Friday, June 13, 2014

The Rotting Age...




There are things in my relationship with Cernunnos that I have shared with very few, and never before have I written them down, for fear that my experience may be mistaken for the words of the God Himself. I do not claim to be His mouthpiece, nor shall I ever, yet these are the sorts of things He speaks to me. All I can say is that in knowing Him, my world has been changed. I have been changed.

There are days when sanity is replaced with passion. The kind of smolder that burns as hot coals around the heart until nothing but ashes of an old shell remain, a withered cocoon to feed the growing blaze of dreams undreamt. Transformation is both a grand gift and fearful curse, for no longer does certainty exist. Familiarity crumbles like a cliff before the waves.

It is too late to turn around. What is known cannot be unknown, and to ignore it is folly. A narrow path whereupon your foot strays...and suddenly you find yourself in a more dark and hauntingly beautiful wilderness the like of which you've never beheld, losing yourself there with hope of what may instead be found.

This is what it means to know Cernunnos, Lord of the Earth.

His name dwelt aslumber, though I suspect He did not. And I cannot imagine what it must be, to dream greater nightmares while awake, than sleeping. To watch your followers destroyed. An iron cauldron bearing your image as the only whisper of your memory, and even that stolen away from those who held you dear. Your domain desecrated by the greedy hands of man in their lust for dominative conquest, listening to the vain cry of animals as they are pushed to extinction by wickedness and ignorance.

Betrayal is an understatement.

How he bears no hatred for Humans surprises me only slightly more than his willingness to aid us at all. Rather than hate, I sense great sorrow. For what we have done to each other. For what we have forgotten, and what few desire to remember: that we are of nature, no more or less important than the whole. And we are orchestrating not only our own obliteration, but that of the world of life itself.

The irony is that we consider it progress. We are the most evolved species on the planet, but that is more through self-proclamation than anything I now observe. Of what worth is our evolution, when the bees and butterflies give greater contribution to the ecosystem than we? So highly we think of ourselves, but who among us can run with the swiftness of a lion? Or even the hare, for that matter? Who without wings may soar like an eagle? Or like the whale, delving deep beneath the perilous sea?

He is an entity of great paradox, Cernunnos. Laughter and sorrow. Predator and prey. Death and rebirth. Protector and destroyer. Darkness, and the light hidden within. Yet behind it all, I hear the roar of the wind bearing one thunderous command:


"Enough."


I believe even His patience has worn thin. We who call ourselves witches, shaman, and druids, we who walk between the worlds to hear the voice of Gods, we who claim to bathe in the wellspring of life and its magick should know that something is wrong.

Can you not feel it?

The heavens weep and the earth trembles. The stalwart trees hold a council of whispers, and though we have the ears to hear, we do not listen.

"Where has all the magick gone?"

I would often ask myself this question in recent months, though I knew the answer well enough. We have chased it away, traded life and vitality for a mere existence, a pallid shadow on the wall with nothing left but a scar , an open wound to remind us of what we've lost.

Identity and diversity exchanged for a masque of name-brands and the illusion of freedoms we yearn to enjoy, the demonization of those we have oppressed as justification for our gluttony. We have become like tame pets. To speak (or not) at the behest of our masters as every thought that individualises us is replaced with not a parody of meaning, but a mockery of it.

If I have learned anything from Cernunnos, it is that we, who call ourselves witches, shaman, and druids, have a greater responsibility that we are neglecting. We who have these talents and gifts of knowledge and foresight, to hear the hidden songs of earth and fire--could we be failing to actually do something?

And for what excuse?

I feel challenged. Compelled to discover and retake the wild spirit within, to wear away at the inhibitions that limit me from being effective.

Paganism, witchcraft; all of it, is by its very nature, unapologetic. It seeks no desire to be understood, it does not replace tooth and claw with white gloves. Yet have we done just that? Have we sought so much to avert misunderstanding and fear, that we have sacrificed our power-with in submission to those who would have power-over?

Paganism of old was bloody and fearsome. It was beautiful, and it had heart. Purpose. Ritualistic theurgy is at best, useless if it does not empower us to reclaim, to shape, to impact the world around us. With all honesty, the cost has already been calculated, and I believe it is time to balance the scales. The magick is not gone. It's still here.

For now.

Every grain of soil, every blade of grass pulses with it, and so it will be until the stars fade. A divine blessing has been bestowed upon us. To create. It has ever been our grandest asset. Yet abused, could also be our downfall.

I think we can do better.

It is time to remember ourselves. We do not possess the luxury or the naiveté to sit idly.

And we certainly do not have the time.
-Sylvanus Nightwolf