Goddess Of The Crossroads | ASMR Bedtime Tale

Exchange gifts with the goddess of the crossroads in tonight's mythology-inspired bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

You may find the auditory experience of this story a little different from other installments of Sleep and Sorcery.

I've included some more experimental recording techniques,

Like vocal layering,

And it includes original channeled poetry and built-in visualization exercises.

I hope you find it an especially relaxing lesson.

In tonight's story,

As you contemplate your place in a changing world,

You witness a procession of torch-bearing spirits in the night.

You follow them to the crossroads at the edge of town,

A liminal place that's rich with folklore.

There,

At the center of three forking paths,

A garden blooms from nothing,

And the goddess of the crossroads appears.

You ask her for guidance in choosing a path forward.

But that is the nature of grammar.

It is always tense,

Like an instrument,

Aching for release,

Longing to transform present into past into future,

Is into was into will.

Amal el-Motar,

The River Has Roots There is a place beyond the edge of town,

Across the moor,

On a barren plain where three roads meet.

It's a lonely place by day and night,

For few travelers come this way.

Its cracks and corners are all overgrown with wiry weeds,

For no one tends to it anymore,

If they ever did.

It is a stretch of land that belongs to no one,

Existing past and between three municipal borders,

Unclaimed and unheeded.

Most days you do not think of it,

So out of sight and necessity.

But at this moment,

You have crossroads on your mind.

It's a handy visual in times like these,

A metaphor ripe for grasping when you seek answers and direction.

To be at a crossroads is to rotate on an axis,

To test the possible paths,

To run endless simulations.

Choice is a sacred opportunity,

A radical responsibility.

When you were young,

You heard the crossroads were guarded by fairies who desire gifts or demand tribute.

Childish games were born from this.

Standing at the center point of the three roads,

You'd scatter seeds to the wind and watch which way they fell.

That would be your answer,

Or at least what the fairies wished.

And you applied this divination to all kinds of questions.

What should I be when I grow up?

Who will I marry?

What will I be remembered for?

With the east road standing for one answer,

The north another,

And the west a third.

And if hungry sparrows came soon to feast on the scattered seeds,

You'd know the prediction would come true.

The answer you seek now,

The choice you ponder,

Is less concrete than any for which you tossed those tokens to the air.

It's a more nebulous question,

One born of uncertain times,

And the knowledge that your actions now will echo down the generations.

The words ring like the reverb of bells within you.

What now?

What now?

What now?

A crossroads.

You don't look to fairies or divination games anymore when making choices.

Truthfully,

You no longer believe in them.

But you wish,

Oh you wish,

There was an easy way to chart the path forward.

Someone to choose for you.

To indicate the right direction in the patterns of seeds and the flocking of birds.

Oftentimes,

The safest choice,

The one with the fewest risks and consequences,

Is no choice at all.

Staying put at the center of the forking paths,

Unchanging and unchanged.

At the center,

You're safe.

For a time,

At least.

But when the winds of change blow this powerfully across the world,

You risk more by staying put.

Without the will to choose a path,

You might be blown away down one you can't abide.

Or you might be buried under shifting sands and tumbleweed,

Forgotten at the crossroads.

One way or another,

Or another,

Something must be done.

You have a prickly feeling that you're approaching the pivotal moment of decision.

But some revelation lies waiting just around the corner.

You can't explain it really,

But tonight feels different.

It's like the vibrations of the earth beneath your feet,

Never before perceptible,

Have slowed down just enough that you notice them.

So that with each footfall,

You can feel a tender ripple,

Like from a stone thrown into a pond.

And the air,

The very medium through which you move,

Seems lighter,

Smoother.

Your senses are heightened,

Tuned to whatever micro-shifts are happening all around.

You're waking up to the music of the night,

Like a nocturnal creature quaking in anticipation of sundown.

Night falls.

Fragile rays of sunlight cast themselves like fishing wire,

Draping shadows across town,

Then surrender to the oncoming dark.

There is no moon tonight.

A new lunar cycle begins.

Or is this considered an ending?

Or is it both?

But the stars shine all the brighter you notice,

For the moon's absence.

Low and dazzling in the sky is Canis Major,

Easy to recognize for the brightest star in its cluster.

And indeed,

The brightest star in tonight's sky is Sirius,

The dog star.

