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windinthemaplesThe weekend before my surgery, I flew to St. Louis with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mermaiden and drove from there to Diana's Grove for their July Mystery School weekend. The theme of the long weekend event was Playing for the Song. The temptingly vague registration catalog promised, "This weekend celebrates the creative spirit. To enter the innermost sanctum of your soul requires a leap of faith. Challenged to step into your own power, what will you create? Are you ready to let go of yourself and bring your sacred gifts to fruition? This weekend will be devoted to unleashing your own art… whatever form that joy may take." As a singer, the very mention of song drew me in and I was sold, completely, on whatever spiritual challenges, transformative experiences, and path-shifting surprises the ritual team had in store for me. There was that frisson of anticipatory bracing, though, wondering what I had gotten myself into and if the Universe would smile on me and my kidney stone out in the middle of nowhere for a weekend. :D The magic of the Grove is that it changes everyone it touches. My story is my experience. Though we may have gone through ritual and meals and meetings as a group, the other magic of the Grove is that everyone is having their own private transformations, confirmations, inspirations. We are all there alone, together. So this is my story of my weekend the way I heard it, experienced it, and was changed by it.... :)
Our meadow-view cabin--we had the Moon(right) side. :)
A longtime Mystery picked us up at the St. Louis airport and drove us out to the Grove. We arrived late afternoon and had a few hours to ourselves to sort out our luggage, set up our bedding in the cabin, and walk the land together. I think something like thirty people were at the Grove for the weekend, but Sarah and I were still fortunate enough to be given our own cabin that would normally have housed four more campers. It gave us full license to have long slumber-party talks about things together without feeling like we were excluding anyone else around us. And, dorm-room style, it gave us plenty of room to strew our belongings around, hang wet towels and creek-swimming clothes out to dry, and otherwise take over the little lavender den as our own little retreat from the sun. :)
Our little cabin kingdom!
The Grove was in full summer glory. Cicadas and tree frogs roared and sawed tirelessly in the trees. Giant butterflies drifted lazily in the hot afternoon breezes and everywhere was a riot of lush green growth and rampantly radiant wildflowers. Many of the shrines and altars in the tucked away corners of the land were half-lost amongst the undergrowth, leaf-heavy boughs, and elaborate spiderwebs.
~*~
Around 5pm, everyone met up the hill in the main house's Great Room for a welcoming session. We were all given our name tags, color-coordinated with the small Circles of Support we'd meet in daily throughout the rest of the weekend, and we had a chance to all check-in verbally and introduce ourselves to the group at large. It was wonderful to see so many familiar faces along with some new.
The myth of the weekend was introduced. We would be focusing on a retelling of Psyche's tale. Our weekend began with her in the Underworld, grief-stricken at the loss of Eros, not dead but existing as if she were. There, in the solitary comfort of the Shadow Lands, time has ceased to exist. She has no reason to strive, nothing to do but grieve and hide and rest in the concealing darkness. She lays entirely within the safety of self-blame. She's given others no chance to voice an opinion of her actions that led to Eros' leaving, she must only imagine what they might have thought of her. At some point, in this darkness, Psyche hears the song that Pan plays upon his pipes. She hears the song of Life. Pan comes to her and gives her a choice. She may go back to her old pre-Eros life, as an admired, pampered princess. Or, she may choose the path of challenges in pursuit of her lover and attempt to become an equal to Eros, a Goddess within her own right. Pan pushes her to accept the easier former life, to forget her time in Paradise with passion and love, to settle for something safer and more assured. Pan had once faced a similar choice. He was a shepherd and his love for his music was absolute. In becoming Pan, the God, he had to discard his right to play music for himself or music for an audience. Instead, he was bound now to play for the song, to serve through his passion. Psyche could have listened to him. She could have made a choice to go back home and reclaim her old life, but she did not. She followed the sounds of Pan's pipes, the Song of Life. She crossed the River Styx and left the Underworld. She re-engaged with the world of the living and she made the choice to pursue the harder path, the path of challenges, the path of becoming, the path of a mortal proving herself worthy as an equal to the God she loved.
