2am, can cost you your career. To keep yourself apart, and not play ice-queen, or horror of horrors, have a good time.

And how the one time you failed to segue into neither, cost you a year’s work and sank an album that was very good. In many ways, it cost me my career.

I look back to Theodor (a), no doubt a good mama to her pope, and wonder what this kingdom of heaven movement was like before Peter’s keys were locked behind Greco-Roman public square doors - the roots of my imposter syndrome.

The womb of Mary birthed the Christ, and the Womb of the world gripped the ladle with her, and they stirred the grail together, no doubt knowing all the while it would go missing.

I absorbed a bit of good swagger this week:

I am a veteran performer and songwriter. 25 years in.

It is not my hobby. From Muscle Shoals to London, to Nashville, to Paris, I have earned my name across 20 countries multiple, multiple times. And… I wanted to be a mama, in a world that devalues that desire, and so you trade your earned name in, to lose it. And that’s ok. I’m still a hell of a songwriter.

Many of these songs aren’t just searching for this cauldron grail… they actually grip the spoon that stirs it. They traverse the earth as though it is not bloodless.

The roots of those plum blossoms have voracious appetites.

Release. No more resentment. My job is to reconcile ensuing civil wars. Part of that is to name and touch the wounded woman’s heart, and the gorgeous but tattered thrusting wing, all at once.

Theodora give me strength and wisdom and song.

PS- I shouldn’t have to do this, but here’s a bit of a hint for the trout woman in my Song of Wandering Aengus video:

When I went and sat in St. Ninian’s Cave to receive any information regarding the last great dispensation shift in the West, I was told by older ones from the cave itself, that there had been more than one great shift. And in all cases, the superseding dispensation hadn’t done it with a whole lot of class. This fish woman can mean what she needs to mean to you. But one thing I will not let you think, is that she is shallow. She is one who stands at our current threshold, in a place that superseded her, and sounds a warning: how we shift into what is coming will determine whether or not her magic realm, or the mythic realm, or the current dying mental/rational age, will remain open to us. The megalithic structures themselves in part represent an age where meteor devastations constricted the people into being vast carriers of practical and metaphysical and astronomical knowledge and wisdom. Should such a catastrophe enter the stage again, these druidic triads would be ready to carry wisdom through to the other side.

She is swimming upstream to hold threshold space. She is not hauntology. She is not a “pre-trans fallacy”. And… she holds space and understanding for the ones who hold ceremony on the edges… and won’t kneel with their mouths open for sacraments they can never touch. These are the things I go to hold, in this turning age, where all ages are wide open.