With the Feathered Seer workshop just a few days away, I thought I would share a glimpse into the origins of the story around which we will be building the weekend…
I had met her before, thinking her a dream of the landscape, born of the mists and the magic. Imagination. Fantasy. Perhaps she is. Perhaps I delude myself with my listening. Perhaps my tears fall for a will-o-the-wisp. Who can say?
Do I believe in ghosts? The dead have better things to do with their lives than linger here in longing, clinging to a world they cannot touch and wishes they cannot hold.
Do we call them back with our desire? Are we children tugging at their apron strings as they move forwards through the layers of existence, passing through otherworlds we try to glimpse in our fear and curiosity, in our inability to let them lie?
The Old Ones honoured their dead, giving them a place of peace by the hearthfire or laying them in the womb of earth to be reborn to a new life. On one day a year the ancestors were invited in, and those who lived became those who were gone. Why grieve when there is no goodbye, only a farewell?
Our sterile deaths, hidden behind closed doors and commercially sanitised, do not permit us such familiarity.
I saw her death in all its raw beauty; saw her bones cleaned to white and marked with love.
Yet there are tales of those who return, those whose Work is unfinished and who wait, outside of time, for completion.
Is she such a one? Is hers a life that might have, should have, could have been? Or is she the spirit of the land itself, whispering and teaching, opening me to wonder?
Perhaps she is no more than a waking dream. Or a deeper part of myself rising to the surface and clothed in her form. It matters little. Such as she is, she has touched heart and mind, bringing me joy and tears as I learn from a wisdom deeper than my own.
I do not care what she might have been in a reality bounded by science and experiment. I care only for the vivid life that has touched mine and opened my eyes to a past forgotten.
For a long time I did not know her name. I first saw her vision fly with the red feathered kites as the great birds soared above a sacred landscape. I have seen her, life on life, passing the ages of Man. Yet part of her waited and watched, until she could complete her Work. For a long time I knew her only as the feathered seer.
Now I know her name.
And names matter….
“In a time before memory….when the land was yet young and Albion unborn, I dreamed the stars of a time yet to be. I dreamed your becoming.
…I see you.
I called, waited, and you have come.
The time is now.
I know you fear what you will find and the veils you will part. I see it in your eyes… in your footsteps… in the tilt of your head.
Wind in hair the colour of faded bracken, beside you he who sees the world with the eyes of the heart, while you see with eyes aflame. I know your name… though you do not.
Not yet, little sister.