Last week, I did not work for this – not only were we overwhelmed with the final chapter of grief and loss for a friend – but I don’t feel a personal need to “clean America’s archetypes” much. The past IS as it is, I don’t need to white wash it to still defend the product OF that past — the NOW America I reside within. If our archetypes are the results of the flawed actions of flawed humans? Well, it is through failure and flaws that we learn; and then we move forward to put loss behind us.
This week’s task was summoning strong, cleansing winds of change. I got my protective circle in place, looked around my Nor’west — spotted the stream, visualized the fish leaping — because it was dark, I saw nothing. I zipped to the dark Plains, and sat on the roof of my sod house, looking first up at the pentagram overhead. No dripping sparkles of light this time, just a soft glow. I looked to the East, a very faint golden-pink glow there, the dawn almost hitting the coastline.
I turned my back on the distant dawn and stood facing the dark West, though there should have been a nigh full moon. Perhaps it set already, I did this quite late? I shut my eyes, visual things are not my strength – having been nearly blind most of my life. I listened, expecting to hear the banners flap and rope-fittings ringing; but no, scarce any sound in the still dark air. I consider my energy and feel the almost unnatural stillness around me. I decide I would rather get something partial done right than fail entirely. I will call only for the West wind.
I lift my face and begin a summoning whistle. For a moment, I am very much two places — lying relaxed with my cat purring at my shoulder, and standing there whistling and clearly hearing the high piping sound of my call. I continue to whistle — once, twice, four times before I feel a motion in my own belly. A swirling there, suddenly if barely perceptible. Far away, I hear the slap and bluster of a blue banner…and a red one. I scent dust in the air and feel my hair lift.
The grass moves against the bare sides of my feet. I raise my right arm and pivot to the Northeast, directing the barely warm breeze growing in strength. In my mind, I picture Washington, D.C – a place I have not visited since 1986 on a cold December day the week before Christmas. But I paint it mentally with Spring’s colors and see cherry blossom pink. The West wind rifles the trees, like children hitting chocolate filled Easter baskets — pink petals fly into the air. They sweep in drifts along street curbs.
“Carry change,” I say, “carry courage and Will.” I think of all the economically blighted places the wind passes and say, “Carry courage, give power and truth.” I hear flag pole rings ringing against the metal and fabric snapping. The glow of dawn is brighter, lighting up thin dancing waves of pink sweeping the streets before the Capitol. “Relax,” I say to the wind, “Rest upon the sea and ride home round the world…”
My cat’s purr brought me back to my bed. She moved closer to me as I opened my circle, and put her paw on my face. And then to sleep, to dream, to hope, to dare…perhaps other nights for other winds?