We enter the womb tonight. It is only a matter of time… the trees are weeping! The trees are weeping in the dark! Weeping and wailing, the trees and leaves are celebrating the only Tradition. It is only a matter of time. She once was a maiden. She became a mother. But now the Crone is here, knocking loudly on the door. Sing the dirge, sing the praise of the phase and honor the piles of teardrops. Different yellows, oranges and browns, singing the same song. There is only one Tradition, and this is it. She knocks and the Tradition sees you. Watch the prayers scuttling across the altar of the ground, grey and rough, green still in places; cartwheeling prayers skidding through the streets, floating on the cold steel of the pond. Some of them are stubborn, and cling to the cheeks of nakedness. See the crone’s fingerbone branches? She knocks.
Weeping and wailing in the dark. Welcome cold breath of the crone! Warmly, in the gathering chill and dawning of bitter wind – embrace the womb of the year. Warmly we approach and are hurried in; no stealth or graceful measures of courtesy needed or allowed. We are now guests in the womb; the birth will come. She once was a crone, living forward to become a mother, and then maiden; once again will the maiden arrive. It is only a matter of time. Trust the wheel, it is turning.
They are you, like the teardrops, they made you. The prayers embrace on the altar. Thoughts of those before mingling with one another, some for the first time, some reunited. I send greetings from the warmth of the weeping trees to the light of your encounters. The lion prowls with the purple heart of his father, and the lion’s mother dances with them both back to the highlands, back to her crown; wielding axes and broadswords, cousins sailing across the sea to battle. Fosterage of warriors and kings and poets; bloodline of northern lights next to the tree that never weeps, never dies, never demands an eye; behind them all stands the tree that never weeps, but lives on through my hand, through my still beating heart. Gratitude and courage honors them all.
I wonder. Will there be time for dreaming in the womb? Yes, the dream is happening, it is dreaming me onward. Dreaming always happens. Seeds are sown. Stories are told, dreaming me into being. Trust the nurturing dream of the womb – don’t ask what the crone’s womb will bring forth. Don’t worry about that, just leave the offerings at the door, prepare a place for the ancestors, and sleep… you’ll need it.
The candles are burning on the corner of the desk, and I prepare to enter the womb of winter. Outside, the trees are weeping. Weeping and wailing in the dark.