Let's pay attention to our midsummer's night's dreams!
The Midsummer Full Moon (June 26) through the New Moon (August 11) are profound times for beckoning guidance form the inner Dream Teacher and launching delicious new creativity! For the Celts and Northern Traditions of Earth-centered spirituality, Litha, or Midsummer, is the Natural High—the Zenith of the Summer's creation and re-creation. A perfect time to write poetry, make music, make love and play in Nature.
To beckon Mama Psyche, who brings us messages from the Universal through the Unique, think of writing your wishes in a Dream Note. Simply request general guidance or directions on a specific question by writing it directly on a piece of paper. Fold this three times. Voice your needs out loud. In the morning, open the note and receive the guidance that was created for you during the mysteries and magic of Midsummer Wisdom. The call to creativity that Midsummer demands is captured in the following poem. I was awakened, 15 years ago, on a brilliant, Moonlit Midsummer's Eve. It was 3AM and I was drawn, like mortals enthralled in Titania's realm, between Sleep and Waking. I wandered into the kitchen, and there in the moonlight I saw a beam of silver-blue outlining my fridge! I had just received a box of magnetic refrigerator words from a friend AND I was drawn by the completely blank white space of the fridge door. And then, as in a dream, I saw how the magnetic words should be arranged in that glistening, waiting space. I do not remember making this poem. When I woke in the morning, it was to poetry that only Puck, the Faeries or a fine Solstice sauvignon blanc could have inspirited. |
Brilliant Moon~Summer Solstice, 1995 Magnetic Fridge Poem
Le Petit Mort (The little death)
He did worship
the shadow goddess
still and essential
the will gone
tiny pink part
delicate
urge.
But I
let
lie
beneath me
all mad moments of
summer-like bood.
Languid near-language
lazy wind
garden rusting and honey drunk
peach bare
petal ache
never asking
bitter life
but for my sweeter death.
the shadow goddess
still and essential
the will gone
tiny pink part
delicate
urge.
But I
let
lie
beneath me
all mad moments of
summer-like bood.
Languid near-language
lazy wind
garden rusting and honey drunk
peach bare
petal ache
never asking
bitter life
but for my sweeter death.