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NOTE: For a complete list of articles related to this chapter... Visit the Main Index FOR this section.
Walking with Spirits / Walking with the Dead
Article ID: 12138
Age Group: Adult
Days Up: 3,539
Times Read: 5,036
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Author: Lady Abigail [a WitchVox Sponsor]
Posted: October 21st. 2007
Times Viewed: 5,036
As a child, I believed that I was as free as a raven on the wind. Truth was, my freedom was greater than most, but always under the watchful eye of my great grandmother. Some days I would escape my earth-bound existence and climb high into a magickal castle. There I would lie and watch the night descend as if it was a draping of velvet falling to cover the sky. I was never too far from home; this castle and the walls that surrounded me were the tin roof of my Great Grandmotherís barn.
The sun had surrendered behind the hillside beyond the valley grove. The trees were nearly barren, as most leaves had fallen from the late autumn frost. The air, crisp and cool, fell around me; the stars began to sparkle brighter as I watched each color of the iridescent sky fade to black.
Even as the night grew cold, I was warm lying on the tin of the barn roof. The sun had warmed it all day and for me, it was like a great heated tower where I could see the world and be alone in my wonder. Looking across the newly harvested field, I could see the twinkling of lights in the distance. Farms, homes, and even a few streetlights were shining in the darkness. Their flickering seemed to slowly blend into the night sky as I lie there, waiting.
I watched the moon, in all Her beauty, begin to peek over the bending trees in the meadow. I watched Her light, shimmering in full brilliance across the stillness of the meadow pond. The night began to glow with a gentle light, as long pale shadows added a mystical air to the land.
Looking toward my Great Grandmotherís home, from atop the barnís roof, I watched the sisters readying the fire underneath the big black pot. Some people would have called it a wash pot, or a scalding pot, for it was big, black and aged with time and use. Over time, it had been called by many names, but it was my Great Grandmotherís cauldron. It hung, with its three great legs, high over the fire, which was crackling and popping in the night.
I watched as the smoke rolled high and then fell again back to earth in the cooling nightís air. I could hear the sisters, my Aunts, laughing and joking as they readied the fire and filled the cauldron with water and wine.
I could see in the firelight, the old wooden table next to the house, which I had helped my Great Grandmother make ready during the day. It was now overflowing with fruits, corn, honey, herbs, and bread. Inside the house, the scent from the cooking roast mixed with the smoke of the fire, and excitement could be felt all around like static electricity. The moon was illuminating my world and I could hear the earthen creatures as they began their calling of the night.
Soon, from within the small house, I heard my great grandmotherís voice calling me in. It was time for me to clean up from the day... a day when I had been fighting dragons and flying on my broom around the house.
As I put on my long dress, made for me just for this night, I heard the sisters requesting me to hurry, for the moon was entering Her time and we had to eat and make ready for the magick of the night.
Tonight was the night of the calling, the night we called upon our families that had past, a time of remembering, and a time of stories (true stories) of family, history, and magick.
All my life, I have seen those that others could not see. In childhood, many are told they are our imaginary friends. Then, once a child reaches school age, they are told that these imaginary friends must go away. They are no longer to be perceived as real. They are told that, to see such things, is bad and could cause others to ridicule them or they might be punished.
How sad that our children have eyes open to all the magick around them and are then told to stop, because not everyone else can see what they see. So, many children lose this gift because it is considered dangerous. They learn that if others do not see the light, neither should they.
I was raised to honor this gift. It was a gift that my Great Grandmother had, her father had before her, and others within my family possessed. But not all understood its power. My Great Grandmother called all those that see within the veils, ďSpirit Walkers, Ē for we walk within the veils and talk with those that are past, as clearly as we speak to each other.
For me, it has never been quite like you see it on TV. Those that have past are not transparent; they look just as you and I do. Sometimes they can be dressed oddly or still carry the scars of their passing. They donít pop in and out of places, though at times, their presence can be surprising if you donít know they are there. They donít seek the light; they live within it. They donít chase down every microphone to answer a few silly questions. (But, time to time, enjoy giving voice to the other side.) They donít wait in graveyards for someone to take their pictures, unless they happen to be passing at the same time. They just exist, and from time to time we cross into their world and invite them into ours.
