Feb 12, 2020
Darkness descends in the frozen forest. The Sun has long since dropped below the mists of the horizon. And the Moon has not yet found her place among the stars.
It is the hour of Wolf Light. When dusky ancient magic looms among the trees, and one can no longer distinguish dog from wolf. The shadows have swallowed the last of the light, and one can barely find ones way through the forest.
Perhaps, like so many, you have been wandering through these haunted woods for what feels like an endless night.
The terrain underfoot has felt uncertain and treacherous, fears have been uprooted from the shadows and we have stumbled over gnarled roots in the dark.
You have not wandered alone, beloved one.
We have been journeying through a passage of preternatural immensity.
These past weeks have given rise to some of the greatest transformations we have yet seen on our cosmic travels.
They have taken the guise of death, of rebirth, of whirlwinds of primordial fears emerging from our very depths, and of merciless dissolution of the visages we once perceived as self.
Have we ever traversed such wild and unknown landscapes? Forged our way through such mighty and perilous odysseys?
The path we walk has never been one for the faint hearted, but has certainly shown us in these recent times just how inextinguishable and indomitable we are.
We may be forgiven for feeling battle weary, for feeling exhausted from our valiant efforts. These are epic feats, mighty transfigurations, and let us not diminish the depth of rest, care and self-love required in their wake.
As we lie in the stillness of the night upon the forest floor. we may perceive that something new is softly stirring. It whispers so gently it may not yet be audible to ones ear. Drifting through the shadowed snowdrops are the faintest tones of a new hope. It seems an age since even its meekest glimmers have touched our hearts, and it comes to us now as nectar, as a healing balm.
Beneath that sweet tone stirs a melody even richer still, something even more precious than the blessed gift of hope. Promise. The promise that there is in emergence something quite miraculous. That on the other side of these vast wastelands of death and dissolution of fear, lie the Elysium fields of a Heavenly New World.
Even as we lie bleeding on the battle field of our wounded soul, the sweet scent of those divine blossoms drift across our senses. Soothing our most tender heart and lovingly caressing our fevered brow.
The faintest song of a blackbird, calling from the dusky woods, reminds us that we do not die in vain. That we awaken in this moment to our infinite becoming, to our most celestial realms of being, and to the unimaginable expansiveness of our true nature. Suddenly even the most avid hardships of our journey seem worthwhile. To make such vast quantum leaps into our multidimensional luminosity.
Up above the canopy the snowy moon finally rises into view, illuminating a pathway through the forest. Never before have her celestial rays seemed so very bright, or felt so very blessed.
In great love and great solidarity,
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