The stories you read of Ireland far away; long away, ago, in mist of time forgotten. Of gleaming paths, crystal jeweled, that stream into the night. Those nights. Oh, those nights….that illumine a ribbon winding. Yes, those nights…they are real! Those stories are of sight gifted, not by chance or luck or magic, but by birth. Luck of birth upon these isles where light angles, and mist falls, and some uncanny turn of our starship planet home, gifts this place.
For stories long forgotten, yet heard upon the winds, tell of this land of shining ways; and of people fair. Through time was it carried, first by mother, then by child.
But do not weep, or feel neglected. Your Place is waiting. For she has magic, too. Her story is yet written, or was written, yet told many long years…
so long. Ago. it was forgotten. In that world of type,print, eye – knowledge.
Remember your heart. It speaks a primal language.
Let me tell you, as a Witch: those stories we read of this land of mist and Shining Ones….we thought it was some dream land. Some, myth or story of a trance induced slight of hand. No, not so crass….but, we read the stories and thought them Other….. Oh, we were Wrong!! It is no more Other than walking out your door!!!
Oh, if I could bring you here. To sit in my windowsill, and see the road below agleam with light – and hear the voice of the Wind call…..”come, walk with me.”
It is a natural phenomena as physical as my own lips: my own heart beat. Maybe it is the tilt of the earth, and the way the sun and moonlight enter the atmosphere on this island. Maybe it is some chemical component of the soil. But tonight, as I looked out of my window, I saw a land awake – alive – glowing….. shining like the myths of old. I walked out into it – because how can a human-person resist that call?
and to the Ring it took me…where I wept. This land…. Oh, Gods…… we humans have destroyed so much. My heart broke.
But this story must be told, and it is not of me or my pain or my sentimentality. No….this small ridge on an island in the north Atlantic wants to say…….
The mystery you read in the myths of Ireland: Hibernia of the Trees, Cold land of Mist – the stories you read were of people like you…people who wrote of their experience. What their eyes saw, their hearts felt, their ears heard. They met the Living Land of Eire.
Meet your land. For she is Sister, Lover, Brother, Mother, Son…..and she has hir mystery, too.
Perhaps she does not glow in the night of a mist covered Moon, because the light from our brother Sun shines on her more direct. But, what IS her secret heart and her untold myth?
Can You tell it?