Tag Archives: Sacred Waters

COUNTING THE TREES

Trees are sanctuaries.
Whoever knows how to speak to them,
whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.
They do not preach learning and precepts,
they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
Hermann Hesse

hawthorntree

It is said that Trees are Keepers of Memories. During the Dark Moon of Dreaming Moon I chose the Hawthorne (or does She chose me) to do my Ritual with. She is standing North of our House and while Offering Mother Earth and May (or Hawthorne) my Blessings Whispers of Memories are reaching out for me and I Listen, and this is what I Hear:
Footsteps, footsteps of a child on a road creating different sounds because of echoes coming back from empty spaces and from Trees along the road. I hear footsteps of an adult, too, the child’s father I guess. He is walking on her right side and right from him are the Trees. They are playing a Game called: Counting the Trees. Every time the child hears the echo coming back from a tree, when she hears she is passing a Tree she says: “Yes, there’s one, and another one”. And the voice of her father: “Yes, then sound of Grin”. Her mother and sister are there as well and they all have fun and I can hear their laughter. They are happy because they all See the same Tree, if its with their eyes or their ears.
Years later I will learn that the Trees taught me, as a Kid, Echolocation or Flash Sonar, that Trees have been my Teachers in Imaging the World with help of Sound.
But in those early days this was a favorite Game of the Child, and her Family.Country Diary : Noctule Bat (Nyctalus noctula) peering out of tree hole

Years later the Tree would come back in my life as an Old Friend, patiently waiting for me to find him so he could comfort me and give me a place to rest.
It is in my mid-thirties in a period of my life that I feel threatened and full of fear that I, on a certain moment, find myself on the bottom of a Well, a cold chilly wet Well with high slippery walls all around. I am sitting on the ground not knowing how to get out. After a long while I start climbing, hands and feet against the wall. Again and again I slip back but I hold on wanting out of this gloomy place so badly and after a very exhausting long time I finally can grab the edge of the Well with one hand, pull myself up and over it and roll out. Being very tired I lay still for a while but then slowly get on my feet again and start looking for Stones. I want to lay Stones on the opening of the Well, I want to lay lots of Stones on and over it to protect myself for falling in again. Every Stone I place represents someone who loves me and I say their Names out loud, I name them all. So, I create a Monument of Love.

cairn
When I am ready it is still no time to rest. First I have to get away from this deep whole, this Well, as far as I can and so I crawl up a Hill. Being on top, looking back, I can see the Well deep down below with a Cairn built over and around it. I crawl a bit further and there He is, an Old Old Tree, an Old Old Oak. He invites me to sit with Him and rest. And so I do.
It is 26 Years later that I, coming out of the woods, stepping upon a Path, find myself again Facing Oak. It is then that I realize that sitting down and rest at his foot had only been the Beginning of another Journey, a Journey that would last 26 years, wandering through the woods, through a Labyrinth of Paths leading me back to the same Center, over and over again.

Coming out of the woods I find myself on a Clearing, back on Track, back on my Path and it is Oak who is there to welcome me.

oak-tree

All these Memories are Whispering to me when I stand with Hawthorne on the Dark Moon of Dreaming Moon. She who is standing in front of me, Woman ready to Receive, May, Her I Offer my Sacred Waters/Sacred Blood, Walking around Her, Singing, Chanting, Telling Mother Earth Peace is on the way.

Portal of Rebirth

caption id=”attachment_142″ align=”alignnone” width=”604″]hourglass+nebula_NASA Hourglass Nebula, Birth and Death of a Star[/caption]

Emerging from beyond the Clouds, from where the Primordial Waters lie, I slowly descend along the Cord of Intentions Woven by the Great Hive Mother. There are Knots in it, Sounds, Words, Images, Hieroglyphs to help me remember, to show me the way. And while going down She is Weaving me into Her Dream, into Her Plan. And while going down I’m Wrapping myself into my Plan, into my Dream.
When I’m almost down I for the last time call out to Her:
Hive Mother, Please, send me the Songs, send me Stories needed to Remember, to Remember My Name.
Send me the right Words, let them spring forth like the Waters from the Source, Sacred Living Waters, for they will be needed as Mantra’s of Medicine.
Then I step upon the Earth and start walking…..And on that very moment I hear the most beautiful Song rising up from the Birth Chambers deep down below:

catal huyuk

Catal Huyuk

Great Woman, Mother of birds
Your shrine is sticky with beeswax and feathers
Your shrine is loud with throbs, with the beat of wings
You are the vessel beaked and breasted
You contain us as earth contains us, as sky contains stars,
Our ancestors, our yet unborn
We pour through you life after life
The vessel dips into the river, water pours out on earth
Earth drinks of us as corn sucks rain from your breast, as
rain feeds the river

Great Sky Woman
Your shrine is deep in the cradling earth
Your shrine is the spirit’s resting place, beginning place
We are your vessel
You are milk on the wing
We contain you as the body contains breath as the breast
contains milk
You pour through us life after life as breath pours through
us,
The ancestors, the yet unborn return,
Our bodies are their vessels
Earth drinks of us as rain feeds the river

The spirit rises on the wing
The room bums with power; you hear bees; you taste honey.
The woman cries out, her contractions ripple through you like
the bee wings that carry you up as you match breath with
breath as you been trained to do.
The bird comes for you and you ride her out into the free sky
where the stars are smeared like breast milk in a vessel of
dark brew.
They are the souls of the dead; they are the unborn.
They are a vast field of grain and here is your grandmother
walking toward you holding three different stalks of wheat
from three fields.
“Plant these together,” she says. Then she is gone.
The bird plucks a star like a glowing fruit with her beak.
The wings beat with your breath. “She’s crowning!” the women
cry. “Bear down. Push!”
You cry out together with one voice The child slides free.
“A girl!” the women cry in delight.
They give her to her mother, who holds her close as the old
women chant a song of praise:
A great gift, a precious gift has come to us . . .
You catch the birth blood in a bowl to pour over the fields.
The child’s skin is covered with the waxy vernix that
protected her in the womb.
The old women rub it into her body and smear some on their
faces. “It make you beautiful,” they say.

The shrine is filled with song and laughter.
Tomorrow you will walk the fields.
You will find seeds of three different kinds of grain and
plant them together.
When you have planted and harvested and planted again, season
after season, your daughters and daughters’ daughters
following after, you will have something new: a heavy headed
kernel, easy to thresh, a gift to the people from the
ancestors.
You have brought the knowledge through, for you are a
priestess of the women’s mysteries, shaman of the birth
chamber, ancestor-speaker, the bird’s rider,
a woman of knowledge.

America's Stonehenge

Woman made of soil by women’s hands together at America’s Stonehenge on the Summer Solstice.

The Old Women Chant is written by Starhawk dedicated to Marija Gimbutas and the Birth Chambers of Catal Huyuk