Hidden away in the recesses of my own self is a wild ancient crone who has been gathering materials and messages for a grand dance. Within my woven wicker trunk are the totems developed over the years, the masks worn for so many occasions, the sacred texts and songs of seven decades. In the trunk also resides a cache of magic known only to me, cards, feathers, bags of potions, vessels, and bits and pieces of crow collections these include pretty paper, old candies, photographs, songs, silver rings and a poem or two.

The repository of magic and totems also has a crow drum, a gourd, an ipu, embroidery, and many glass items all sanctified and incensed ready for the day the dance commences. The trick of it all is to time it just right. The right night, the right moon, the right season, the right place and the right reason. When all is set and the stage and all the trappings and regalia are in order.. the beginning will be announced by the cry of the crow. The wild dance of life, death, and the spirit will commence with bells, and drums, and lots of swirling purple and black. The dance will ease away the cover of the gardens and reveal an ancient stairway to the mother of us all as I am called upon to return to the Crowmother.

dancing particles

it is easy to find fault in other humans, 
harder to find their core;
easy to criticize and be clever, 
harder to have compassion;
easy to be smart and hip, 
harder to be real;
easy to dismiss the object of our fear, 
harder to understand differences;
mockery is easier, 
love is harder.
but love trumps hate every time.

we are all just dancing particles.