To Weave a Dream

Deep in her heart, was trouble.  The nagging ache had become a stubborn presence, demanding attention.  Winter had gripped the land, and she was cold. 

Ellen plundered the precious wood store and drew near the blaze, but her limbs stayed cold and separate from her.  Her heart felt as if it were putting up a blockade.  She knew she must do something fast, but what?

Outside, the hostile world grew dark, her loneliness overwhelmed her, but she could not cry.  At last, a whispering sensation within her aching chest, came to her attention.  Meanings seemed to form without words, connecting her to her mother.  The shock was a revelation.

‘ Where were you when I needed you?’, but as the question formed in her mind, the reply came with it.

 ‘ I was here‘.  Ellen shook then sweated.  Her legs were dead with cold, her world was rocking.  Had she really been so wrong for so long?

Days later, desperate and wan, she fell in along the way with a woman from a neighbouring village, and although she tried to return the conversation, her sighs all but prevented her from speaking.  The good woman took her arm and promised to visit her soon, and would bring something with her to lift her spirits.

The very next day, the woman arrived and busied herself by the fire as Ellen numbly looked on, soothed by the other’s calm authority.  Before long, the pot was simmering and filling the air with a pungent, and not altogether appetising steam.  Ellen was asked to stir it often, bringing  her face into the vapour and making her eyes run.  Gently urged to continue, the tears became sobs till she shook and choked and sank back into her chair.

That wooden chair bore her body as if it were a warm bed.  For the first time in months, her feet glowed till they tingled and her breathing was deep and slow.  The neighbour emptied the pot onto the bank outside, and before taking her leave asked, almost told, Ellen that she would be most welcome to visit the following week, when some friends would be meeting for the evening.

By the time the day arrived, that dreadful prospect had become eagerly awaited.  Clutching a gift of honey, she was ushered into a small parlour, and soon put at ease by the relaxed familiarity of those few women.

  ‘ You see my dear ‘ explained her host, ‘we come together every month, and support each other through the changes and trials of life.  It’s pretty relaxed, and people only share what they choose to‘.

Ellen shuddered and thrilled at the same time.  She realised that such a group of women were roundly regarded as witches, and that she would be taking a big step by staying the evening.  However, the decision made itself.  Her deep need had drawn her.  Nothing much happened that night, a few words she didn’t really understand were spoken to ‘ close the circle ‘, but she went home with much to ponder.

A couple of weeks went by.  Would she be invited again? Were they really witches, and what are witches anyway? Where were the spells and hats? And so on.  Then one evening, another of the women called at her house.  The conversation that followed was to change her life.

The craft, as she called it, could help Ellen out of her trouble, only if she embraced the idea of taking full responsibility for her life from now on.  The women would do a circle for her, to introduce her to the Goddess, in order to become strong.  ‘What was this mysterious being? ’ she wondered. It seemed childish, silly, but compelling.

Within the circle was a small altar, comprising a candle and a rattle on a linen cloth, laid over a stool.  Several women sat around the room, relaxed, knowing.  Ellen felt an immediate sense of relief and warmth as her host ushered her in.  Without any ceremony, one woman lit the candle with a taper from the fire.  After a moment’s stillness, she picked up the rattle and shook out a simple rhythm.

Ellen’s hands were taken by another on each side, as the circle closed around the outside.  The room swayed as the rhythm took her sinking through the floor, into an earthen chamber, yet she was aware of the room still around her.  That awareness soon faded, as the chamber filled with the presence of a woman she immediately knew as Mother to all things.  For a moment, her heart was the heart of Mother Earth, before she found herself back in the room.

Who were these women, who gave so freely to her need?  Moreover, how did they know?  There was some general chatter now, from which she gained the impression that this was a regular event, held on or after the new moon.  Another younger woman, confided in her some details of her own experience. 

She had been coming to meetings from time to time, till one evening she was asked to take part in more elaborate ritual.  The group left the house and made for a wood, some half hour distant.  In a clearing, a fire had been prepared.  This was lit, and once it was ablaze, the women began walking around it sunwise, beckoning her to follow.  From that moment, her life changed.  She felt the power of the sun in her heart, and had confronted life head on, ever since.

A thrill ran through Ellen’s body.  She knew she needed that, more than anything.  Back home, she fell straight into bed, and surrendered to a dream filled, wonderful sleep.  Next morning, she arose and looked around her as if through new eyes.  Her house had become depressingly grubby and uncared for.  As she set to, shaking out the dust, and washing just about everything, warmth seemed to well up from the earthen floor and make her smile.

Eventually, Elen led a fire ritual in the woods.  By then, she had learned that all things come when the time is right, and her time had come.