A large part of the magic that I do is magic from my younger self reaching forward into the future to my older self and magic from my older self reaching back into the past to encourage my younger self. It all has to do with an Autumn when I kept seeing stags and does, but that's another story.
If I could send just one email back to my younger self, who'd never gotten an email in her life, that email would say:
Hang in there. The mundane work that you're doing will allow your fifty-something-self to sit skyclad for an hour in the Spring rain, to chant with the dirt and the grass, and the trees that are part of you. It will allow you to become the rain and the dirt and the needles of the Japanese temple pine and the mint and the thyme and the chipmunk in the tiny hole.
And you will chant, over and over, a priestess of the Spring shower:
I am a manifestation of the Goddess.
Mother, help me to become my Better Self.
It's all real.
It's all metaphor.
There's always more.
The breath of my body will bless.
The cells of my being will sing.
In gratitude and reawakening.
Mother, make me a perfect priestess to your service.
And allow me, in all that I do, to help to repair the web.
Divine Lady, wash from my eyes the enchantment of forgetfullness.
Allow me, as much as I can know, as much as I can see,
To realize that we are all connected.
This is my will. So mote it be.
Just now, inside, soaked by a Spring downpour, I think I'd have thought it a fair trade.
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