~*~
After a dinner on the decks watching hummingbirds swarm the feeders and time to shower in the luxurious outdoor showers by our cabin, we dressed for our ritual descent into the Underworld. I'd brought a long sleeveless black lace dress, a headband of black satin flowers for my hair, and my Glamourkin token from Black, reading "a candle burns as bright as stars". Sarah and I met outside in the dusk before ritual. Grove dogs followed at her heels. We were stepping into the weekend's work, the magical side of the Grove, with the moon high and full in the twilight-sapphire sky.
Ritual was held outdoors at the open-air barn, a platform of wooden flooring, arching candle and moonlit space, stately wooden pews and weather-worn decorative rugs. Priests and Priestesses stepped forward into the shadowy space and began invoking the Underworld.
In the land of darkness, everything is silence.
In the land of darkness, everything is ash. There is nothing left to burn, no tinder.
In the land of darkness, everything is fog.
In the land of darkness, everything is darkness, absolute darkness.
Each of us, participants, were invoked as Psyche, the Soul, the Breath, in her grief. We existed in the comfort of not feeling, in the almost womb-like security of being disconnected from everything. It was safe here.
What can only enter the world through you? What is your unique quality? What is the talent, the work, the truth that only you can say?
It is easy to stay here in my grief. By doing nothing, I will remain here. I am not yet dead but I will not be forced out of this dark, chill comfort. And then, with a heated blaze of red and a commanding voice in the darkness, Persephone arrives.
I am not yet dead. She, of all the Gods, would know if I was. There is compassion here. She swears that she will hold me, comfort me, transform me when my life is truly over. It is not over. She would know. Though I may not see it, there is still tinder there in my life, something that can catch fire and blaze. There is something left--some potential something. Will I choose life, will I choose to keep fighting as long as I am, as she promises, not dead?
All wounds can be healed, she says. Yes, even mine. And over and over and over again until it sinks in and I can no longer shake my head in self-defeating disagreement She says:
No face of the Divine wishes you harm.
No face of the Divine wishes you harm.
No face of the Divine wishes you harm.
No face of the Divine wishes me harm. Persephone will take me into her arms when it is over, a Goddess' promise, but it is not over. Will I keep fighting? Will I sweep away the ashy shroud that has drifted over my sight, my senses, my self as I've sat here in the land of the Dead? Will I blow the ashes of that grief away from me and choose the path back to life, over the River Styx?
I can go back to life as I was before. I can take the path of challenge and become a Goddess in my own right. Will I cross the River Styx? Will I dare to enter back into the world of feeling and light and community? Will I reclaim my rightful life?
If you are a healer, you must heal.
You cannot heal without being wounded first and you cannot be compassionate without experiencing loss.
Persephone would know. All is not ash. I am not done. I do not belong among the dead. Persephone would know. I hear the call, the Call to Life, and I will dare to trust her, dare to accept the path of challenge once again, dare to cross the River Styx.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us
into life, into life
the magic calls us
In the middle of ritual space, there is a shallow pool of water, draped in midnight fabrics and studded with floating silver lotuses. The River Styx. I chose to cross its icy breadth and found, on the other side, a riot of sound and drumming and chanting women and stomping, twirling men, the light of the moon and candles and colorful ritual garb. The movement of dancing and the sighing of feet across a wooden floor. Back into life, back into life, back into life and all the vulnerable joy and struggle and shared sensation that brings. Back into life.
Others came back, too, some splashing and dancing and leaping with abandon through the waters of the Styx. We came together to sing, this Song to Life, we sang:
Songs need their singers
like your dream needs you.
Hold onto faith
for you know what is true.
Always remember the magic you hold.
Only through you can your story be told.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us.
Falling asleep, after ritual, I felt that sense of rightful homecoming. I'd been jolted out of my inaction, out of my comfy spot in the Shadow Lands, into the challenge and promise and scary-wonderful presence of being alive, being awake, being aware, and being willing to strive for something that feels more than I can deliver. I do not want to waste my days pretending that I'm already half-dead. I am not dead yet. Only I can tell my story. Only I can serve the world through my unique abilities, perspective, and self. Who am I a dedicant to? What has ordained me, set me apart as serving my own separate calling? What will I choose to serve with my Life?
