Deep in the English countryside in a forest of silver birch, hazel, cherry and oak She found herself in circle with three women who truly saw Her.
Priestesses from times past. For so long journeying solo. At last, at last, reunited at last.
Their parched souls yearning for the nourishment that only a sacred circle of sisters could provide. As they rested their weary foreheads, their second heart opened in the deepest caverns of their wombs. Like sweet nectar they drank it all in. Everything baron and brittle brought back to life.
They took turns in revealing their most tender of wounds. The result of millenniums wandering on their own. Of doing this work alone. In hiding. Underground. Cut off from the sweet and nourishing ambrosia of their sister’s and Mother’s song. Fumbling around in isolation, led only by the mysterious red thread in their heart. They wondered, How on Earth had they had survived all this time doing this work on their own?
They let their tears roll free, releasing lifetimes of persecution and layers of protection that were no longer necessary. Not now. Not ever again. With each hot salty drop, you could hear their chalice replenish and overspill guilt free.
Wounds were soothed. So-called weaknesses alchemized into their own unique offering of medicine both for themselves and the world at large.
Together they initiated themselves into womanhood. Into Priestesshood. Just like they had in long ago lands that their soul remembered.
Entwined by heart, they began to see the magnificent tapestry of light that they, we, She had for so long been weaving.
Sisters. Priestesses. Recognised at last.