There are a few places in DC where the fey are so populous and so strong that I have trouble staying on the road, staying above ground, not heading directly off to join the dance that you think lasts a night but that sends you back home in the morning to your grandchildren’s grandchildren.
I drove into one today, unmeaning and unawares, and circled, as my suddenly-enchatned GPS played loop the loop and took me several times around my destination, to see leaves falling, less than 48 hours before Litha, as if it were mid-September. And I could hear war, and the sounds of war. I could hear the trumpets in the sky and the thunder of hooves on the ground. I could feel the Wild Hunt riding at Litha, when it never should ride.
And all I could do was be amazed at the beauty as I remembered Byron‘s repeated warnings: Tower Time.
These, as Jean Houston sometimes says, are the times for which we were born. (Well, Jean doesn’t say that. She says that these are the times we were born for, but Gotterdamerung or not, I’m not going to end a sentence with a preposition.)
Somehow, I was reminded of Robby Burns’ line: “Then let us pray that come it may, (As come it will for a’ that,).”
I love the fey and I am grateful for their messages. But I’m going to take a salt bath tonight and sleep with a nail under my pillow. Not to protect, because nothing can, against what’s coming, but to save myself for another day when my choice to dance beneath the hill will be a conscious one.
Picture found here.