We are companioned

In the imaginal realm, the sky glows like a gray pearl. Snow swirls around me like frost-smoke. 

Out of nowhere trots Fox, with a jaunty air. Sparks of magic fly from his russet fur. Wonder fills me at his presence. 

Fox does not pause in his trotting, but acknowledges me with one backward glance over his shoulder. A clear invitation.

"I am coming!" I call. "Wait for me!"  

But Fox slips along the trail only he can see, and disappears into the tanglewood. 

I head off. Only in such fresh snow would I ever be able to track a fox at all, you understand. Though the drifting snow tries to swallow the prints, I follow them to an opening under the hill. 

I stoop to peer into the cave. I do not see the fox, but a small wood fire burns on the stony ground. 

I enter and sit down. As I warm my hands at the flames, I hear the voice of the fire: "I am here to warm you, to shine down upon you, to bring you light in dark places. Know that you are not alone." 

The ancient stone beneath me speaks next: "I am Earth's bones. For your whole life and beyond will I hold you; you are never alone." 

I hear the liquid voice of small rivulets that trickle down the cave walls. Water says to me, "I am with you, to quench your thirst, to bathe your wounds, to wash you clean. I am part of you, you are never alone." 

Then, from the darkest part of the cave, where the shadows flicker, comes forth Fox. In the firelight, he gazes at me in silence. Then I hear him say, "I am the voice of the bright peoples. We are your teachers, your soul kin and companions in this life. Seen or unseen, we are always with you, so you are never alone." 

 
 
 

The constant gardener

 

One day, I sat in front my altar and lit a candle, inviting any whisper of insight. 

 

As I gazed in turn at each of the earth treasures upon the altar, I began to tell myself a blessing story about the soul seeds I hope I am planting. 

 

What is a blessing story? A kind of spell … a kind of prayer … a means of tending the inner landscape.

 

I envisioned these seeds within being nurtured by the powers of the sacred elements, symbolized on my altar: earth, air, fire, water and spirit. 

 

I asked that sacred Earth hold my seeds in waiting darkness until they are ready to unfold. 

 

That sacred sun and rain awaken the sleeping seeds, calling forth fragile roots and tendrils. 

 

That my soul seeds grow my spirit in the directions it needs to grow; that they someday bear flowers and fruit, to feed what needs to be fed. 

 

That I am one with the Turning of the Wheel — the never-ending rebirth of this ground that we stand upon — which holds us so faithfully, without faltering, through our entire lives and beyond. 

 

I offered gratitude for Earth’s sacred gifts, uncountable as the stars.  

 

And I thought: We are the gardeners of our own souls. 

 

Who will tend them, if we do not?