Hear the call of Artemis. The Greek goddess of the Hunt, the moon, unfettered wilderness. The guardian of Children, girls and woman in childbirth. Be supported by her insight, and take her bow and arrow as your own. Leave your freedom in the hands of herself, when wordly duties call to you
(Artemis) Wisdom often comes to the broken when we are soft and yielding. A hard seed yields to the pull of the earth and its fleshy core makes way through the clod.
Even patience is fierce and holds fast against the invasion of distrust. To speak little and listen much at times is a great strength that is not physical. And like all women internally strong.
To read the currents beneath the fray is a greater strength even more than a man can give. The truest hunt is to bed with ones own nature.
We catch the bear to honor the most wild within at our altar. Being so it is within our sanctuary to visit. Our arktoi To protect our strength so it is saved for those who deserve it and if not, at most for you.
To summon such things within yourself when not seen. For you can find it even in the night of self. Where the moonlight precedes the hunt.
(Artemis) And you child of sight, will always be wild and free, and vision made from instinct, a bride to intelligence. Married you are already to that within you.
The fringe of civilisation, the liminality you shall reside within. A crossroad where men dare not tread. For it is yours unencumbered. Give up your robes, your dressings and walk barefoot, in vision. For we cannot hear all parts of you without such.
Performance as armor will not be yours. Status and nobility will fall. Trust your hindsight, and let us be under a moon that begs to differ that the only way to see is through sunlight.
For the moon offers up a greater revelation that bears witness to the night sky. For all it holds is vast, agape, unveiled because it does not fear it’s own freedom.
(Artemis) Come my Arketeia, the howl is deep the dance is slow. Become our companion.
Throat to the wind, hands to the air. Shed no more, do not weep, as we guard the transitions, one to the other, the midwife.
Such shedding leading to no more. Lykeia light, internal focus not phased, the silver glint on the dawn.
Saffron to the unleashed. Your instinct will never be theirs. Your hands the server and served.
more soon
