Listen to the words of the Dark Mother, who of old was called Hecate, Nuit, Morrigan, Banba, Erda, Macha, Mother Night, Sekhmet, and many other names:
Whenever you seek wisdom, at the time of the Darkening Moon, come together in love and trust and learn of Me, who am the Wisest of Crones…Ye who search the mysteries of the Earth, the secrets of Air and Darkness, of Blood and Fire, the silence of the uttermost stars, come unto me, and I shall whisper to you in the depths of midnight.
Ye shall approach Me in silence, and as a sign that ye are free from fear, your breast you shall bare to My blade…for fear has no place in My mysteries, and that which you seek of me will destroy you if you fear it.
For I am the dolmen arch beyond which stretch the mysteries of infinity. I am the silence before birth and after death. I am the clouded mirror in which you scry your own soul. I am mist in the twilight, the vast and starry sky of midnight, shadows on the Moon.
All things come to Me in the end, and yet I am the beginning of all. I meet you at the crossroads, I lead you through the darkness, My hand you grasp in the passage between the worlds. To those that toy with Me am I an instrument of self-destruction. yet to the true seeker do I bring knowledge beyond mortal comprehension.
Of you shall I demand the utter truth of all that you are, and in return shall I give you all that you may be, all that I am. For My wisdom is beyond the Ages, and knowledge of My Secrets is power over self, over fear, over death. Nor do I demand aught of you which you cannot give. For I am the Mother of Mysteries, and as you know Me, so shall you learn to know yourself.
Source: The Gay Mage
We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys
They sank in our rivers of blood
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths
And then burned the earth with our rage
We didn’t teach our children
It was the only way to protect them,
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
And put out the fires
For the dams to break
For the rivers to flood
For the paths to be walked again
For the soil to breathe
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble
We find we’ve always had the keys
Our stories and our maps
Our paths are revealed to some
And the seeds grow again
The threads are unspun
And woven again
Douse the lights, douse even the candle
Speak to her gently; she’s been shunned
so long, she runs away.
Suggest, don’t expect
Let being fill up the space
So that what you’re doing
Let the message emerge
from the sea of understanding
like a mermaid singing her seduction,
Think fishes, flying through dark waters,
Think night, moonlit seas, and
no moonlight at all.
Think water. Think depths, dampness.
Think subtle. Think subtler.
Your wis-dame, your wisdom,
is an archivist. She knows what happened.
She isn’t afraid, she’s been here before.
Another kind of clarity, silvery, not stark, emerges.
Your wis-dame is your oldest ally,
Without her you are less than half yourself
with her you are whole and ready.
Like a dolphin she is beside you
when you are goalless
and seeking only to satisfy your higher yearning.
Be attracted, addicted to life
and life’s deeper demands.
Love, don’t curse, the blind alleys
the red lights and lost luggage.
Without guessing there’s no game.
Not “no pain no gain”
but “no love no gain”
your wise dame
The sage speaks in patterns and pictures,
a scatter tongue. Catch as you can
her butterfly dust
But if you treasure her treasure
For eons she has been wooed in the dark
and spurned in the sun.
If she was with you then
She’s with you now.
and then, of course,