When I was a child, I would wake up just before the sunrise. I would pour myself a bowl of my favorite cereal. I would go sit at the picnic table in our backyard, and watch the stars and moon melt into the new dawning day. Those were some of the most magickal moments in my life. I’m not sure if it is normal at 6 or 7 years old to ponder the vastness of our universe, but that’s what I did. As I lost myself into thought, I would experience a moment of a connected feeling.
It is the moments of this connected feeling which have been with me throughout my days. At times it has been the anchor holding me from going adrift. Then times, where it has been the guiding light through the terrain of trials and tribulations. There are times it cloaks me in its darkness, so I might retreat and be concealed from life’s blinding gaze. Somehow always aware that, no matter the outcome, I am an extension of Her Will.
The Dread Mother’s supple breasts bring not only nourishment, but the possibility of suffocation. For as wrathful and uncompromising as she is; there is nurture and warmth in her embrace. If one should have an ear for it, the lessons of how to elicit these effects, can be plainly heard. Leaving her mysteries, barren and exposed. Her soft neck and shoulders are both inviting and tantalizing. Yearning to be explored. I often wonder, how has she gained such a hold on me.
I wonder what she was like when she was just anew. How she grew; what had changed and what remained. The scenery had to be breathtaking on this journey to now. I suspect she was born a star. The kind that exhume brilliant and vibrant radiance of galactic awe. Pressed against the vast emptiness of the void. Pulsating with the desire to burst and literally come into life.
It’s no question of why, she can sometimes be so scornful. The strength it took to get here, would cause one to have little pity for the weak. Yet we can find her at points, embracing the meek to shield them. Whispering softly in the ear, that everything will be alright. We might live or die. We might wither or thrive. Yet life will still go on. For She is Eternal.
At Her Service,
T.C. Downey
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