The cottage is fertile, within its womb grows a basement room, a little cave where energy is stored, where memories linger, where layers between realities are thin. The shelves on two walls are lined with books, the kind of books visiting relatives are not meant to see, oils with little labels and dates. A small table bears an egyptian shrine, as it used to before in another place. Isis and her crown have pride of place. On the floor, rugs which remember the shapes of two bodies united in a quest of the spirit across time, across space. A tiny window at ceiling height lets in some air, a few stray sun beams which just manage entry past its metal bars. On the ground, strewn rosemary for remembrance and lavender for blessed sleep.
I wonder where hobbits do go in the dark of winter, their slow, heavy bodies well covered against the cold. Perhaps they too dwell in dark warm places lit by candles.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
The still room
No, not a room which doesn't roam, nor usually a silent room. Mrs Beeton would have known at once not only what kind of room it is, al...
-
The Septagram is the symbol known as the “Seven Pointed Star.” It’s a particularly apt and powerful symbol for a complete planetary magick s... -
No, not a room which doesn't roam, nor usually a silent room. Mrs Beeton would have known at once not only what kind of room it is, al... -
The wheat has been harvested and the chaff lies still on the fields. The sun daily burns the plants with its heat and water is nowhere to be...
No comments:
Post a Comment