I was disowned, abandoned, separated from my beloved son, and my pain was almost indescribable.
And every year, 180 degrees out of phase, the large-cat clawing of that pain is felt again, raking down my heart.
Grown into a sleek vesica piscis, this same soul spreads wide her arms and, falling backwards into the rushing black water, allows the tide of autumn to nourish her anew each year.
And of course the carrying away is painful. The impulse to curl into a fetal ball and cry myself to sleep is huge. Making abortive clutching movements, I have to consciously stop this damn wallowing, straighten up, and stand tall as I prepare for that annual back-dive into Mabon, and the speedy slide down to the nadir of the journey, there to rest awhile and regain my Self in the silent, echoing long exhalation of the breath of the Mother which is Yule.
My son I am coming to know again this year. Slowly we piece together our never-dead connection; and it is joyous, yes, but also heart rending to know how much of this individuated soul’s journey I have missed while I regrew my roots and shoots.
Making lasagne in my new stove last evening, I thought of Shevek making raspberry swirl – and I felt each seperate panther claw through the meat and ether of my fourth chakra.
We’re none of us ever immune to pain. We’re never safe from the lightning, or the slow gnawing which can destroy the marrow. But – and this is the important part – the World is such a beautiful place,not despite the caverns and deserts of suffering, but largely because of them.
Pic: Leonid Tishkov