I was at the Grove and I was fully alive once again.
mermaiden and drove from there to Diana's Grove for their July Mystery School weekend. The theme of the long weekend event was Playing for the Song. The temptingly vague registration catalog promised, "This weekend celebrates the creative spirit. To enter the innermost sanctum of your soul requires a leap of faith. Challenged to step into your own power, what will you create? Are you ready to let go of yourself and bring your sacred gifts to fruition? This weekend will be devoted to unleashing your own art… whatever form that joy may take." As a singer, the very mention of song drew me in and I was sold, completely, on whatever spiritual challenges, transformative experiences, and path-shifting surprises the ritual team had in store for me. There was that frisson of anticipatory bracing, though, wondering what I had gotten myself into and if the Universe would smile on me and my kidney stone out in the middle of nowhere for a weekend. :D The magic of the Grove is that it changes everyone it touches. My story is my experience. Though we may have gone through ritual and meals and meetings as a group, the other magic of the Grove is that everyone is having their own private transformations, confirmations, inspirations. We are all there alone, together. So this is my story of my weekend the way I heard it, experienced it, and was changed by it.... :)Our meadow-view cabin--we had the Moon(right) side. :)
A longtime Mystery picked us up at the St. Louis airport and drove us out to the Grove. We arrived late afternoon and had a few hours to ourselves to sort out our luggage, set up our bedding in the cabin, and walk the land together. I think something like thirty people were at the Grove for the weekend, but Sarah and I were still fortunate enough to be given our own cabin that would normally have housed four more campers. It gave us full license to have long slumber-party talks about things together without feeling like we were excluding anyone else around us. And, dorm-room style, it gave us plenty of room to strew our belongings around, hang wet towels and creek-swimming clothes out to dry, and otherwise take over the little lavender den as our own little retreat from the sun. :)
Our little cabin kingdom!
The Grove was in full summer glory. Cicadas and tree frogs roared and sawed tirelessly in the trees. Giant butterflies drifted lazily in the hot afternoon breezes and everywhere was a riot of lush green growth and rampantly radiant wildflowers. Many of the shrines and altars in the tucked away corners of the land were half-lost amongst the undergrowth, leaf-heavy boughs, and elaborate spiderwebs.
~*~
Around 5pm, everyone met up the hill in the main house's Great Room for a welcoming session. We were all given our name tags, color-coordinated with the small Circles of Support we'd meet in daily throughout the rest of the weekend, and we had a chance to all check-in verbally and introduce ourselves to the group at large. It was wonderful to see so many familiar faces along with some new.
The myth of the weekend was introduced. We would be focusing on a retelling of Psyche's tale. Our weekend began with her in the Underworld, grief-stricken at the loss of Eros, not dead but existing as if she were. There, in the solitary comfort of the Shadow Lands, time has ceased to exist. She has no reason to strive, nothing to do but grieve and hide and rest in the concealing darkness. She lays entirely within the safety of self-blame. She's given others no chance to voice an opinion of her actions that led to Eros' leaving, she must only imagine what they might have thought of her. At some point, in this darkness, Psyche hears the song that Pan plays upon his pipes. She hears the song of Life. Pan comes to her and gives her a choice. She may go back to her old pre-Eros life, as an admired, pampered princess. Or, she may choose the path of challenges in pursuit of her lover and attempt to become an equal to Eros, a Goddess within her own right. Pan pushes her to accept the easier former life, to forget her time in Paradise with passion and love, to settle for something safer and more assured. Pan had once faced a similar choice. He was a shepherd and his love for his music was absolute. In becoming Pan, the God, he had to discard his right to play music for himself or music for an audience. Instead, he was bound now to play for the song, to serve through his passion. Psyche could have listened to him. She could have made a choice to go back home and reclaim her old life, but she did not. She followed the sounds of Pan's pipes, the Song of Life. She crossed the River Styx and left the Underworld. She re-engaged with the world of the living and she made the choice to pursue the harder path, the path of challenges, the path of becoming, the path of a mortal proving herself worthy as an equal to the God she loved.
