The Journey

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Dec 2nd, The Promise part 2 -Song of the trees

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The crocodile came to me in dreamtime. He told me to seek out the The Mother Tree. Told me she´d been communicating through the roots and the waters of all Soulkind, urging his people to take action, to pass their knowledge through. With his jaws and dark black eyes he nudged me not to wait.

I woke up Raven.

”Come on you sleepy bird, we´ve got places to go, things to do!”

Raven shook her drowsy feathers, a few soft plumes danced to the floor. She looked at me. ”Oh dear, that crazy croc could not let you sleep til at least dawn? Never mind, the days of us ravens having time for a coffee and a biscuit in the moring are long gone ayway. Don´t think I´ve had one of them mornings since Odins days”.

It was indeed pitch black outside still. As soon as my feet hit the pavement a shadow came down in the light of the setting moon, tailing Raven.

”Oh, come on now, give me a break!” I heard Raven croaking. ”Why do you owls always have to barge in as guides? You know us ravens are fully capable of doing this too right?”

”Of course dear”, a soft howling voice replied. ”But I also know your kind are much better at gathering and observing than our kind, which is much needed on this journey. So, please, let me do the accompanying of guiding.”

Owl picked me up. How that happened in practical detail I can´t explain. It just felt natural. On her back, next to Raven, we set off towards the pines.

Moments – or was it months? – later we descended in to an opening among the firs. There, in the centre stood not one but three mother trees – Mother Birch, Mother Oak and Mother Aspen. Also known as The Three Wise Mothers.

The minute we landed on the frost and snow covered moss a song started filling the clearing from the ground up. Tunes arose from the moss. The frost sharped them, made them clearer. A deep voice started singing from the roots of The Three Wise Mothers.

”Every time you humans cut down a tree you kill a part of your own soul”. A voice spoke through the chanting. ”Every time you humans cut down a tree you kill the land of the fairies, you rob the dimensions of connection, you tear out the roots in your heart – the very roots which give life to the body, soul and conciousness of every sentient thread in this and all the parallell universes. How can you stay close to and listen to your own tree if it ain´t there no more?”

Another voice took over.

”You see, child. We trees hold heaven and earth together. On all planes. In all existance. We sing life in to being. Every being is born with a link to his or her own tree. When that link is severed only chaos and loneliness prevails. We love you all, but we can´t take it no more. You see, you can only go so far with love without connection.”

A third voice tuned in.

”Now it is up to you to take our song in to the world. For the last time. It needs to travel through the portal.”

 

  • Cecilia Götherström, 2 december 2018
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Dec 1st, The Promise, Part I

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”And so it begins…”

With amber eyes she caresses every movement my mind makes, living in the depths of my soul as she speaks. With the voice of a mother she holds my intention in hers.

”Outside the comfort zone, new challenge is what it may feel like,” she hums.

” Going deep within, taking on the Journey to fulfill the ancient promise is what it really is. Go my child. Go to come home.”

The wind is suddenly picking up, icy air is turning my ears in to frosty red bundles. My lovikavantar protecting my hands from the cold.

Right here, right now, there is nothing strange at all about sitting in between her front paws, her entire wolfness envelopping me with a beauty my heart has never witnessed before. Right here, right now, the fact that this fluffy raven and I are about to go on what will be a very, very long hike is anything but strange.

”So”, the white wolf whispers. ”You have been here before. It´s the 7th year. 21 days. It is time. They are all here. Meru, Nisse, Bertil, Pe, the dragons, the giants, the trolls, the little people, everyone. 7 years you queens have been building this portal. Dragging stones, moving and planting roots, digging deep, decorating  with dreams, wishes, strength, power. Overwon despeair, dis-ease, grief, moved mountains to get this portal ready. With your magic you have ornamented thesed doors in 4 different ways while remaining as one. It is time to open the gateway. To merge with what is on the other side. To look all your fears in the eye to be able to turn them in to gold. In to gold and silver dust.”

She changes the seat of her paws, softening her gaze, allowing for the moon and the stars to glow through her white coat as she lightly yawns before capturing me in her eyes again.

