I sit in the cabin with a cup of tea and a needy cat. I am deep in a confused conversation with my guides and guardians.
Suddenly a vision comes. A temple. Sunlight is streaming through the windows pouring onto a group of white-robed priestesses. They are singing and dancing, faces lit with joy and ecstasy; some of them are people I know here.
I am standing at the doorway in this scene, looking in.
A voice says, very clearly, “you’re not that kind of priestess.”
And just like that it makes perfect sense.
I am not that kind of priestess.
I am a mud and blood priestess. I will sit with you and hear your grief, the stories of lost dreams. I will sit with you and hold space for your pain and sadness. I will show you the ways to soothe the hurt places, and to tend the scars. I will show the ways to listen to your body and hear the bone-deep wisdom of our ancestors.
I will walk with you through the night time and in the shadows wait with you while you heal. I will hold a lamp for you when your own goes out. I will help you breathe life pack into the dull embers of your inner fire.
And when all that is done and you wash the tears from your face I will help you find the pieces to gather together, I will show you the tools you can use and the secret places where your own magic lies.
With cards and runes, with herbs and stones, a lit candle and a knotted string.
I am that kind of priestess.