~*~
After a dinner on the decks watching hummingbirds swarm the feeders and time to shower in the luxurious outdoor showers by our cabin, we dressed for our ritual descent into the Underworld. I'd brought a long sleeveless black lace dress, a headband of black satin flowers for my hair, and my Glamourkin token from Black, reading "a candle burns as bright as stars". Sarah and I met outside in the dusk before ritual. Grove dogs followed at her heels. We were stepping into the weekend's work, the magical side of the Grove, with the moon high and full in the twilight-sapphire sky.
Ritual was held outdoors at the open-air barn, a platform of wooden flooring, arching candle and moonlit space, stately wooden pews and weather-worn decorative rugs. Priests and Priestesses stepped forward into the shadowy space and began invoking the Underworld.
In the land of darkness, everything is silence.
In the land of darkness, everything is ash. There is nothing left to burn, no tinder.
In the land of darkness, everything is fog.
In the land of darkness, everything is darkness, absolute darkness.
Each of us, participants, were invoked as Psyche, the Soul, the Breath, in her grief. We existed in the comfort of not feeling, in the almost womb-like security of being disconnected from everything. It was safe here.
What can only enter the world through you? What is your unique quality? What is the talent, the work, the truth that only you can say?
It is easy to stay here in my grief. By doing nothing, I will remain here. I am not yet dead but I will not be forced out of this dark, chill comfort. And then, with a heated blaze of red and a commanding voice in the darkness, Persephone arrives.
I am not yet dead. She, of all the Gods, would know if I was. There is compassion here. She swears that she will hold me, comfort me, transform me when my life is truly over. It is not over. She would know. Though I may not see it, there is still tinder there in my life, something that can catch fire and blaze. There is something left--some potential something. Will I choose life, will I choose to keep fighting as long as I am, as she promises, not dead?
All wounds can be healed, she says. Yes, even mine. And over and over and over again until it sinks in and I can no longer shake my head in self-defeating disagreement She says:
No face of the Divine wishes you harm.
No face of the Divine wishes you harm.
No face of the Divine wishes you harm.
No face of the Divine wishes me harm. Persephone will take me into her arms when it is over, a Goddess' promise, but it is not over. Will I keep fighting? Will I sweep away the ashy shroud that has drifted over my sight, my senses, my self as I've sat here in the land of the Dead? Will I blow the ashes of that grief away from me and choose the path back to life, over the River Styx?
I can go back to life as I was before. I can take the path of challenge and become a Goddess in my own right. Will I cross the River Styx? Will I dare to enter back into the world of feeling and light and community? Will I reclaim my rightful life?
If you are a healer, you must heal.
You cannot heal without being wounded first and you cannot be compassionate without experiencing loss.
Persephone would know. All is not ash. I am not done. I do not belong among the dead. Persephone would know. I hear the call, the Call to Life, and I will dare to trust her, dare to accept the path of challenge once again, dare to cross the River Styx.
the magic calls us.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us
into life, into life
the magic calls us
In the middle of ritual space, there is a shallow pool of water, draped in midnight fabrics and studded with floating silver lotuses. The River Styx. I chose to cross its icy breadth and found, on the other side, a riot of sound and drumming and chanting women and stomping, twirling men, the light of the moon and candles and colorful ritual garb. The movement of dancing and the sighing of feet across a wooden floor. Back into life, back into life, back into life and all the vulnerable joy and struggle and shared sensation that brings. Back into life.
Others came back, too, some splashing and dancing and leaping with abandon through the waters of the Styx. We came together to sing, this Song to Life, we sang:
like your dream needs you.
Hold onto faith
for you know what is true.
Always remember the magic you hold.
Only through you can your story be told.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us.
Into life, into life
the magic calls us.
Falling asleep, after ritual, I felt that sense of rightful homecoming. I'd been jolted out of my inaction, out of my comfy spot in the Shadow Lands, into the challenge and promise and scary-wonderful presence of being alive, being awake, being aware, and being willing to strive for something that feels more than I can deliver. I do not want to waste my days pretending that I'm already half-dead. I am not dead yet. Only I can tell my story. Only I can serve the world through my unique abilities, perspective, and self. Who am I a dedicant to? What has ordained me, set me apart as serving my own separate calling? What will I choose to serve with my Life?
I was at the Grove and I was fully alive once again.