The whole world seems to tremble like the string of a harp,

Plucked and vibrating,

Casting invisible ripples in the air.

You breathe deep,

Aligning yourself to the frequency,

Submerging yourself.

And that is when you hear the chanting.

Follow me to the place where three roads meet,

Thrice wise,

Thrice wistful,

Thrice wild,

Under a new moon.

A chorus of whispering voices,

Or one voice multiplied in tiny echoes and harmonies.

Its source is yet unseen,

And you sense that it encircles you from many directions at once.

You look to the east,

The west,

The north for a presence,

But it's from the south that you glimpse the firelight.

Distant flickering amber,

Too far to be held by the chanting ones,

Surely.

And yet,

No other figure is visible as the rhythmic voices continue.

The light is drawing nearer,

Separating into two,

Three,

Then several flames,

Slowly rising and falling.

And soon the light is nearly upon you,

Revealed as burning torches in the hands of as many maidens.

In the darkness and the strange,

Shivering energy of the night,

They approach,

Spectral and shrouded by veils of gossamer.

There are three of them,

You think.

Maybe six,

Or seven,

Or nine.

You find it hard to look directly at them,

And hold them in focus.

They're clearer when you turn your head just slightly,

Keeping the figures in your peripheral vision.

And they seem to exude their own light,

Cooler,

Different from the torches they carry,

Like moonbeams on spider silk,

Even under a moonless sky.

The chanting continues,

And now you're sure it's coming from the veiled maidens.

With torch,

With key,

With henbane seed,

We light,

We open,

We bloom,

Under new moon.

The ghostly procession now crosses your path.

The maidens do not acknowledge you,

Though you're sure they know you're there.

With starry skin and shrouded faces,

They pass,

Continuing on,

Away.

And as they go,

Chanting still,

With words of crossroads,

Keys,

And henbane,

You feel an almost aching sensation beneath your breastbone.

A tugging,

A desire to join the pageant.

Dawn a veil yourself,

And hoist your own torch.

They are receding now,

Their light dimming as they go.

Will you let them pass beyond,

Never knowing where they lead?

Or will you take your place in the procession,

Follow them to the place where three roads meet?

You lead with your heart.

Drawn on the path behind the maidens,

You glide,

Like a raindrop on glass.

You are warmed by the torchlight,

Which leaves its signature in the air.

The ground ripples beneath you,

And you can feel seeds stirring,

Roots reaching.

To the crossroads,

Together you go.

The chant changes,

Your feet fall on the petals of their poetry.

To the crossroads,

Air unbound,

Boundless,

Flowering we flit,

Spinning fairy webs,

Fruiting we fall into dizzy sleep,

Foxglove dreams,

Hinging,

Looking forward,

Looking back.

The procession weaves through city streets,

And over the moors,

And toward the barren plain,

To the place where the three roads meet.

The chant evolves still.

Who holds the torch this time,

And who leads the way?

Here at the crossroads,

We step into triplicate.

We hold,

We behold,

We are held.

And upon the last word,

The procession stops,

There at the center of the three-way crossroads.

At last,

You catch up with the veiled torchbearers you've been trailing all this way.

But as you join them in the center,

They vanish.

You're alone.

It's quiet.

So quiet you can almost hear the stars quivering in the firmament.

The absence of the maidens chanting takes some time to adjust to.

You long to hear their voices in your empty ears again.

What now?

What now?

What now?

Before you,

On three sides,

Stretch long and winding paths.

They disappear into darkness,

In their respective directions.

You know what lies whence you came.

A home.

Relative comfort.

Stagnation,

Even.

A longing for growth.

But in the other directions,

What other cities,

Lives,

And histories lie this way?

Or that?

Of course,

Your wandering mind should bring you here,

To the physical manifestation of your inner uncertainty.

Were the veiled maidens only your clouded mind seeking a light in darkness?

Someone to show you the way?

If you were still a child,

You would reach into your pockets for a handful of seeds and toss them to the breeze.

But you're beyond such things,

Aren't you?

And besides,

Your pockets are empty.

You reach your hands into the pockets at your side,

Confident that you'll confirm this assertion.

But that's funny.

Your pockets are not empty after all.

Drawing out your hands,

You find them full of tiny seeds.

Poppy seeds,

And sunflower seeds,

And others you don't recognize.