”These dances have been going on since ancient times, like the swirling breath of of the winter hunters”, she continues. ” Since ancient times some have listened, some have stayed, some have returned, others have not. This time we need to return all together. This time there will be no veil. We all have to do this together. It´s a choice to save not just what we have but what we truly are. It is our last chance to create this New Earth, through returning to the ancient wisdom.”

I know it is time to go. Time to pick up and leave. It is not that I am dreading it, it is more like ”Why? Why is December 1st always the beginning of the next big move? Why can it not just be a soft, glittery, curly and gentle way into the favourite season of the year?”

Raven chuckles. ”You´re funny”. Flapping her wings. ”You know soft, fluffy, gentle and all that won´t go down at all with that inner spirit of yours. We will fluff enough in between journeys, I promise. But now we really have to embark.”

  • Cecilia Götherström, Dec 1st 2018
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No more

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He might look like a young, innocent,  devoid of experience, warrior, but he held the wrath and protection of his ancestors. They held his back, his flanks, his future. He walked in their footsteps. In his own way.

The silvery mist was coming off his cape, latched to his shoulders by heavy ornamented armour. His dragon may well be sleeping yet he felt her waking presence. Through the dimensions they were always side by side. One mind. One soul. One being.

Why was it so hard for us humans to live in all dimensions all at once? he asked himself. Why did greed, hatred, fear, possession set as if in stone in this un-magical cold, non sensing world if ours?

The world where we fought over things, countries, people without knowing why. There really was a darker force out there feeding in to all of this.

He moved his hand through his thick, blond hair. Decided then and there to never look back. To always look in to and for those other dimensions from this moment on. To notice where he was being pulled in to the dark, to notice where the scheming seemend to be winning, to notice when it felt like there was no way out.

Love. Faith. Trust. Faith. Trust. Love.
They are all one and the same force.

Faith.

Look. Notice.

Be NoBody, NoOne, NoThing. Tread the paths of the threads between dimensions. Will to see them. Want to live them. There. Bring them in here.
That is magic. That is the magic.

There is no difference between living it, seeing it, being it. It´s there. Just open the eyes. Open the senses. Feel it. Then speak.
Before that words just block.

Sense it. Then speak. From there. From that place.

His father looked over his back.
”Son, my sword is yours. It will cut through all you don´t know that you don´t know, as well as all that which stands in the way. Use it. Sense. Listen. Look. Use it from that place. Now go.”

Cecilia Götherström, October 23rd 2018

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Return

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In a bag a few minutes ago I found this piece below which I wrote on Jan 10th 2014.
Reading it now, it gives me goosebumps – as giving the turmoil, development, moves and all that has happened the past 2,5 or even 3 years , it is more than symbolic that I wrote this early 2014 and am finding it today – July 12th.

Return

The return is imminent,
faith awaits

Her huge white wings
sweeping me in,
closing out the darkness for now

As the wings open
the dark, velvety night sky is adorned
with galaxies,
light-holes
and wishes turned in whisper

I stand there,
basking in her glow,
listening
to the whispers from now,
the whispers from before,
the whispers that were,
that are,
that will come.

In this place all is one.
There is no then,
no now,
no later.

Is the return really a return?
Or is it an opening of what was always there?

She asks me to open my eyes,
my ears, my heart,
with softness,
with a waiting,
whatever comes in.

A feather falls from the sky
into my hand,
I can feel its softness
caressing my cold palm,
almost making me giggle from the tickling feeling.

I watch the feather
as it turns and turns in my palm,
first slow,
then faster,
and faster.
The spiralling movements
makes it stir up
and away.

The feather has turned in to a huge raven,
first white,

when he takes flight I can see him
shifting in to grey,
then in to black,
his glistening eyes disappearing
with the flapping of his wings
directions Ursa Major.

The wind coming from the pine tress in the back,
bring another whisper,
a song,
an anthem.

There is a vibration from the ground,
I turn around.

The whole forest alive,
waving,
swaying,
gently sining a tune
of return,
of now,
of all never being anything other
than what is now.

