Not that kind of priestess

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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.

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