The story goes…every year on this day, the two Mothers meet in the great ballroom, this spectacular venue with its walls made of moss and glass, the cedar and oak and juniper floor boards bowing into the billowy humus.
The Mothers enter the hall. Each step towards each other, the grand ballroom sighs and sings and sways with feral anticipation. These Mothers have known each other’s gaze and gate for so long, longer than time. They have met here, in this palace, in a communion of the holy wild, a marriage between the drama of life and that which gave it a name.
Matrons of millennia…
Crones of the Gods…
Mothers of season once birthed…and through their own karmic threads, are eternally twisted together at their frayed ends.
And…so then the mothers met in this great hall and shared a dance of matrimony. Till death do they part..again and a gain.
Indeed, the handing over of our own to another is a dance of death. Tis the cyclical endangerment between the cycles of all the things that have Life.
The mothers are not the drama.
They are not the lovers or the death.
They are not the joy in companionship or the pain of loss.
They are not the drama between the characters within the story of each season.
The Mothers are the vow to surrender to life through every season. This ceremony is the zero point in which no karma or well guided intention can escape the absolute surrender and acceptance of their spending infinity in wedlock.
The mothers know that the drama of life will unfold and it’s within this equinox and in their locked gaze that all is possible, all except escaping the inevitability of the seasons.
As they meet in the center of this great ballroom and lock fingers, brushing against each other’s gowns and skin, smelling how they have longed secretly for the other’s scent. The music, oh that music is that of the drums and the angels and all the mighty words from every tribe and legion within this great expanse of time.
They sway together.
They, after some time of dancing with both sensuality and tension, stop.
They raise their eyes to meet one another in a crystalline encounter of a million stars shining through glass walls.
There is no sound. All has been lost in the in-breath.
And with a great exhale that meets like the sound of The Gods themselves, they lean in and gently kiss. The intimacy of their farewell is fleeting unless otherwise felt as the gentle hairs on the hidden crevices of our skin speak in riddle… It could be heard as an echo of all the songs that were ever sung.
They vow of their surrender, offering up the seeds of this earthly drama as a loyal sacrifice to the Book of Stories.
And so, as the many characters of life begin to convene around the hearth and tell stories and let the doing of these summer months crackle and burn away, let us remember the gaze between the 2 mothers. Their trust that even though it may appear that something has been lost forever and we must hold onto dear life what we have created, there is no escaping the inevitability of change.
This time also reminds us that without the art and practice of storytelling, we may forget.
We may not recognize our loves when they return after long bouts in darkness, so let us keep the stories of our lives alive and gather with our blended families to remember and surrender.
May you find yourSelf in wedlock to story, song, and surrender this Season.
Story by Kristin Moyer | Writer, Poet, Spiritual Ecologist, Facilitator of Story Medicine, and Animist.
Art by Lettie | See Full Artist Feature (coming soon)