Some slip through your fingertips,

But you hold most in your cupped hands,

Marveling at their spontaneous appearance.

You look around in all directions,

For any sign,

For the torchbearers,

The imaginary fairies of your youth,

Or any other witness.

But it is just you,

You and the stars,

Looking down on the crossroads.

Perhaps you are not too far from childish things,

Hopes and wishes,

And pleas for guidance.

Perhaps those are the childlike aspects you should cling to,

Rather than leave behind.

A deep,

Cleansing breath in,

You fill your lungs and belly with cool,

Pure night air.

Eyes closed,

A moment of pause,

And a long,

Slow breath out.

Your breath spins outward and down in three directions.

You drop your shoulders,

Release the tension in your face and jaw,

Slowly loosening the tongue away from the roof of your mouth,

And in the lightness of the moment,

Between breaths,

You feel like the space between the skipping of stones,

The catching of air,

The buoyancy on the water,

Suspended between worlds,

Between elements.

Here breathes your question,

Your query,

The oracular wisdom you seek.

And with this lightness,

This liminality and intention,

You toss the handful of seeds to the sky,

Willing them to find their way,

And releasing your query to their sovereignty.

You open your eyes to watch the seeds fall.

They hang for a moment,

Afloat on the pause between breath,

And as an exhale down they fall,

Cascading like rain,

Each finding their way to the ground in their own time,

With their own plummeting force.

Even in the dim starlight,

You search the ground for patterns,

For pooling toward one path or another.

So many times the seeds have helped to point your way,

Why shouldn't it be so again?

But now something happens that you never expected,

Puzzling to find any coherent pattern in the seeds.

You feel the ground begin to tremble,

So faintly,

Just a vibration,

And the seeds,

All spilt about you,

Shake and bounce and,

Can it be,

They glow,

And they burrow all of them,

Burying themselves in the soil at the crossroads.

They are called in,

Pulled downward.

How far you wonder,

How deep,

And only moments later,

From the cracks in the road,

The corners and edges,

From soil and stone there springs life,

Sprouts and shoots and leaves rising before your eyes,

And wild patches of rosemary,

Lavender,

Mint,

And meadow sage emerge from the ground,

Purple crocuses burst abloom,

Revealing threads of saffron.

Then come wild roses,

Silvery artemisia,

Bay laurel,

Fragrant juniper.

A garden of passionate chaos is revealing itself,

Bringing forth herbs and flowers of all kind,

And you have the feeling it was there all the time,

Just hidden from view,

Only now it lets you in to behold it.

Twisted blades of foxglove hang their dappled bells,

Poppies silent and swaying,

Belladonna with her black pearl berries,

Maconite and yarrow come up round your feet,

Henbane that enchanted flower to which the ancient druids clung as they journeyed to the otherworld.

You leap from the center to accommodate a swiftly unfurling tree,

Its trunk spirals toward the starry sky,

Casting forth limbs and branches like rivulets which in turn send forth leaves.

An oak,

Tall and mighty as any you've ever seen,

With something hanging from its topmost branches,

A golden,

Shimmering thing you can't make out.

The untamed growth at last slows,

And the mysterious garden glitters in the night,

You can feel the plants breathing all around you,

You take in their perfumes,

You sense their spirits.

Have the fairies answered your call,

Or is this something else?

As if born from your thoughts,

Emerging from the recesses of your bewilderment,

She comes.

No,

She was always there,

You didn't see her until now.

She is the moon,

Or she is moonlight,

A lunar crescent is her crown,

And she is lit from within.

Like the maidens of the pageant,

She is difficult to hold within your gaze,

She is too capacious,

Too complex,

Too bright.

At best you can behold her with a kind of soft focus,

And even then you see three of her,

As if your eyes are crossed,

Creating copies of a single form.

But that's just it,

There are three,

The three are one,

Three distinct bodies,

Three faces,

Three directions,

One being.

A crossroads made flesh,

She is the spirit of this place you realize,

The keeper of the crossroads garden,

Sower of the scattered seeds,

The moon's moment of transition.

And honing your focus,

You observe her triple form,

Though at first all three faces seemed identical,

Now you notice their variations.

Those turned away from you are half in shadow,

Like the waxing and waning moons,

While her central form is in full view and brightness.

