I think it’s unfair that my passport says I’m only a US citizen.
Because it’s obvious I’m also native to another land.
And you should know, having been there with me plenty.
It’s….the land of my imagination.
It’s a place. It’s got a language, and probably even a flag. And a soccer team.
Regardless, it’s definitely got a strong export business.
I go there and bring all kinds of stuff back.
I’m generous too. I usually share it with you.
Did you know that there’s a full-on temple at Darkwood that we only use once a month?
It’s a ways back in the woods. You climb awhile up the hill, then dip down into a steep ravine where the spring starts.
It’s dark there. Perfectly dark.
There’s a staircase that curls down the last part of the trail, leading you past mossy logs and glistening boulders overhanging dark caves and crannies.
Lanterns hang from the trees every 15 feet or so, having been lit at dusk by an acolyte bearing a long taper.
This temple is always and only approached in the dark.
We approach in the dark of the night at the dark of the moon.
Some call it the new moon.
The Dreaming Moon, we call it.
At the Dreaming Moon temple, we might adorn ourselves in moonstones and black tourmaline, labradorite, and shining obsidian.
We’ll dress in soft robes and quiet slippers.
But we do not anoint.
This moon does not have an anointing oil, nor does it’s corresponding season, Winter Solstice.
The Mystics already know why.
It’s because as wheel-walkers we honor the void.
We honor empty spaces as much as the full ones.
We honor rest, so we have temples and ceremonies devoted to the seasons of the year (and the month and the day) when we bow deeply to the sacred void.
(So do you. Meet: your bedroom, where you sleep and dream)
And so there is no oil for The Dreaming moon, no oil for the Winter Solstice.
On purpose; a nothing that is a intentional something.
So as you arrive to the temple of The Dreaming Moon, you are not anointed.
Your body is tended to with softness.
As is your mind.
Your parasympathetic nervous system is fed lullabies and nectar.
At the Dreaming Moon, our subconscious is The Priestess.
Our dreams are where the ritual is.
Wanna miss the magic of Winter Solstice or the dark of the Moon? Stay awake for it.
There’s a time and a place, as they say.
We honor the conscious mind, and the subconscious.
We honor the fullness and the emptiness, the light and the dark, awake and dreaming.
We build temples to both, honor the genius of both.
Temple of the Dreaming Moon is laden with blankets and pallets.
It’s lit by a single candle and filled with a consistent whisper that’s like the rolling surf, a breeze dancing through palm fronds, and a far-off train rumbling through Ohio all at once.
When you’re there you drink a soothing brew from a thick porcelain cup; chamomile, verbena, lavender, and mist.
We gather at this temple, tucked into the darkest part of Darkwood, and we float like babes awaiting birth, we prepare to drift and dream like a soul unborn.
Resting before we form again.
Dreaming before we wake.
The ultimate Warrior’s Barracks.
A date with the deep mystery of the Dream; a consort, a companion, the sage on the top of the craggy mountain with all the answers.
The Priestess of the ritual.
The ritual of rest. Of emptiness-on-purpose.
Of the sacred-nothing.
We will gather at this temple tomorrow night, as the Moon goes dark.
I hope you’ll join us.
No passport required.
Just open your mind and follow the mossy steps and the lanterns, the scent of chamomile and verbena, the blessed quiet of the holy void.
love & sweet dreaming,