Having returned from my week of bliss at Blue Heron Farm, I feel more than ever that the land is my greatest teacher. Also the wind moving through the trees; the still shimmering waters of the pond; the rocks laid bare in their fortitude; the billowing pillar of flame at the heart of the bonfire. The ravishing odor of new-cut cilantro. The curlicues of kale and the florets of broccoli as I work on the evening’s soup (a Thai green curry yumfest). The whispers of the Old Ones as They glimmer through my dreams and visions. The hard firm cock of my lover as we rut rejoicing in the fields of late Summer.
The life of the body is organically intertwined with the life of the mind–indeed, more and more I come to see one as the pendant and counterpoint of the other. The divine dance of wisdom is achieved through the balance of all planes into the keen crimson flame of the True Will. These words do not really carry intrinsic meaning; like the body in harmony with pure instinctual drives, they point to something greater.
The essence of Witchcraft is held within the spark of every human lifeforce, but some of the wisdom is contained in the green leaves of our plant allies; in the delicate, fierce, or dignified blooms of certain vines and shrubs; in the shifting rhythm of night and day as the Wheel spins towards darkness in these waning tides of the Year. The ancient wisdom returns again and again because its truth reverberates through every breath and through every pulsation of the sacred Elements of Life. Burn the books again and again; scribes will be found to write out the lost words and murmur once more the forgotten incantations. The true Book of Shadows cherished by a Witch is etched in the vivid rose of every dawn and the subtle greygold glimmer of every duskfall.
The thudding of the drums at the fireside inspires strange visions. The visions open an eldritch gateway into Mystery. The touch of flesh to flesh enlivens the coursing current of Magick with the lustre of the Triple Flame. The spirit of Wisdom in Ecstasy finds new life in the whirling bodies of sweat-streaked dancers, their faces rippling with unknown joy in the heat of the sacred fire.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom, or the bole?
O Body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?–Yeats