Tonight,
You are traveling back,
Far back,
Into the mist of time,
To the northern shores of Friesland.
The land lies low and green by the restless sea.
Marshes stretch out beneath wide skies.
And the sound of waves mingles with the cries of sea birds.
The air is cool and salty.
The smell of peat smoke drifts from fires in the distance.
The world feels quiet,
Timeless,
Waiting.
You are walking a soft earthen path,
Bare feet pressing into damp soil,
Each step sinking deeper into the rhythm of the land.
Ahead of you rises a small grove of oak trees,
Their branches twisting upward against the sky.
Leaves whispering secrets in the wind.
At the grove's edge you see a circle of people,
Your people,
Gathered in reverence around a glowing fire.
On a flat stone lie offerings.
A string of amber beads shining like drops of sunlight.
Shells glistening as if they still carry the sea within them.
Small carved figures of wood and bone.
The firelight flickers on every face,
Casting shadows that dance and vanish into the night.
You feel it now,
The stillness,
The expectancy,
As though the very air holds its breath.
You step forward and all eyes turn to you.
Upon your shoulders you feel the weight of a cloak.
Warm wool fastened by a bronze brooch at your chest.
You can feel beads resting against your skin,
Smooth and ancient.
You are the wise woman,
The seeress of your people,
The bridge between the human world and the unseen.
The fire glows brighter as you enter the circle.
The people bow their heads,
Their trust,
Their hopes,
Their prayers,
All resting with you.
You kneel before the flame.
A bronze bowl rests at your side,
Filled with milk and honey.
And slowly,
Reverently,
You pour the sweet liquid into the fire.
The flames rise and crackle,
Carrying the offering upward,
Carrying your prayer to the Earth Mother,
To the God of land and sea,
And to the spirits of your ancestors.
The smoke curls around you,
Fragrant,
Warm,
Alive.
Juniper,
Mugwort,
Yarrow burn gently in the embers,
Herbs that open the doorway between the worlds.
You lift a staff,
Raising it toward the sky,
And a hush falls over the grove.
The only sound now is the sea,
Breathing in and out,
Like a great heartbeat in the distance.
Close your eyes,
And the darkness behind them begins to glow.
Symbols flicker in the firelight of your mind.
Spirals,
Runes,
Weaving patterns of fate.
They move like waves,
Like wind in the grass,
Like threads of a great tapestry.
The ancestors step forward in your vision.
You feel them,
Countless and near,
Hands resting gently upon your shoulders.
Their voices flow into yours,
Their wisdom becomes your own,
And you begin to speak.
Your words are soft,
Yet filled with power.
Guidance for the tribe,
Blessings for the land,
Protection for the voyage ahead.
Every word is woven into the wind,
Carried out across the marshes,
Over the sea,
Into the future.
The vision softens,
Like a tide ebbing back to sea.
You lower your staff,
And the fire settles into a steady gentle glow.
Your people bow their heads in gratitude,
But you feel no weight upon you now,
Only in peace,
Connection.
You sit quietly before the fire,
Listening to the waves and the night.
The cloak warms you.
The earth supports you.
The spirits surround you.
Slowly,
You lie back upon the soft grass.
Above you,
Stars scatter across the endless sky,
Each one an ember of the gods,
Each one a reminder that you are never alone.
Your eyelids grow heavy.
The voices of your ancestors sing softly.
A lullaby carried on the wind.
The fire crackles.
The sea breathes.
The earth holds you.
And you drift.
Deeper and deeper.
Into the gentle dreams of the wise woman.
Into the endless night of rest.
Sleep well,
Dear one.
Knowing you carry her voice within you.
And she carries you,
Always.
Sleep well.