A brown bear beckons me to come closer.
She has two cubs at her side.
It feels like I know them,
like I have seen them before,
like we are family.

I look up at the sky,
towards Ursa Major,
where Raven headed,
then look back at Mother Bear.

I return.

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Cecilia Götherström, 10/ 1 2014

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Ring tone

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I was looking for somebody´s number in my phone today,
and I found yours.

I was in a hurry,
rushing through the list I wished to complete by the end of the day,
and there you were.

In black and white on the screen.

The letters of your name ringing out,
as if you were still there.

A name in my list of contacts.
A cell phone number not dialled for some time,
staring at me as if the signs and numbers themselves
were eyes,
had a presence.

What would happen if I called you?

If I let my fingers slide across the touch-screen,
swipe the call – icon to dial your number?

Would there be a ring-tone?

And, if there were,
how many?

Would there be a click before the voicemail automatically switched on,
at the end of that last ring-tone?

Or would that last one end in silence?

If you could pick up, what would you say?

Would you tell me where you are?
How you are doing?
What you are doing?

Would your voice sound close,
or distant?

Would we talk about the good old times,
the friends we shared,
the village,
the snow,
the new boards of the season?

Would we laugh about what never changed,
or to be more specific ;about the old living legends whom would never change?

Would we decide to meet up the mountain,
or down in the village
tomorrow
with the whole crew?

Would we reminisce of powder days,
of flatlight,
of people held close in our hearts whether there or not there that very season,
of me working for Burton eventually,
of that proving you were right ?

Would you laugh?

Would you let us know,
where you are headed after this,
where we can see you again ?

You see,
I am not the only one
with your number still in my phone,
I am sure.

I am not the only one
whose days lit up
with that smile of yours,
whether it was telling stories
or taking the piss.

I am not the only one
wishing I could just call
those whom departed too early.

0664-2324449.

Cecilia Götherström, Feb 8th 2016

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Past Lovers

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A piece from our monthly Writer´s Circle in The Hague, written in March of 2014.

When does a Love become a Past Love?
This very moment, as the present takes over?

Is past love, lost love?

Can you love somebody more and love somebody less?
Is there a less less or a less intense,
a more less , or a more intense?

Whatever it is, at this moment it hurts.

It hurts because I find myself loving not just people,
but moments with people.

Past Loves, Past Lovers – what is the difference?
When does Love turn into a Lover?
When you Love, are you not a Lover in its most passionate essence?

Is that not when you bare your heart,
deeper than your flesh and bodily sensations?
Is that not the Love that burns deeper than your skin,
charring your inner core,
touching the roots and the nerves of who you are,
– baring your very soul.

No limits,
borderless,
beyond any rules or conceptions.

When that Love just is, is, is
– does it ever become Past?

When it is so overwhelming that the thought of losing it,
of losing this moment,
of losing this Love,
makes you cringe.

When so many tears have been shed,
when so many glowing smiles and gentle touches have been exchanged,
when you are exhausted,
wrought out,
gasping for air,
in pain,
and somehow still fulfilled in the weirdest sense of the word
– is that when Love is Past?

Is that the moment when you realize,
that all which were the signs of Love;
the Power,
the Force,
the Storms,
of Love,
in an instant got caught up with attachment.

Attachment
to the passion,
to the feeling,
to the cringing skin,
the churning stomach,
the redness,
the fluttering
– instead of Love as something bigger than what we can perceive?

Cecilia Götherström, March 2014

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There

Reiki

Behind the sea there is a scent

Behind the scent
a truth

a truth odourless,
subtle
yet the greatest of them all

The truth of
who you are

a pearl within
a much larger scope
you could ever imagine.

Live that breath,
take that step
Be that one.

You.

