An adventurous Wild Spirit, sees no boundaries in change… seasons, continents, routines… all, appeal to the soul… food for the mind, body and spirit.
It’s Spring in Southern Hemisphere, autumn here in BC, Canada, where I’m currently visiting family, and I must admit to autumn being my favourite season. The light is soft, the colours crisp and clean… greens, wax to gold and russet leaves, spiral down to rest on the soil beneath. They will feed next year’s yield of fruit and soft berries, just as last season’s fed those, currently adding their tinge of red and deep purple to the rich pallet of nature’s colouring book.
There is a beauty in routine, even when our being yearns for other things, other places to, “do stuff”, more exciting than the everyday life, lived. There’s a beauty in a task completed that may have been put off, while work blurred the edges of our dreams.
A simple day, begun as any other, has a quality of magickal achievement, past and present… a bowl of ancient seeds and fruit for breakfast… a steaming cup of one’s favorite beverage… dishes done, lunch packed on a work day… and a load of washing hung to dry on an autumn-tinged morning, all add credence to a simple life, well lived, if we breath it in while our hands perform the tasks.
When we dismiss these everyday “doings”, we miss those moments, when being and doing merge. With our hands busy with simple tasks, our mind can drift into other realms, where dreams are reformed from the clay of shattered ideas and promises, that change the everyday to magick.
Seasons change without complaint, the wheel turns on in equally familiar cycles and at this time, all over the world, we are either sowing seeds or gathering-in the harvest. Being mindful, takes away any need to judge the process as anything but what it is… life, simple life, in all its colour, fragrance, texture and sound. Don’t dismiss your everyday as ordinary… even in routine, something new may catch our eye, spark your interest… the sheen on a handmade pottery bowl, not seen in the same light or with the same eyes, may find you wondering who the maker was… a woven rug, a quilted throw, showing textures not witnessed before. All the same things we see every day and yet, each day has its own routine, within the rhythms of change, growth and decay… just as both spring and autumn, spin on the same wheel… the same cycles, each with their own unique inheritance, gleened from the layering of time. We are in danger of dismissing these precious moments as ordinary… unexciting… even as the tides turn and our hearts beat in rhythm to the pulse of life unseen.
Her heart is silent
Her, wings are frail
She heals suffering and in turn will ail
But she will find the way
to the edge of time
Hearing the night calls
following the rhyme
and rhythm of life as it ebbs and flows
to the circle of stones
where the Magick knows
all the answers hidden
deep in her soul
She will find her way
to the edge of time
where the Crooked Path
leads her to her goal
Verse, from Unfurled, seasonal poetry and prose, copyright Penny Reilly 2015
Musings of the Wild Spirit Beyond the Gate