autumn twilight

Dark of the Moon tonight. It’s raining. The clouds are a dull grey with a tinge of olive, and the rain is a soft patter outside my window, interrupted in its rythym only by the passing of cars and the occasional sloshing of an animal or person.

I stepped out into the night, wearing only scooby-doo sleep pants which have been worn and abused so long there are holes and rips that define their shape as much as the fabric does. The rain was light, almost non-existent as I walked around the corner to the small grassy lot; across the street where there are bushes and flowers and trees.

Atenomai: A call to say ‘I honor you’ but much sweeter of sound and connotation.

I compare the wild spirit of the rain and the dark moon with the rigid motion of prescribed ritual and I want to laugh. The power here, standing in the wild, in the presence of the natural divine is not met by the formulas of ritual. I lift my heart in thanks to three great names, and to the forces that surround me, and I laugh as the wind blows my now-wet hair around my neck. I glow darkly, fire curling around my fingertips. Gun-metal grey mixed with vibrant earth-green, and recently a shining blue that wraps itself in veins and cords through and beneath the flames that race along my skin.

I am a wild thing in my heart. My power is the rushing force of the waterfall or a mighty river. This is my gift, and my danger. I will not be tamed, it is not my way. But a waterfall that floods the plains and drowns the crops is worse than a fickle stream that is barely able to coax a few root vegetables from the earth each season. It must be known, if only so that the crops may be planted elsewhere, or the rivers course changed somewhat.

Atenomai, may I find the balance that I see here. May I find control that does not seek to tame the natural divine in me, nor unleash it wildly upon my life.