In our creative writing and movement session this morning, we ran out of time at the end, so whereas we all usually share some of what we write, I did not.

So I decided to share my ‘story’ on my blog. It is written from a memory of a recurring dream which was reminded to me by one of the other participants in our group, as she spoke about the medieval times. As I danced I tapped into that dark mother energy that I am exploring through my own ‘change’, a few feelings triggered by another participant as we greeted and spoke of our menopause’s; ‘ah the skin and bones and blasted irritations’.  And then as I wove these memories and experiences together I felt into the energy of Samhain and the mystery of the thinning veils and my connections to my ancestry….. and so I wrote my own blending of these stories;

My own mystery, my own darkness, my own hidden reoccurring dream that takes me further and further across the scenes of that old play, some where in the past. Some old history; a being that knew a time and a place that does not fit quite into the reality of my modern day fixtures. Looking up at that same tower I can see myself both in it and outside of it. I wander the tracks that lead there. Muddied boots and horse hair layers, leaving my skin itchy and uncomfortable, yet able to find warmth and to be free to roam unseen within this dark mystery.
There is no hurry, yet a curiosity that must be acknowledged, my hands begin to reach out to stone walls as I search for the edges and possibilities of open door ways and steep steps to climb. Winding around turrets as I explore the towers within my mind.
Those places that meet with the sky and the stars, where the wise one sits and ponders the meaning of life.
The dream awakens yet the journey continues as it infiltrates through my existence. The story unfolds but without the dream it is easy to misinterpret its true meaning – lost so often in the every day happenings of modern day life times.
The muddied boots remind me of the dark mother who roams through the shadows and takes her medicine ways through the granite stone of castles and turrets, the rain softening the journey so it cannot be hurried, taking a pause to warm by the internal fires, she is invited into the warmer places of the castle walls.
The tower still existing high above, the dark mother knowing the spiral staircase must be climbed, she wraps herself within the horse hair and follows into the night sky and court yards full of voices; the cobbled stones that she steps over one after the other, those muddied boots of earth and fallen leaves. The wind sweeping the hood from her face revealing the trusses of grey as they cascade over her shoulders, opening her face to the elements. She curses for a moment, yet as the moon shines a little more brightly and lights up her eyes, she sees more clearly into the darkness as different beings fall momentarily away, not daring to look incase that curse should become part of their own journey.
Material whips around a granite corner and disappears into yet another corridor, hooded once more, there is simply a sound of horse hair and boots brushing along cobbled floors, seeking out its destination, knowing the shamed story, the one that is created by hiding and grows ever deeper as its murky depths, just like the muddied boots try to find their way through the earths hardest core.
The dark shadows and the highest tower become one story and the dark mother, as she begins to climb, finds that connection between the two and as the hooded veil thins itself and the grey trusses settle, finding their own connection to body, the tower is entered into, where the darkened place has both light and shadow in its midsts.
The daughter lightens, drinking in the medicine, finds her dance and dreams with the moon her awakening. Nothing is lost as it resides in the untold stories. The medicine works its magic and what was once buried, becomes the truth of many other lives.