Cecilia Götherström, 23-11 2015

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In my heart of hearts I

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In my heart of hearts I
hear music
sing to my soul

In my heart of hearts I
am music

In my heart of hearts I
spill in to the world of creation
like a brittle waterfall,
a whiskering wind,
like a tone of love,
of wildness,
of quaking wisdom
shivering out of my bones

In my heart of hearts I
know who I am

In my heart of hearts I
melt into the mother,
become the father

In my heart of hearts I
am the speck of oneness,
the soul who is the muse,
the giver of joy,
simultaneously

In my heart of hearts,
there is no stopping me,
No boundaries,
no beginning,
no ending,
in my heart of hearts

In my heart of hearts I
look deep into the brown-yellow eyes
of the enormous white wolf
in the mirror
looking back at me,
eyes full of tenderness,
eyes full of knowing,
soul full of worship

In my heart of hearts I
come home
to who I am,
to who I was,
to who I am to be,
simultaneously.

Cecilia Götherström, Nov 5th 2015
Thank you Roger Housden for the writing prompt!

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Häxdans

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Röken virvlade upp ur skålen.
Små snirkliga banor av tall-rosor, mossa, myrra och grönkålsblad lindade i insvurna löften spred sig i den fuktiga vårnatten.
Vargen ylade i bakgrunden. En dieseldriven skuta puttrade genom den släta vattenytan utan att det egentlige märktes.
Ur gräset steg en vind fram. Virvlande, dansande, smygande, sprattandes och sedan stilla igen.
”Ssshhhhh”, hördes det ur luften. ”Ssshhhhhh”.
”Lyssna på tystnaden,” viskades det ur stenblocken vid vattenbrynet.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”
Det trummades ur träden.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”
Det kom närmare.

Skäggiga, bröst-platts-klädda krigare med kjolar virvlande runt benen steg trummande fram ur ingenting.
De följdes av skira, starka, kvinnor i vitt, purpurrött och himmelsblått, med långt hår, kort hår, krokiga ryggar, stolta hållningar, unga händer och gamla klor i en brokig massa.

Alla dessa händer bar på något. Något man inte såg med blotta ögat, men kände och förstod med hjärtat.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”

Karlarna stannade vid vattenbrynet. De banade vägen, bröt upp sin formation så att kvinnorna, sönerna och döttrarna kunde skrida fram till vattnet.

Tusentals händer höll röken och något som bara kunde förklaras med ordet ”Sanningen” i vårat i bland så fattiga språk.

”Sanningen” rörde sig, den bars i alla dessa händer, den andades, den flöt, den böljade och bågnade.

”Bom, bom, bom, bom.”

Hela skaran klev ner i vattnet. Krigarna först. Sannings-bärarna direkt efter.
Sanningen följde.

Trummorna skaldade en rytm starkare än det starkaste hjärta. Händerna dansade ner Sanningen mot vattenytan, där den flöt ovanpå ytskiktet – röken spred sig utåt, uppåt, framåt, tillbaka mot skaran.
Den steg, den sjönk, den delades och satt samtidigt ihop. Den omfamnade trumbärarna, händerna, trumpinnarna, den färdades in genom näsor, tårkanaler och strupar.

Tår spreds, fötter trummade rytmiskt mot marken, mot havsbotten, mot sten, mot gräs, mot vatten, mot jord.

Himlen steg upp, och kom samtidigt tillbaka ner som en bakvänd tsunami som först drar sig tillbaka för att sedan kväva allt i sin väg.

Sanningen dansade.

Cecilia Götherström, maj 2014

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Rich

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I am rich.

Rich beyond belief,
beyond fathom, I am.

I am because I am rich.

Mother provides for me,
Father keeps me safe,
Brother nurtures me,
Sister sings to me.

Earth is what I am,
what I walk upon,
what lives inside my soul.

Sky is what breathes,
Soil is what bleeds,
Wind is what feels.

Rich I am.

All that I am,
is all that You are.

Star family, Earth family.

Rich I am.

Walk I do.

Forever and ever.
In the Richness of Plenty.

“Did you love today?” she asks before
she gently susses me to sleep.

“Were you grateful today?” he asks when
he closes the velvet around me.

“Did you live today? Live like life itself?”
they ask as they sing me away.

Dawn and dusk.
Dusk and dawn.

Creation.
Gratitude.
Breath.

Did you love today?

I did.

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Cecilia Götherström, June 21st 2015