• “The secret is not to dream,” she whispered. “The secret is to wake up. Waking up is harder. I have woken up and I am real. I know where I come from and I know where I’m going. You cannot fool me anymore. Or touch me. Or anything that is mine.” Terry Pratchett
    The Wee Free Men

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Other Blogs

  • Unsettled Time
    We are living in unsettled time. Wp Rnpt has ended the time between time, the Days Upon the Year in which time is upended and unordered, but time is still not aligned fully. We have space in which action exists, in which we can uphold the world, set ma’at in its place, the leverage to […]
  • Just a quick note
    I’ve updated my bio page with a link to Les Cabinets Des Polytheistes, where my story “Spine of the World” is published (and in which people can play Spot The Netjer if they are so inclined), and my less-specific webspace Suns in Her Branches, which is broader than this space (which is specifically for reconstructionist-derived […]
  • Opet article is up
    And can be read here.Filed under: Patheos Links
  • On Falling in Love
    For a long time, whenever I wanted to talk about the experience of conversion when I found Kemeticism, I talked about falling in love. It wasn’t just “Oh, this religious concept works for me,” it was a passionate thing, an […]
  • Eclipse Magic
    I am eight. I have been given a subscription to the magazine Sky & Telescope as part of our preparation for Halley’s Comet, and I read through it, earnestly trying to make sense of the articles, studying the pictures. I […]
  • Hills of the Horizon: The Past is Another Country
    The problem with extrapolation from history is that nothing is testable. The evolution of a religion over time is not a predictable and easily comprehensible thing, where we can look at a point in time and say, "It was like this then, so it would be like that now." The process of deciding what needs […]

The Tree

There are many stories about the tree who spans the worlds.

The tree is rich and nurturing: her fruits feed the needy, her shade shelters from the weather, the hollow in her trunk is the womb of the dead. She grows astride the gates of dawn, and the sun and all those who might pass do so as her gift.

The earth aches and reaches upwards always, searching for his love, the arch of heaven, his every tree and mountain and stalk of grain striving for her touch. And she, at times, is the tree, and they may touch at the horizon.

The lord of life and death governs the unseen, the secret ways, the realms of the mighty and the gates of rebirth, and sings to his love, the throne, the great power, keeper of her father’s governance of all being. And she, at times, is the tree, and her roots go deep.

The distant one whose eyes span heaven rules over all he can see, with claim on his grandfather’s throne which his father passed to him and his mother guarded, and resides within the embrace of his love. And she, at times, is the tree, and her branches span wide enough to hold even him.

The tree is wedded to all the worlds. Her sons know the way to pass between, to walk from shadow to shadow and open the passageways, walking dog-footed, wolf-footed, jackal-footed, wherever they do please.