“You shall go with me, newly married bride,
And gaze upon a merrier multitude;
White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the birds,
Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him
Who is the ruler of the Western Host,
Finvarra, and their Land of Heart’s Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.
I kiss you and the world begins to fade.”
– From The Land of Heart’s Desire by WB Yeats
I had a strange dream last night.
It was bin day, and I was sitting outside with the rubbish bags. (I don’t know why.) The bin men came and picked me up with the rubbish. This led to my sad demise. The thing was, nothing actually changed. Everyone could still see me and talk to me. I ran around trying to persuade everyone that I was, in fact, dead, and could someone please do something about it? A funeral or an investigation, maybe? “That Naomi,” a friend of mine said to another friend, while I was within earshot. “Always the attention-seeker. This time it’s death, is it? Typical.”
It’s been hard to blog, these past couple of months. I have dozens of half-finished posts sitting around. I want to talk about ancestors of the body, and devotion, and Narnia, and the connections between the Ogham and the runes, and community, and the Battlestar Galactica tarot deck I’m making, and the Pagan community’s tendency to anti-intellectualism, but… It’s one of those times of change, and I’m not ready to share all the changes just yet. (Also I’m back to having daily migraines, after a blissful year where the medication was working. That doesn’t encourage engagement with the world. I say, on day five of the latest one. Please cut my head off. I can totally do a PhD without a head.)
There are times in my life where everyone can see and hear me, but I’m not entirely in this world. There’s a reason I love the legends of the people of the sidhe so much. ‘Off with the faeries’ is an extremely accurate metaphor for the mind of a person with Asperger’s. And it also describes a lot of my spiritual life. Because what is the difference between who we are and what our spirits sing to? Somewhere in between…
Meanwhile, let’s see if I can get back to weekly blogging, at least.
“When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,
My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken
My mother carries me in her golden arms.
I will soon put on my womanhood and marry
The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell
When I was born for the first time? I think
I am much older than the eagle cock
That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,
And he is the oldest thing under the moon.
I am Brig’s daughter.
I sent my messengers for milk and fire,
And then I heard one call to me and came.”