I am grateful things are moving at last, and grateful for many things, being warm at home in the already darkening afternoon. The storm winds have gone, it is dry and grey, and it feels a bit like being inside a tarot card picture.
The Sun went into Scorpio today and I was glad. Coincidentally I saw a Doors video at almost exactly the same time, and that led to me writing this poem about “ancestors”
when people talk of “ancestors” and haul out their relatives
their biological cargo
I instead find myself thinking of Jim Morrison
People say they are our blood past
as if there were this mafia of mothers and uncles and aunts
as if that no-choice tyranny were never to end
I say they are the future, that we will one day run away to join
Yesterday, in a casual exchange, I found myself reminded of my Norse patroness deity, something I don’t talk of often, because my work has taken me to focus on others, as she also knows. But the bond is delicate and strong as friendship, and familiar as my own nature. It is a great comfort to remember.
From that I was also reminded of another god, one I have not had any formal connection to, but who reflects something of what I have learnt to bear and come to terms with, in my own way. Maybe just a resonance, a nuance, a universal kinship faintly reflected on water, and an inexplicable sense of relief.
As we walk into Winter (as we do now), there is such a quality to it. More than beautiful, it is speechless, old and honest. I love Summer, but Summer’s flesh and juice has its origin equally in this uncanny and wild time of barrenness and fertile decay, of ghosts and monsters beyond the bounds.
From there we come also. A drop of inhuman blood, to make us bright.