We came together and breathed in intimate silence, kneeling or sitting cross-legged on the floor – three Witches aligning their triple souls and feeling into the holy spaces of power and magick. The Priestess urged us to place our right hands on our neighbour’s thigh, while our left hands met to clasp in the centre – a Web woven by flesh and form. We chanted to the Cauldron whose lips curve infinitely into Darkness – into the Impossible.
The Grandmother, Silver-Bright Lady of Midnight Hour, poured down her effervescent inspiration upon the gathered coven. We drew in breaths of contemplation as we witnessed and became present to the Air in our bodies and beings – how it moved, how it flowed, where it could be found and why it settled there, only to evanesce. A fine thread of Wyrd moved from the place of Air inside to the infinite Eastern horizon where it drew in the agencies of the Elemental Air – the Sylphs and the Horned Owl. As we continued from East-North-West I was filled with a spark of dynamic tension which fuelled insistent revelation…the Thread that found the Water inside of me led me into a deep melancholy and a drowning sensation within my own Mysterious Wellspring…the Thread of the Earth entangled with a sense of being bridled to form, stuck and in stasis; and yet once I pushed through this barrier, surrendering to it, I allowed my body to melt into itself and to unfold – I discovered the great comfort and nourishment of the Earth-bearer and the Bear(er) of Earth. Above us the Shining Black Vault of Her Body and Being…Below us the Road to the Fiery Core of the Seed of Light and then the Seventh – the Holy Centre.
Roots down, power up, branches up, power down…not two realms, but THREE – the third to re-member the totality of All as we are seated in the Throne of the Great Eye and the Black Heart of Innocence beats proudly and with blessing in our the cavern of Own Holy Self. The Sea, the Primal Waters of Darkness and Chaos, upon which the Spirit of God hovered, upon which the Goddess danced and blew Her Horn to the North Wind – Ophion…the Elder Child to contain the Dreaming of God Herself is the place of all dissolution.
The Weaver…the Weaver…who could not see outside of Herself – for what is outside Infinite, Boundless, Limitless Nothing…Endless Zero? In the farthest corner of Deep, Dark Space – in the Great Void, an obsidian glimmer, a reflection of…something…God saw into the Great Eye and wove Her way into its Origin! OH – I am God! I am the Bountiful, Beauteous Darkness suspended in the Chaos of Eternity…OHHHHHHHH! And the Grandmother sang Her Name into the Night, which was not Night, but the Inky Black Pool of Possibility – a Name that is Forever and whose ending we could never know, nor its beginning, nor truly any piece rpart of it – but She sings Her Name, shrieks and screams it, gasps and moans it into Creation, Continuum, Creativity. Floating, borne on waves of the Silent Sea, each note in the celestial song is a spirit, all comprising the Symphony.
“Weaver, Weaver, weave our Threads,
Whole and Strong into Your Web.
Weaver, Weaver, Sing our Names,
In Love may we return again.”
The words in the moment, inspired by a song heard by one of the Witches at a great ceremony honouring the Beloved and Mighty Dead, the tune borrowed from an older Gaelic song. We sang and our hearts soared into that Primal Abyss which is the Keeper of Hidden Things – we fell lost and whole into the Matrix and found ourselves woven back, fully-formed in temples of flesh with a beautiful fetish before us of a woven web, held by the equal-armed cross, fashioned by a daughter of the Wild Weaver. We stood and we sang again about the Changers of the World/s and raised the power of Magick, only to have it flood through us until we began to laugh in earnest. The power was released through spit and through heat into the twine and twig and thusly consecrated was the Fetish of the Web.
“Grandmother Weaver, Mother Unto Daughter…Diana and Aradia, Hear this holy song!
Let me be what I can be, let all be as all will be – Sovereign in Infinity – Grandmother of Time.”
Words were eaten up by the Wyrd, words were returned – a renewed connection made to the Starry One of the Velvet Cloak.
And by the Book of the Law – Liber AL vel Legis:
“O Nuit, continuous one of Heaven, let it be ever thus; that men speak not of Thee as One but as None; and let them speak not of thee at all, since thou art continuous!”