There's a thaw outside, no doubt temporary, since it is only January. The harvest of the garden was long-ago gathered or froze solid on the vine. The nights are still much longer than the days, and the world lies sleeping, even if it's not cold enough on my porch to hurt my lungs. It's the hard part of winter, when my health has been worn down by the heating-season allergies and the dark and the cold, but the thaw is a reminder that won't last forever.
But it certainly isn't warm out. I can't open the windows to clear the air inside, and my fingers are already complaining that they're old, and if I wanted to stay outside, I should have worn gloves. I usher you in quickly after a brief pause to smile at my slumbering rose bushes. It's great to see you, come on in, why don't I make some tea--or something else, if you prefer?
We get into the kitchen, and she is there, a much-wrinkled old fae, thin and wiry, and dark as tree bark. She has made tea, and it swirls with fae magic. Will it be bitter with loss or sweet with hope--or both? It's hard to tell, since both can be part of the Lady's message for us. She comes on a wave of change, of completing one thing and moving on to another. This can feel good or bad or both at once, but it cannot be avoided. Change comes to us all, in little and large ways.
She smiles at us and says, "Welcome", and it feels right, even though she is sitting in my kitchen. It is as if she is welcoming us into the future.
I laugh, and repeat her greeting anyway. It is my kitchen, after all. She has dimples when she returns the smile. "I made some tea, but first, think about whether there are things you don't need to keep as you move forward." I think about all the clutter I'm slowly trying to sort, and the bags of stuff in the front hall that I'll take to the thrift store once there's enough to fill my trunk, but she continues, "You can let go of old pain, let your grief mellow, or let things that are holding you back fade." Now I think of the wordless, irrational dread that makes it so hard to pay bills, so that doing so takes much longer than it should. If I could release that, I'd have that much more time to make music or stories, or even just to enjoy life.
I don't know what things you're thinking of, but there must be something that matters, because she pours the tea, and offers each of us a cup.
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The Lady of the Harvest
Date: 2018-01-20 06:41 am (UTC)But it certainly isn't warm out. I can't open the windows to clear the air inside, and my fingers are already complaining that they're old, and if I wanted to stay outside, I should have worn gloves. I usher you in quickly after a brief pause to smile at my slumbering rose bushes. It's great to see you, come on in, why don't I make some tea--or something else, if you prefer?
We get into the kitchen, and she is there, a much-wrinkled old fae, thin and wiry, and dark as tree bark. She has made tea, and it swirls with fae magic. Will it be bitter with loss or sweet with hope--or both? It's hard to tell, since both can be part of the Lady's message for us. She comes on a wave of change, of completing one thing and moving on to another. This can feel good or bad or both at once, but it cannot be avoided. Change comes to us all, in little and large ways.
She smiles at us and says, "Welcome", and it feels right, even though she is sitting in my kitchen. It is as if she is welcoming us into the future.
I laugh, and repeat her greeting anyway. It is my kitchen, after all. She has dimples when she returns the smile. "I made some tea, but first, think about whether there are things you don't need to keep as you move forward." I think about all the clutter I'm slowly trying to sort, and the bags of stuff in the front hall that I'll take to the thrift store once there's enough to fill my trunk, but she continues, "You can let go of old pain, let your grief mellow, or let things that are holding you back fade." Now I think of the wordless, irrational dread that makes it so hard to pay bills, so that doing so takes much longer than it should. If I could release that, I'd have that much more time to make music or stories, or even just to enjoy life.
I don't know what things you're thinking of, but there must be something that matters, because she pours the tea, and offers each of us a cup.