Sitting facing West this time, my partner early slumbering with a nagging cold, I sat peering into the black mirror of my soul on no-thought . And as She appeared before me again, taking form from the formless, coming into time from the timeless, She put back her cowl.
The eyes looking back into mine spanned at least an aeon – between the time when She was first formed a deity and now, the passage of the age of heroes in between us, the dusty way of the insanity of civilisation’s road lying between the then and the now like a thorny, angry barrier which we nevertheless transcended as we realised each other.
She me, and me She. Through all the march of madness in between: the rise of Zeus and the Coming of the King, over and over, through the first stirrings of agriculture and the rise of the Machine. From a place in spacetime now known as Turkey to the southern tip of Africa. We had found each other again – or more accurately, we had never really lost each other.
This mistress deity-form is older than the Hellenes, older than the goat-herders. Perhaps She was witness to the building of Gobekli Tepe. I can almost bring forth that memory.
She has certainly seen the insanity of Man, and all our thoughtless graspings and aggrandisements. Yet She abides still, and I in Her, as She in Me.
The descent of consciousness into matter is well within Her domain – yet standing outside of it She has not the comprehension of the mortal of time and space and density. This is part of what I can share with Her: the longing of the creator to truly experience the creation by encasing herself within it. The gift of the human to the gods is merely this – and yet it is a gift so prized that deities seek it from us across all eternity.
This holy earthly plane with all its sorrows and bliss. The song of the Pied Wagtail encapsulates it in a single liquid burst, that which the gods themselves hunger after: Thou art that, and ever have been.