Winter woman is here. I have heard her singing in the distance for some time but now she has walked through the door, earlier than expected. She is not bound and makes her own rules.The first thing she told me,
“ Love is not a soft pink promise and only fools believe it to be so. It is a strong and powerful force that shreds and tears and leaves no stone unturned in the land of lies and illusion.
It is not a dream of peace and fairytale happiness. It is a force of nature, a volcanic unstoppable force of creation.
Love is not a bauble or a light and fluffy pastime that will leave nothing undisturbed. It is not a safe place to hide.
It is life not death.”
It is Winter and the Grandmother sleeps. All about her children creep, hiding from the ice of her cold fingers, fearful lest she wake angry with them, afraid that this time she will not wake and her white hard mantle will lay across the land until the Earth breaks.
But in her sleep the Grandmother turns and dreams. She dreams of warmth to thaw her bones, she dreams of food to fill her belly. She dreams the running water of the streams and the deepness of the wells. She remembers how light are the steps of youth, how fresh the beauty, how full the hope which nothing binds. She recalls the fresh green and gold of the first morning. All these things she dreams and her memories bring to her skin a warm touch unfelt through the long held darkness.
She stretches to free herself from the cold grip of the age. She hears the cry of the newborn and the Grandmother awakes, a smile upon her face. Lightly she rises and dances on the dawn, Grandmother no longer for she has dreamed the Maiden and formed her from her sleep,
“Go Daughter. Dance the Spring from the land, call the energies of the Earth and sing of all that life will bring. Weave new life upon a tired web and dream yourself a new dawn.”
The Maiden knows that all is possible, that life follows death and that we must all dream our future into being. For from her aching limbs and crackling breath did not the Grandmother dream the Maiden who dances for her? As the Maiden will call forth the Mother when the time is right and the Mother will whisper her secrets to the Grandmother when the ages call her. And so they pass from hand to hand, from heart to heart, from breath to breath the Old knowledge, the love and the new hope.
The Old One stirs and sends her cold breath to test her children, to see who will stand and who will flee, who will live and who will die. She tests us and probes with her bony fingers, reaches into our chests and feels the beat of our hearts. Does the beat stay steady or does it race and burst its bounds, flee from her touch? She waits, she tests, she sees and she hears.
The Old One walks upon the land and over the icy wastes rides the Wild Hunt, dragging all with them into the dark of night and endless winds. He teases the Old One, makes her blush and cackle and recall the days supple limbs held lovers tight and black ropes of hair wound about their necks. She rattles her bones at him and laughs and knows he has seen through her guise for she is the Goddess guising. He sees the Eternal Mother beneath the guise of the Crone and is not afeared of her. He knows the Grandmother and she knows him. Together they ride the winter skies.