Ebb and flow.
Butterflies migrating over multiple generations where they set out to begin a trip they will never finish. Yet they do.
Bird flying thousands of miles every year.
Forest mites crawling inches over their entire lifetime.
To go or to stay.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
And sometimes it’s true.
Some migrate because they must and other just because.
Never linear, always cyclical.
To remember the nomadic roots of picking berries and digging roots.
But the grandest migration and most treacherous and more beautiful and most mysterious is the migration towards remembering your authentic self.
The clock struck midnight under the full moon lunar eclipse when I tripped over a mushroom upon my path and tumbled down a hole, a tunnel, a vortex. A weird feeling as my senses change. Am I dying as my thoughts echo outside myself. Darkness then gray then white then rainbows. Cold then hot then just right. Silent then explosion then birds singing and a creek of sparkles trickling. The wind caresses me and blows my hair and clothing off till ker thunk crash and splash I tumble through the glass ceiling of mirrored silver breaking the reflection of what I knew to be myself. Suddenly I stand upright yet upside down such that my feet are on the bottom side of aboveground. Myth and story and meaning and nothing and chaos ebbing and flowing.
I follow the snail leaving a path of slime as the werewolves follow behind lapping it up. The trees reach out to me with their branches leaving me smelling as the forest. Then I pause at a mountain stream waterfall to encounter a catfish old with wisdom who told me … you already know the answer, you must trust yourself.
The black dog chased the white cat.
The white cat was chasing a yellow bird.
The yellow bird was singing atop an oak tree with swing.
The swing was swung by children who became grandparents.
The grandparents have stories.
Stories create reality.
Reality is subjective and not black and white.
Black and white symbolize dichotomy and polarity.
In polarity it is the space between which is magic.
Magic is beauty.
Beauty is indescribable.
Indescribable yet we try to find words.
Words are spells.
Spells are ritualistic intention.
Intention without expectation is the key to happiness.
Playing with the sun and Earth.
Cycles, phases, and ocean tides.
The moon knows the feminine.
And the feminine knows the moon.
The waters of the Earth
and our selves
To think our ancestors
from 10,000 years
have observed the same white
and sometimes orange
sphere in black sky.
All the emotions
thoughts and experience.
The significance in witchery
What is time but relationship with cycles.
The time of the moon phase.
The Earth around the sun.
Our footsteps, breath and heartbeat.
Mysterious dark side of the moon reminds us of the hidden side of our own being.
For as much as there is known, there is as much unknown.