Creating Worlds ...

I've always created worlds. Worlds I could live in when the one in front of me was lacking. Worlds of words, music and images. Worlds I wish I could share with people I love. Usually, though, these worlds are just for me, to keep the loneliness at bay. That makes it all the more special when there's a knock at the duir, and the person on the other side knows your secrets.

This evening, sitting in the corner booth at the PQ (how many amazing scenes have occurred at that diner?!) towards the end of another magickal evening together, I let The Muse read the first piece from my upcoming book of verse. It was a poem about the creation of just such a world, of endings and beginnings, set in Princeton of all places, and she understood it, as only she could.

We walked out into the lightly falling snow, just like we did after Cirque Du Soleil & the Grand Lux a few weeks ago, and just held each other. She told me that she has started to associate me with Winter & snow & nights like this, and that somewhere Neil Gaiman must be a little sad, because he was no longer her favorite writer. And I was happy. As happy as a person could be.

What a marvelous end to the best Imbolc I can ever remember. A day of such epic seed planting, of body and mind and language and hope and reinvention and mystery. Always mystery. It's Imbolc 4 for me in active service to Breo Saighead, and She is secure enough in my devotion that She has allowed Mór-ríoghain to enter the picture. This, as you might imagine, changes everything.

Sex. Death. War. Crows. Sovereignty. All useful metaphors during a year of unknowable things. Just like the Tablet and the Stone. All pointing towards further transformation, of a sort that I could scarcely imagine during these last three plus years of shamanic study. I think this is what happens when you find yourself aligned with your blood tradition, when you work with who you are instead of against it.

I live in many worlds, but the one I inhabited today is my favorite. By far.