Hallowed We

I have an unholy relationship with my ancestors. Part resentment, part hope. I do know their out there but well truly behind the veil of unknowing. The abyss of imagination. I like to think I was severed as protection from some great burden of pain. The line that I draw from slowly dispersed in a cloud of gas, or an ethnicity so rare that it had to be corralled into oblivion, the violins strings breaking as the fires raged progress forward. I often think I would prefer the story, the knowing, to be able to look back on that line I pull forward to the place it is anchored, drawing on the perspective given. Instead I'm a messy secret, the line simply disappears into mist, dark. 

Narnia enthralled me as a child, but the Magicians Nephew was by far my favourite. It was the place between the worlds. A recognition when I read the urgency of limbo. I have a clear image and even sharper focus of what it is like to move between, the line is broken and all you have is choices. Choices best not taken with thought. More of a movement, heartfelt. I would imagine the doors as trees for I felt that they were all portals and indeed when I felt into my rootless body I simply know I had to move deeper down. Grandmother Aspen and Madrona, Grandfather Cottenwood and Alder guiding me through as I revolved around the wheel. I had to feel through my roots as the story was shrouded. I had to really stretch to where we begun, the scream of blue, the drumming of the earth, the Iceni rhythm of living in sentience with our mother. My mother. The grasp of the sky and grip of rock, the gathering of seasons, the thrum of weaving, the sing of iron, the sizzle of flesh, the sweep of blood in the grove, the tang of fresh splatter in offering for more secrets. I felt the loss, the loss of my story and of us all, white hapless invaders, bereft of living indigenous, bereft of those who worked and walked with the land. And it is to this loss that I offer this Samhain, it is to this loss that I build my hallowed alter, the cut and unceasing expression of the wound. It is in response, response to my wound, our wounds on this day of the ancestors that I drew this journal with rabbit tobacco and datura. My nod to our kin and the earth knowledge that they took with them.