The Name of Silence3 August 2015
Sometimes my life is so inner, private, invisible that I struggle to translate that to others around me. We all do – struggle that is; at least from what I can see.
How do I let someone know that yesterday I flew out on the Spirit-Winds to call a piece of a wandering soul back home?
How do I describe the ineffable mysterious dance that the moon snakes into me when I open my heart to the Queen and we make magic in the waves?
How do I describe how deep these transformations run? How do I say “thank-you” for being the one to come in at this time and show me that door to walk through? How do I speak the Name of Silence?
Of course, I have no obligation to describe or convey these experiences. There is much I keep in silence, or to the closest confidantes.
Sometimes the viability and the sustainability of all the work that I do, the profession I fulfil, rests upon constant and consistent engagement with the very-human world. And more and more I feel I’d like to just have me and mine, and a well and a tree on a hill, and not feel compelled to post on Facebook or facilitate workshops, or read for people, or…or…
I made promises. I made vows. I am in an alchemical story with myself and with my dearest. We are jostling, we are flowing, we provide each other the necessary tension to strike the fire that helps us see, that perhaps will guide us…that is enough to be with and warm what has become cold. To notice.
I spent 2 hours today speaking with someone on the other side of the planet. We both do similar things; live lives of sorcery, spirit-work and service. We engage not just with other magical practitioners, but with many who seek us out because we are specialists.
I know my magic. I know it like I know the Name of Silence. It doesn’t mean I don’t have days and nights of existential and immediately pragmatic confusion, disorientation and anger. How do I feed myself today? How do I pay the rent this month?
What I know to be true:
*If I ask for help, my friends offer what they have to offer. Simple. True.
*If my friends ask for help, I listen, I offer what I can offer, and I listen again.
*When I lay down and sleep in your house, on your couch, in your bed, I am speaking to Angels to shower blessings upon your heads.
*When you come to me for guidance, for healing, for transformation, I will turn up as powerfully as it is possible. I will be present with you. Even if that presence begins half-way through our time together, or even just after you leave.
*I cry. I hurt. I ache. You cry, you hurt, you ache.
*That crying, that hurting, that ache is sometimes the sweetest, most profound thing. I know you know.
If I just turn up to the Shrine of my Self, that is enough. If I come brazen and bound, sticky or sick; if I come wearing everything, wearing nothing, I can trust you to be with me. It’s all still some holy-and-terribly-crazy dare, some fantastic risk that sears deeply, leaving marks. And stories.
Something that you can not pay me for, I can not trade with you, are these stories. They are not commodities, or resources, or currencies. They are not in classes – they are in very real convergences.
When we lay there under the Biblical Sycamore and cried together because your life was falling apart and I loved you.
When I broke your heart and your trust. And when you broke mine.
When I stood on the beach and asked you to come closer in.
When we spoke the Name of Silence we both knew that we knew.
When I picked up the phone. When you answered when I need you to.
This is the that kind of magic that is woven in for us, by some benevolence laid down by the luck of our ancestors, by their horrors, triumphs, sheer persistence. We are given to be able to reach out, and there will be a reaching back. And the Name of Silence will be imprinted, shivering, at the edge of the breath of every word spoken and at the tip of every finger grasping for connection.
Those moments when you enter the room and I look up and see the tears in your eyes and that noble and proud willingness to show me some of your heart. The river pours out and we cling onto each other as life-rafts because that river will take us out to sea.
We have built homes together. My homes are scattered like bird-seed across the galaxies, across the broad face of this Earth. We are all eating something we have cast out for each other. In memory, in hope, in dreaming, in desire, in confusion, hurt, and desire again. Precious aches. Beautiful bruises.
The Name of Silence is recorded in the core of me. I know my medicine, and I take it.