Saturday, November 19, 2011

25 Equinox Fire

25 Equinox Fire
Friday September 23, 2011:

Tumbling leaves race playfully
along the gritty pavement.
Wood-smoke drifts in misty clouds,
around the quiet garden."
Conscious that I am repeating my year with fire (for I have lost focus for
the second time), I yearn to celebrate the equinox under its influence. Two
others and I, the embryonic beginnings of a possible new magical coven,
gather in my garden to contemplate this. We make fire in my cauldron and do
a working about equinox, balance and what we want from our new connection.
The fire is held by the roundness of the cauldron. Soon it is in fine
voice. It roars and hisses exuberantly. The wind spirals the heat and smoke
indiscriminately between us.
We sit in a triangle round the fire connected by three sticks pulled from
the wood pile. We contemplate our personal journey, that of the group and
what we feel is needed for the world. It feels important that any magic I do
has all three focuses.
I'm walking above a deep chasm over a narrow bridge with no sides. Below me
lies certain death, should I fall. There's something dark and threatening
in the chasm below, I can hear a faint menacing roar. I know that if I can
keep on the straight and narrow, everything will be alright. The bridge
however seems endless.

On the other side of the chasm is a place of dancing, of wildness yet
somehow of equilibrium. I dance amongst the flames, lost in their
spiralling contortions. Here lies certainty, purpose and adventure. It is
also enticingly laced with danger and exposure. I know it could hurt me, get
out of control even. The brave part of me speculates what that would be
like. The reticent part of me flushes hotly, scared to be exposed to such
volatility as seems promised by the fire.
Fire, smoke and wind in turn touch the three of us sitting in circle, and
from time to time come between us as though reaching to greet others amongst
us, unseen perhaps because they are not yet identified.
"Equality, inclusion, respect for difference, challenging patriarchy and
misogyny." The fire and its shadows seem to sing out to me.
"Ah, I'm on home ground", I think and feel comforted.
Beyond the circle around the fire, the garden is still and quiet as though
it is a dark night rather than an early weekday afternoon. From out of the
silence, a magpie frantically saws the air with his clattering song.
Further away, another answers in equal staccato.
"And what of balance for the world" I muse, nuzzling the smoke with my chin,
turning my head this way and that. Voices above us on the Parkland walk
break into our silence. They drift away on the wind and are overtaken by
the rhythmical sound of a rap song coming from over the garden fence.
The fire calls me back. I sing to it, stirring its tongues of heat with my
hands. I wonder idly why I don't make fire more often in my garden even by
myself, since I now know how.
The voices above us and the music from over the fence have broken the spell.
The fire has settled down into a gust of heat in the bottom of the cauldron.
Far away, a phone rings insistently. I remember I'm meant to be working and
drag myself back into the present.

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