Samhain-tide Ancestor Calling
To the Blessed, Beloved, and Mighty Dead of blood and path, I call to you.
Autumn winds blow the Veils, and I come to listen.
Those of You who would come to whisper and shout, and dance and reckon.
Here: a humble lament and invitation, not a demand, or bribe.
Scrying in the fires for permission and guidance, thus,
letting the Shining Ones of the great vaulted Cauldron, hear this Longing:
I long to understand what feeds you. I long to make a beautiful feast of sustenance and to make a home for your stories.
I keen for old ways which we’ve lost, and for having done so, have become lost.
Those who would come and re-member for us, the Times of Enchantment, when the Holy Song of the World was so recognizable, and we were thoroughly woven, expectedly and confidently within,
You, Ones, who lived, loved, grieved, created, failed, betrayed, celebrated, and died, you Ones who learned, and who tended,
We are your descendants and are longing to become Good Ancestors.
EarthBody under assault, undergoing transformations of epic magnitudes, enduring through epochal time. Making impossible the continuance of those Ones with whom we share so much of our world. The pathology which has gripped so many, with so much access to the networks of power-over, is pandemic.
Dear Ones, Ones who knew this in your own time and way, you Ones who made offerings, who communed with the Wild, as the wild, I ask for your wisdom, your insight, your willingness to keep lifting us up in the Work of the Day, and to help us to prepare for what we must face.
Confrontations with the bone-knowingness of the enormity of extinction beg the questions: how do we priestess our lives in the face of this, and what are the tasks upon us as midwives beset by tragedy and estrangement? What of the necessity of being in the discomfort of not knowing what will come to pass, and also that our lives are not are own?
The course has largely been set, and it is set before us to make the burdens, on the ones to come, a little lighter, and to face the Death-Bringer, the Implacable One. For Decay is the matrix of Fertility and our magick is real.
I pray, for the visions of what serves the magic of the moment, and for how, I, am meant to be a vessel of, therein.
Oh, You Ones, I bless you, for all the ways you fell down, and kept going. For all the ways you faced injustice, and fought to protect from destruction, what you knew Sacred. For all the ways you wept with sorrow, and fed the Ones before you, in all their forms, as Kin. Please reawaken the memory of our journey of Stars, promising infinite possibility with your tales and songs, and quicken our deep and Whole Time senses, innate, and potent.
Please be fed with grief that is in my heart, let it embrace you.
And tears for your own woes and sufferings.
For how you were felled by Empire in your own time and way, just as the Groves.
And tears for your unchosen journeys, far and wide, captured, forced, expropriated.
And for the ways that you were persecuted, and have been persecutors.
I have enough beautiful weeping and laughter to feed you. You are not forgotten, You are missed, and we need You. For those of us whose pounding blood moves us to act as accomplice to the Living Web, the moments are increasingly and undeniably upon us.
Please dance our bodies for your pleasure and leave some lingering speck of sparkle within, one that soothes the Oldest Loneliness enough to continue to allow us to be willing servants to a time beyond our own.
To those of You who would come, thank You, and Well-come. And to those of You who couldn’t or wouldn’t come,
I claim you, regardless, and I will feast you in the portals of magique and mystery.