T Holding The Rose

T Holding the rose
Friday June 21, 2013
On the evening of the longest day, we walk slowly on the curving earth
across the heath. Just below Boudicca's mount, we come to a stop on a
grassy slope overlooking the city.
Dusk is damply imminent. A miasma of nipping gnats thickens the air.
Casually, we cast and invoke. The circle is lightly held but sufficient.
"This is the time of the rose, blossom and thorn, fragrance and blood. Now,
in this longest day, light triumphs, and yet begins the decline into dark."
- Starhawk.


I touch a rose, softly examining its sensual petals, breathe in its
sweetness and think about what it promises. The rose is love; it's also
trusting in its delicate fragility. I think of the blossom and thorn,
fragrance and blood, about the coming darkness and what it is that I fear.
I think of what I would let go of. Summer has flirted with us so far. I
would let go the coldness of the non-spring and the fear in my heart about
the Schwannoma.

Scooping my hand into a bowl, I pick up some rose petals. They shiver and
tremble, almost dancing in my cupped hand. A bigger gust of wind and they
would be gone.
If only my fears could be so easily dislodged? I open my hand and allow the
evening breeze to take my fears along with the petals. They flutter like
butterflies between my fingers and slip away.
I imagine each petal tossed lightly into the wind, drifting eventually down
to the ground. There it will lie until the next breath of wind, curious dog
or walker's shoe dislodges it. Maybe it will remain on the ground until the
rain comes to break down it's fragile silkiness and return it to the earth.
Empty-handed, I return my fears to the earth to be transformed.
Self-affirmation through mirror-work doesn't do it for me. I'm glad I
brought my drum. I sing into it. It throws my voice back clear to me. I am
goddess and she is singing my praises!
The circle chants and tones my name. They chant that I am shining, am
beautiful. I hear their song. I allow those thoughts into my heart and
;lifting my face to the sound, begin to feel the shift.
We dance a spiral dance on the green moist grass, trampling the rose petals
into the ground to send them on their transformational way.
Night has fallen. The city sounds are swallowed by the darkness. Our
working complete, we walk through the cool, damp night on the heath to the
warm rumbling buses running along the bright streets.