Pagan Godspell

She whose curses had blasted the fire till it shrivelled big logs of oak crooned now a melody like a wind in summer blowing from wild wood gardens that no man tended, down valleys loved once by children, now lost to them but for dreams, a song of such memories as lurk and hide along the edges of oblivion, now flashing from beautiful years of glimpse of some golden moment, now passing swiftly out of remembrance again, to go back to the shades of oblivion, and leaving on the mind those faintest traces of little shining feet which when dimly perceived by us are called regrets.

-Lord Dunsany, The King of Elfland’s Daughter

Oh, Pagani, it is another fine, smoky, honey-eyed day.  And an eldritch one at that.  The weather is so rich and golden, so full of dance and dream, so sweet and dark and utterly strange that I imagine the ghost of Lord Dunsany himself whistling over the copper grasses, idly muttering passages from his exquisite books, having crossed over personally from Beyond the Fields We Know to admire the setting sun.

It is a Samhain day, and perfect.  All the hum and thrust of the season captured in the wind.  Downright fine cackling weather.  No matter where you are, I encourage you to go out and practice your best cackle in honor of the season.  Now is the time, now is the hour, doveys.

For it comes, it comes, best beloveds, the dark rising, the many-petaled veils between this n’ next slithering over and through each other…do you smell it?  Dust from crumbling yellow leaves, old pollen, the dying breaths of plants and moss and insects, memories on top of memories, the ones you treasure most, the ones that haunt you best, and even ones you are quite sure are not your own.  Remember the time you lived in the oak tree with the little door in it?  Remember the Big Crooked House made of bronze leaves and glass chips and bark, with a thousand rooms, each nested inside another?  You do.  You do.

The day is transparent, and we see through it on into winter, making wishes.  Our Beloved Dead are near, pressing in on our windows – let them in if they are welcome.  And the exquisite light, that light that cannot be captured on film or digital no matter how hard you try….you will simply have to remember it.  Drink it up, tuck it away in your little soul pocket.

The day looks sideways out the corner of its eyes.  Doors open.  One misplaced step, and you could find yourself singing songs and telling tales to a Strange Queen for the rest of your days…

Lucky you.

Grok the Shining, beloveds.  The door is opening….