Grab the rope. . .

The Nain, the Nain, the Nain is nine hundred. . .

I awoke with a chant rolling around in my head. I knew I was hearing voices lilting in Irish I could understand the words even though I speak not a lick of conversational gaelic. ( ritual prose is another thing :) If I understand what I was hearing and seeing, they were talking about their grandmother. The grandmother of all witches if I go even deeper into that circle. . . It may have been she who brewed that infamous potion sung about in the stories of Tristan and Isolde.

These are always one of my favorite moments in the craft. The part where dreams, myth and waking life intertwine into one rope. Everything points into one direction and all you need do now is trust yourself and walk forward into the woods and work your craft. The hard part has really already been done. I have parted the mist and walked into faery and kept my mind stable. I think before my tradition training this phenomenon may have disturbed me and unbalanced me. It is easy to see why certain traditions have such a vigorous one on one training period.

“The artist and the shaman swim in waters where the madman drowns.”
— Robert Moss


So what exactly am I doing, you may be asking right about now. I think I am not even clear as to the exact details on that I answer. I know what I have been asked to do and I know I am capable of doing it. I have spent most of my magical life learning this craft piece by piece. Right now I am crafting oils to carry specific energies of those who walk through mythology: Isolde, Tristan and now possibly The Nain, we shall see if she speaks or remains a distant figure. 

I could turn my back on these requests and brew the potions of antiquity and have proven their worth to more that just this witch. Honestly, there are so many talented witches and potion makers all over this task. This is a good thing on both sides of the fence: our history and traditions remains preserved and new things are nurtured and encourage to grow. Remember, stagnation leads to death. So, while I may be able to brew up my own batch of come to me boy, that's not what I am offering. I have always been told that if you offer something, offer your finest, to not do so is just plain rude.


So what do you do when snatches of music in your waking hours follow the theme of your dreams that follow you out of the mists of faery?  What do you do with all of these events that wrap around themselves like a rope and call your name? Where will it take me? What will happen? Who is orchestrating all of this? If you don't hold your courage and take the rope, you will never find out and you will spend the rest of your days wondering: what if?


So into the mists I go. . .