Her waxing form,

In the blossom of youth,

Wears a crown of silver stars.

A torch is in her hand,

Matching the ones carried by the veiled maidens.

Her central form,

Lunar-crested,

Holds a bronze key.

Her waning form,

In the grace of advancing age,

Is crowned with henbane flowers.

In her open palm is a golden seed.

To look upon her is to look into the face of awe.

This is no mere fairy or local spirit you realize,

But a goddess,

And she has come to you,

Invoked,

Awoken by your scattered seeds.

Or did she summon you with her spectral followers?

Whatever the case,

You feel the gravity of her presence,

The great privilege of her appearance to you.

The night,

Fragrant with herbs,

Beckons you into mystery.

At last,

After an age of basking in her opalescent glow,

The goddess speaks.

She speaks in three voices at once,

And in a riddling tongue that blends sense and nonsense.

My language is a mystery,

A rite for the chosen.

Hands fasted,

Fingers entwined to the labyrinth's center,

Undulating with the unseen drum,

Then reversing direction,

Dancing back to the phenomenal world.

To converse with me,

You must be an initiate.

Come,

Let me garland you in all the green there is,

Anoint you with poems and spells,

Dress you in the tapestry of our sacred,

Secret tongue.

Once woven,

These threads,

Our private language,

Are not easily undone.

The goddess's words,

Her voice,

Encircle you like vines.

And yes,

When you look down at your body,

There seem to be tendrils of ivy and moonflower twining around your wrists and arms,

Wisteria hanging from your shoulders,

Creeping flocks growing over your feet.

But these dissolve as soon as you observe them,

Scattering into fireflies that flicker in time,

And poetry made light.

The night's contained,

Quiet sounds in the echo of the goddess's whispers,

More musical now.

You can hear the plants aching to grow,

The starlight softening.

You feel as if you've been translated,

Somehow.

Granted the key to the language of the flowers and the soil,

The stars and the moon,

The ground water and the sacred flame.

The secret grammar of the green world and celestial spheres,

The liminal spaces that blur their meanings together.

There is a reason she has appeared to you,

This radiant moon goddess,

Queen of the crossroads,

With torch,

With key,

With henbane seed.

Whatever the course,

You were meant to be here,

At her garden of forking paths.

She has come to you,

To reveal your destined path,

You're sure of it.

And now that you can understand her language,

You can ask her,

Like an oracle,

To unfold the future before you.

So this is your petition,

With your heart open to any answer,

Any message,

You inquire of the goddess.

Which path is best to take?

In response,

The goddess does not speak,

But moves.

She folds in upon herself,

Like paper dolls,

Or morning glory blossoms closing at night.

From three forms,

Into one,

More solid than before.

Collapsed into the shape of the full moon form,

The figure holding a bronze key.

This,

She extends,

As if presenting to you.

But before you reach out to take it,

The key slides into an invisible lock.

A ring of burnished light appears in the shape of a keyhole,

And then,

There materializes a door.

The key turns in the lock,

The door is yours to open.

Where does it lead?

You ask the goddess,

But she will not answer,

Not in words.

Around the door she comes,

But now she is in her waxing form,

And she holds the burning torch toward you.

You take it,

Basking in the warmth and light.

You reach for the door handle,

But the goddess has one more gift for you.

Her waning form flickers in the firelight.

Tenderly,

She removes her crown of black henbane blossoms,

And places it upon your head.

A key to open the door.

A torch to light your way.

A crown of henbane to grant you passage to other worlds.

Go forth,

Quirinth,

And behold.

With your free hand,

You open the door.

You step beyond the threshold.

What lies on the other side of the crossroads door?

This is a mystery.

With each step forward into swooning darkness,

Your torch extends its glimmering light.

A secret world unfurls like the nightshade petals in your crown.

It's a world made of words,

Strung along the strings of a harp,

Plucked into existence by your own hand.

A forested place,

With stones so large and immovable,

They might be sleeping giants,

Time-weathered and worn.

You hear the purr of a nuthatch,

And so distant,

So deep,

Resounding.

The first chime.

The first bell.

It is soon joined by another,

Blooming across the landscape like a gothic cactus.

A splintered rose.

One more peals.

A resonant gong.

And more join the chorus,

Clanging and clashing.

Octaves unbound,

And soon it is all too much.

