Midnight, and the Power of Creation, 17th (now 18th) Nov

“Hail my Hero of the Night Sky.  Hail, Spirits of the Night.  Hail, my Mother of Darkness.”

My prayer gets no further.  In the thought that, despite the chill, I had spied a cloud cover from the covered porch, I stepped out from it to instead be greeted by friend in the southeast, my Hero of the Night, glistening brightly.  I grinned widely as I greeted him back.  I pulled the blanket around my shoulders I’d worn out with me against the cold, and stood smiling up into the sky, taking in the view all around.  My Lady Darkness welcomed me by gathering me in and sharing her secrets with me.  She didn’t feel imperious tonight, distant, or remote.  She felt immediate yet infinite, and warm even through the cold.

She feels inevitable and unforgiving because darkness always comes.  But darkness is not the darkness of the human psyche, where monsters dwell as the faces of our fears and other shadows.  Those are shadows, and shadows are dark, but they are not what the darkness is made of.  They are what we project onto the darkness because it reminds us of these shades we run away from or battle against.  The darkness, though, is its own thing.

The night sky is the shape of a dome.  A pregnant woman’s belly is also the shape of a dome.  And the man-made form which mimics them both is the funerary mound of the ancients, constructed to house the dead and the ancestors.  In housing the dead it is the tomb, reminding how darkness as the linear finality of death comes to us all in the end.  Yet, in a non-linear fashion, this tomb is also rendered the womb, the cosmic tomb-womb of all life, the cosmic tomb-womb of the Mother of Darkness.  Inside her hollow hill is the cosmic womb of the universe, and it is filled with…creation.  And infinity.  And galaxies, and universes, all creating, living, dying, and creating again, endlessly, in supremely non-linear, cyclic fashion, spiraling in their very shape, twirling their cosmic dance.

The power of darkness is the power of creation, and of creating.

It is this power the ancient Irish poets sought when they went into the hollow hills themselves, into the darkness to meditate and compose.  They went to sit with the Mother of Darkness, with her power of creating, to be charged with and inspired by it.  And when they were, they too spun galaxies and universes, which shaped the world in which their people lived, who understood and respected the power of creating, and those who worked with that power.

I breathed in this power, full of spiraling galaxies and infinity, and breathed out gratitude.

Thank you my Dark Mother.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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