The songs come like waves that wash away the noncommittal surface of me into pools of shadow. Perfection is the death of songs, for they are born from the beauty and overwhelm of the deep and silent mystery.
They come out dancing, fluttering and elusive. They require me to chase them and they hide like faeries. They're fickle, but I'm not. They make me work, and they make me sing for my sustenance. I'm a hopeless romantic, waiting in the window by candle light, pen in hand, inscribing my heart open. Sometimes they cry me to sleep. Other times they're resting in the hammock of my mind, waiting for me to wake up.
Song is ritual and I'm discovering those that feed my Matron Goddess, to clothe Her and offer Her water, to wash Her feet. She needs forest and moss, sonic rain and waterfalls, dappled sunshine and a view of the moon. She craves the sounds of ancients and masters. She insists on truth. Her songs, they're crafting me.
Hear some of my sounds here... Songs Full of Spells