This night of the calling, the High Holy night of Celebration, (what many call Samhain) was, to my Great Grandmother, a night of remembering. It was the night we would welcome family and walk within the veils of life and death. However, this night was even more powerful, more spiritual, because it also held the powers of the full moon.
My Great Grandmother taught me the powers of the moon, dark and full, waxing and waning. She taught me how to call down the moon in a whisper and how to respect Her as the heart of the Mother Goddess, for She was Earth Mother, Corn Mother, Maiden, and Crone. It didnít matter by what name She was called, but with what reverence the calling was understood.
The feast was ended and the moon began her dance high within the dark night sky. She gleamed so brightly that the night looked more like a silvery day. The circle had been cast with the broom I had been riding around the house all that day. I watched as blue sparks seemed to be jumping across the sistersí feet as they danced around the fire within the energy of that circle.
The energy was so high that it made each hair on my body stand at attention. I was old enough, and allowed to dance within the energy and power encircling that night. The drum beating within my spirit soon gave way to the beating of my heart.
The cauldron was bubbling with vivacious sounds of spattering as it boiled and stewed. The sisters cast herbs and fruit into the pot as it spewed over, calling into the night, to the powers that held life and death within their hands. My Great Grandmother stirred the mixture in the pot with a long wooden spoon as I danced with laugher, feeling so very grown.
The spirits were called into our circle to join our feast and dance to the drums. The smoke seemed to encircle us; like a tempest, it tossed the leaves up into the air. We, in chant and word, beckoned those that had past before, family, friends, loved ones, and lost souls.
We danced as the Goddess Moon set her way across the night sky. Shadows of long-forgotten souls walked within the veil, now opened by the dance. Spirits of those known, and unknown, were released within the mystical hours of darkness.
My eyes had never been so opened as they were that night. I gazed into the smoky darkness; I felt the influences held as the Goddessís light shone down, giving sight to the spirits of the night. I witnessed those that I had only heard about in secret stories from my Great Grandmother.
I smiled as my Great Grandfather (three lifetimes back) stood before me, dressed in skins and fur. He was tall and dark, strong and proud, his eyes as black as polished stone. I laughed with delight as he took my hand and spoke in the ancient language of the ĎKansaí people. I saw images of lifetimes past, family and friends, some of whom had been seeking lost lives, now gone from time. The wonder of that night still transports me back in a delightful quiver of memories.
I am thankful for the teaching and knowledge that my Great Grandmother bestowed upon me. Now, as we enter again the time for the calling, this High Holy night called Samhain, I shall go within the veils and beckon those who have passed from this earthly existence to come and dance within the fire light. I will invite them to stand beside me once more.
With dignity I will walk and talk with those I loved and love still. I shall gave them joyous tribute and welcome them to the feast. I do not mourn their passing, but celebrate the life they shared with me. Perhaps, I will learn of those that have passed on again to live anew, for found within each ending of energy is a transformed creation of life and renewed hope for what is and can be.
I gazed into the darkness, into a mystical light,
For I have never seen so clearly, as within this magick night.
So Merry Meet, ye kindred spirits of my heart.
Let us join together until we must Merry Part.
High Priestess, Ravensgrove Coven
Greenfield, IN area
Copyright © 10102007
Copyright: Copyright © 10102007
High Priestess Ravensgrove Coven
Greenfield, IN area
Location: Greenfield, Indiana
Author's Profile: To learn more about Lady Abigail - Click HERE
Bio: The author; Lady Abigail is the High Priestess of Ravensgrove Coven, an Eclectic Coven of Solitary Witches in the Indianapolis, Indiana area. She was raised in the Craft by her Great Grandmother, a Cajun Witch, who taught her the powers of Earth, Nature and Magick. Lady Abigail has studied and taught in herbs, metaphysics and magick for over 40 years. Sharing her knowledge and understanding Lady Abigailís articles and poetry have been featured in various Pagan publications.
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