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The dead streamed in and out of the Western Gate of a stone henge in the hills of Northern California. The spirits were white and grey in the darkness...
The veils are thin this time of year, they say. The veils are thin between the worlds seen and unseen, but they are also thin within us. Something in us opens and reaches out into the dark. Something in us reaches into the darkness held deeply in secret, too. Something in us longs for the warming fire. Our veils are thin, our personality parts fight for dominance, and our psychic centers know that there is more. Our hearts do, too. The unseen reaches for us, and we reach for the unseen. There is no difference between the two.
During an intimate ritual on Friday, the sun set behind the Western Gate and the full moon rose in the East shortly after, shining flourescent upon the land. Our dead were named and silence descended. Victor spoke to me, and the Gods and other ancestors whispered behind, filling me with stars. We feasted in the silence and cold, lit only by the light of the moon.
Saturday's ritual was a larger, more open affair. We worked around a fire this time, chanting lines from the Heart Sutra to enable the dead who would not let go to cross with greater ease. First, we worked on releasing our own attachments. I held my father in my arms as he sobbed, rocking him like a baby. This never happened while he was alive. I am grateful it could happen now. Feasting this night was not silent, but filled with talking, laughter, and libations. The Green Fairy made an appearance, stories were told, drums were drummed, dancing done and kisses shared.
There is something special about community, even ad hoc ones that come together intermittently, drifting off again. Something is being built inside and out. There is struggle and snarkiness and joy and respect. Things just are as they are. And that feels right.
The veils are thin. May we stop and notice. May we keep reaching, rocking, weeping and singing, into the cold of the coming winter.
Gone, gone beyond, hail the goer!
The veils are thin this time of year, they say. The veils are thin between the worlds seen and unseen, but they are also thin within us. Something in us opens and reaches out into the dark. Something in us reaches into the darkness held deeply in secret, too. Something in us longs for the warming fire. Our veils are thin, our personality parts fight for dominance, and our psychic centers know that there is more. Our hearts do, too. The unseen reaches for us, and we reach for the unseen. There is no difference between the two.
During an intimate ritual on Friday, the sun set behind the Western Gate and the full moon rose in the East shortly after, shining flourescent upon the land. Our dead were named and silence descended. Victor spoke to me, and the Gods and other ancestors whispered behind, filling me with stars. We feasted in the silence and cold, lit only by the light of the moon.
Saturday's ritual was a larger, more open affair. We worked around a fire this time, chanting lines from the Heart Sutra to enable the dead who would not let go to cross with greater ease. First, we worked on releasing our own attachments. I held my father in my arms as he sobbed, rocking him like a baby. This never happened while he was alive. I am grateful it could happen now. Feasting this night was not silent, but filled with talking, laughter, and libations. The Green Fairy made an appearance, stories were told, drums were drummed, dancing done and kisses shared.
There is something special about community, even ad hoc ones that come together intermittently, drifting off again. Something is being built inside and out. There is struggle and snarkiness and joy and respect. Things just are as they are. And that feels right.
The veils are thin. May we stop and notice. May we keep reaching, rocking, weeping and singing, into the cold of the coming winter.
Gone, gone beyond, hail the goer!
I remember singing that sutra for Ron as we unwove his life to let him pass from his desiccated shell, years ago, but only yesterday. Those beloved dead, yes dead, but yes, beloved, and that which is loved, those who are held within our hearts, live.
Love to you, love to community. and love to building the future, dimly seen through the veils, the world to be, as it could be, as it will be. Ready or not, here it comes.
And that chant was going round and round my head until Tuesday morning!