There come times on this spiritual journey, like the physical variety, when one must stop to rest. Whether that rest be simply to recharge your batteries, to take in the sights and sounds along the way, or to ruminate on where you've come from and where you're heading.
The past few months have been a resting period for me, as those who have been here a while may have noticed from my writings being few and far between. My Sabbat celebrations since Lughnasadh have been quaint and unfussy, my daily card pulls and chats at the altar ceased. The altar itself hadn't been spruced up much, just dusted to keep the space clear and clean. As someone whose spirit and persona are intermingled with my spiritual path (why keep these things separate?), my artwork and my fondness for music and dance have also slowed or ceased. I didn't realize it as it was happening, but now that the first stirrings of shifting and re-awakening are nudging me, I can clearly see this restful, quiet period for what it is.
As it's Winter and my body clock flows in rhythm with the shifting season of the Earth, these aren't huge boisterous calls to action, but rather warm feelings to move slowly back on to the pathway. Break-time will be ending soon and I must, once more, begin the Work and the Walk. It started with the urge to rearrange and add to the altar. Right now, I've rearranged and waiting to find the right things to add. I've also felt the urge to get to work on a more beautiful and formal Grimoire, as my journey and notes are scattered throughout various note and sketchbooks.
Signs to wake back up come in the cawing of the crows and the decision to vanquish the inner bullies once and for all. For how can one walk the path and perform the work when one's confidence is shaky? Best we toss those bits of carrion out for the birds and continue in to the woods, head held high. The Earth Mother is once more humming to me, calling for me to reconnect with She, the Goddess with whom I've always been thick as thieves; the ultimate in Divine Feminine to me. Hermes sends me messages, on the wings of bees who shouldn't be out in this cold. My altar has been freshened up, rearranged and the things there that need it, fed sweet smoke and offerings of wine and milk.
Most telling of all though, is my Muse is back with a vengeance and I'm painting again and scheming and dreaming of colors and symbols, flung wildly across paper and canvas.