From the Witch’s Bedtable

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  •  I think spirit-work and god-work might be best when it’s like Social Work, and sometimes I can’t tell the difference.  A god needs something done, and so you help.  A person wants to meet a god, and so you do what you can to help this.  A forest is in pain, or a spirit is troubled, and so you try to make this better.  Just like “normal” life, if you’ve got your eyes open, if you’re not cowering in fear of the “other,” or locked up in your car or wealth.  . . .  It only takes noticing — like it takes noticing to see a forest no one sees, to weave threads between events and events, to stitch tattered theories and misplaced theologies into a tapestry of meaning.  This is the work of a mage, the song of a bard, the lust of a priest, the love of a radical.

~ Your Face Is a Forest by Rhyd Wildermouth

  • It was England that came out slowly, as the late moon rose:  his royal realm of Gramarye.  Stretched at his feet, she spread herself away into the remotest north, leaning towards the imagined Hebrides.  She was his homely land.  The moon made her trees more important for their shadows than for themselves, picked out the silent rivers in quicksilver, smoothed the toy pasture fields, laid a soft haze on everything.  But he felt that he would have known the country, even without the light.  He knew that there must be the Severn, there the Downs, and there the Peak:  all invisible to him, but inherent in his home.  In this field a white horse must be grazing, in that some washing must be having on a hedge.  It had a necessity to be itself.  . . .  He began to love the land under him with a fierce longing, not because it was good or bad, but because it was:  because of the shadows of the corn stocks on a golden evening; because the sheep’s tails would rattle when they ran, and the lambs, sucking, would revolve their tails in little eddies; because the clouds in daylight would surge it into light and shade; because the squadrons of green and golden plover, worming in pasture fields, would advance in short, unanimous charges, head to wind; because the spinsterish herons, who kept their hair up with fishbones, according to David Garnett, would fall down in a faint if a boy could stalk them and . . . .  He found that he loved it — more than Guenever, more than Lancelot, more than Lyo-lyok.  It was his mother and his daughter.  He knew the speech of its people, would have felt it change beneath him, if he could have shot across it . . . .

~ The The Book of Merlyn by T.H. White

 

Picture found here.

 

 

 

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