There are bells of flower in all the hills and in the valley,

Riding the bend in the river below.

The grand cacophony of bells,

To mark time,

To hold the hour sacred,

To contain,

To bind,

To bless.

But here,

Among the standing,

Sleeping stones,

Among the monumental ancient trees,

Carved with ancient symbols,

The bells soften to a sweet,

Symphonic breeze,

Quieter than the purr of the nuthatch in the lindens,

Bellowing,

Burrowing,

Seeping into the hum of the earth.

The drone of bees,

Nectar drunk,

Asleep on rose petal beds,

The trembling woods,

The trails,

The crossroads where the magic lantern never dims.

And once again,

You stand before a door,

But it is not the same door.

There are markings carved into it,

And a light underneath.

The key is already in the lock,

A key made of stone.

You turn it with a scraping sound and open the next portal.

It opens unto another world.

Your henbane crown grants you passage,

And your torch lights the way.

This place is deep,

And smells of earth,

And seems to breathe with you.

And holding your torch to what should be the sky,

You illuminate a ceiling,

A soil roof through which a thousand tangled roots dangle.

You go forth and down through the womb-like chamber,

And you find at the end,

Of the path,

A quiet pool.

The torchlight throws itself over the cavernous walls,

Refracting across the hidden crystals in the stone and soil,

Playing multicolored lights upon the water.

You kneel before the pool,

Your very breath troubling the surface into singing ripples.

Potions are poems,

They begin with breath.

The cauldron-born can tell you,

Those bards with radiant brows,

Who sit in silver chairs and stir the waters of memory.

A poet knows the land and its history by heart,

The kings,

Their sons,

The battles lost and won.

But an alchemist knows the plants,

And the plants know this world and the other world,

The profound place where their roots reside,

Both mirror and shadow.

The plants know memory,

Fed not by bloodshed,

But by sacred wells.

They speak poetry to the belly of the cauldron,

In a language shaped by glaciers and myth.

The vervain seasons the pot with songs more mysterious than the olive's recitation.

Bracken and maidenhair,

Oak and alder,

Rue and meadowsweet are older than druids,

With sharper tongues.

Potions are riddles,

Stirred by the thrice-born,

Those who toil beneath the shadow of the eagle and the moon.

The shapeshifter knows the oldest recipe,

But works with only the plants as her teachers,

And tugs at the roots,

Unravels the unspoken.

Temptation curls around your hand and draws it toward the water,

Just a touch,

And the ripples rise,

Reflecting diamond rainbows,

Then coalescing into a solid.

There,

In the surface of the water,

Is a door.

It is made of diamond,

Or glass.

The key glitters in the lock.

You know what to do.

The world revolves as you open the next gate,

Turning,

Folding over onto itself like the tumbler in a lock,

And you pass through into a starry realm.

The seven sisters walk beside you,

Just out of reach of Orion and Canis Major.

Your feet find the threads that bind the constellations together,

Gravity made visible,

Gravity as labyrinth,

As star map.

Your henbane crown gives you balance as you walk the thrumming star strings.

The universe is tuned to interstellar harmonies.

The mathematical music of the spheres.

At the crossroads of night,

All paths divergent wear the same star-spun cloak.

Sleep is the portal that opens onto this place.

Dreams stir the pot,

Breaking down the artificial boundaries.

Do you know what you are when you are sleeping?

Are you a body,

Or a soul,

Or an occult and mysterious thing?

Oh,

Labyrinth of corn or stone or stars,

I must confess I always loved you better when there were choices to be made.

Oh,

Labyrinth,

Ringstones piled by hand,

Where once was only grass and weeds and ivy creeping.

I was not among those who laid the stones,

Their fingers dusty,

But I knew them,

The old gods.

I stood with them in congregation,

Saying for the web of life,

Go in peace.

I did not place a single stone,

But I walked your spirals.

I rounded your curves,

Labyrinth,

In meditation,

In pursuit of center,

Always center.

Remember,

When you were laid in stone,

Those many days ago,

You had only one path,

Curled in on itself,

A map condensed,

An ouroboros,

A journeywork of stars,

Fixed in their patterns,

Even as they hurtle across the universe.

Softly,

We fall like leaves to the center,

Always center.

But you were more than stone,

Labyrinth,

More than walls of Troy,

Tempting,

Unicursal path,

Fairy's bane.

