With the Feathered Seer workshop just a few days away, I thought I would share a glimpse into the origins of the story around which we will be building the weekend…
I had met her before, thinking her a dream of the landscape, born of the mists and the magic. Imagination. Fantasy. Perhaps she is. Perhaps I delude myself with my listening. Perhaps my tears fall for a will-o-the-wisp. Who can say?
Do I believe in ghosts? The dead have better things to do with their lives than linger here in longing, clinging to a world they cannot touch and wishes they cannot hold.
Do we call them back with our desire? Are we children tugging at their apron strings as they move forwards through the layers of existence, passing through otherworlds we try to glimpse in our fear and curiosity, in our inability to let them lie?
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