You were the space between,

You were willow bough and garden fodder,

Fallen bridge in the wood,

Corn maze,

Sunken city,

Star crossing.

You were crossroads,

Waxing,

Full and waning moon.

When I traveled,

Lonely on distant shores,

Tracing invisible histories,

It was you I sought to tread,

Oh labyrinth,

Bind resonant in my feet,

The strange vibrations of the past,

The others who walked here,

The stories that played before me,

Will play after.

Walking the star-string tightrope,

You move through the millennia,

Till you reach the center,

The convergence of all infinite paths,

The eternal crossroads.

Like staring into the center of a burning star,

Or a newly formed galaxy,

Gravity pulling it inward,

Together,

Unified for the first time,

All time,

All memory,

A million experiences collected into singular space.

You gaze inward,

Feeling a warm,

Tingling sensation in your star body,

A wave of comfort,

Stillness,

And peace,

Washing over you from crown to root.

A starlight shining from your third eye,

Sweet,

Universal breath,

Moving down your throat and igniting warmth in your belly.

You stay a while,

You bask in the sensation,

The beauty of what unfolds before you,

Here in the star's base,

The universe,

Tuned tenderly to the music of the spheres,

Until the center,

The galactic crossroads convergence,

Transforms into a door,

And the key,

Made of milk and stardust,

Is already in the lock.

You turn it,

And you open the door,

And pass through,

And you are back at the crossroads,

The meeting of three ways,

The place beyond the city and the moor,

The night garden.

You are back in the presence of the goddess,

Her three forms watching,

Waiting for you,

Each with a knowing smile.

There is mischief in her,

You realize.

You asked her which path you should take,

And she answered your question with riddling realms.

She gave you torch and key and henbane seed to open impossible doorways,

Answer impossible questions,

But instead of revealing your true path,

She only gave you the capacity to see how narrow your vision once was.

The gods play tricks.

There are more than three ways,

Of course.

Take one of three presented paths forward into known unknown.

This way,

That way,

And a third.

All paths point to choices in the middle world.

But what of the other worlds?

For the first time,

You understand what a crossroads is.

Not the place where three roads meet,

Where choices are determined by the scattering of seeds.

Not a whisper of what now,

What now,

What now.

No,

See,

There are infinite ways,

And paths,

And meanings.

A crossroads is a labyrinth,

The center of an ever-spinning wheel,

An ever-expanding web.

Infinite directions,

Spun into existence by your very thoughts and words and your conversation with the sublime.

A crossroads is a mystery,

An initiation,

A place and a time,

And a place outside time.

A crossroads is a garden,

A river,

A cave.

It's the center of the rose,

Hidden by layers of velvet petals,

Veils drawn back to behold the face of the infinite.

It's a hazel grove,

A portal to forgotten places of memory and childhood dreaming.

It is the unbroken shell of the phoenix egg,

A happening of limitless potential.

It's the cauldron,

And the thunderclap,

The chanting of actors on a ghost-lit stage.

It's the space between the lightning and the thunder.

It is the fluid,

Energetic key that fills all locks,

Releasing creativity and chaos.

Take the torch to venture into the underworld,

To find the buried seeds and observe their patterns.

Learn to wait.

Learn to incubate.

Learn to wander dreamward,

Starward,

Or journey into memory and the land of spirits.

The goddess of the crossroads,

Standing in triplicate to watch over her fathomless domain,

Extends waxing,

Full and waning arms to you.

She folds you into an embrace that hums and weaves a tapestry around your heart.

She has not given you an answer,

But she has given you a new language.

And this is the key.

This new language blooms like lilies on the surface of rippling ponds.

A grammar of spells and poetry,

Which transforms all it touches,

Transforms you.

You melt,

Soften into the goddess' arms and fold it.

Veils and velvet petals close around you.

A starry cloak and crown.

Something in you is restored,

And something else is sparked.

A seed,

Breaking its shell.

All paths are open to you now.

Astayed and steady,

And the journeywork of stars.

Deep in the boundless earth,

A subtle music.

In the arms of the goddess,

You sleep,

You dream.

You nourish the many paths that spiral outward from you,

Possible worlds blooming on the whisper of your breath.

You lead with your heart.

You hold.

You behold.

You are held.

Blessed be.