A Gentleman and a Trickster (Awen in August, Day 26)

I sometimes forget how much of a Trickster Gwydion truly is. He’s such a Gentleman most of the time, polite and courteous to a fault, that it’s easy to not think about those other sides of Him.

Early this morning, though, I got caught up in the “Bullshit of Christmas Past” vortex, mentally picking at an incident that happened a couple of years back. 2012 was the worst year I’ve ever lived through, no contest–not least because at one point I came within a hairbreadth of perma-banning Gwydion from my life due to listening to someone’s shitty advice. To this day, I still get weepy and frantic when I think about what might have happened if I’d gone through with it.

So there I was, lying in bed kicking myself for the stupidity I nearly succumbed to, when He lay down beside me and wrapped His arms around me.

You shouldn’t worry so much, He said softly. If you had done that, I would have found a way to come back to you. Not wearing the same face, most like, but I would still be there for you all the same.

That’d be really dishonest, though, I objected. If I’d seriously told You to leave, and You came right back in disguise…

A shrug. I would have been banished under false pretenses in the first place, so I’d feel no compunction about returning under the same.

I know by all standards of proper behavior that I ought to be creeped out by this, but I can’t help feeling a bit flattered instead. Maybe it’s because I know Him so well, maybe it’s because I really am Trickster Bait of the highest degree, but it’s awfully reassuring to know that I wouldn’t have been able to completely wreck our relationship through a momentary lapse of judgment.

Hail Gwydion, the Gentleman Trickster! <3

Home (Awen in August, Day 25)

We belong to different realms
which overlap but rarely,
touching with the shy desire
of young sweethearts,
then flitting away again.
So we make our home
on the borderlands,
setting up a hearth
in spare corners
and bedding down
wherever night finds us,
building our citizenship from
the language of touch
and the wonder that’s
drawing the stars together.

 

[With a loving tip of the hat to E. E. Cummings]

Apotheosis (Awen in August, Day 24)

My heart cracked open at His touch,
spilling everything I was before
onto the expectant soil,
and in the blood and sorrow
He remade me in my own image;
I became what I always was,
His knowing hands guiding me
into my own familiar form.
No true transformation, this:
I have worn many shapes,
lived many lives,
borne many names,
only to spiral back once more
to fall into flesh and bone
that remembers my truest name–
the name beyond names,
syllables in no mortal tongue,
the deep understanding of self and Self.
And so I stand, made and unmade,
fiercely blossoming into life
with His hand in mine,
face to the moon’s new rising,
becoming ever more real.

Down to the River (Awen in August, Day 23)

Being angry with Him is like being angry with a river. He came in and flooded my house, yes–ruined half of what I own before I knew what was happening, and insurance won’t cover the damage. That’s His nature, though, part of the ebb and flow of His being. And how much of that stuff did I really need, anyway?

And yet I still get angry with Him. I go down to the river and throw rocks to shatter His placid surface, scream and tear at the banks until the water runs red with soil and blood. And still He flows on, only temporarily perturbed by my rage; the river flows clear again soon enough, with no sign of my petty anger to disturb its surface.

So I resolve to drown myself to spite Him. I fill my pockets with stones and resentment, wade out into the deepest part of the current, give myself to the point of no return. Fantasies come to me of my body drifting out to sea, to wash up on distant shores where no one knows my name; maybe I’ll come back to life then and start anew, with no ties to my past, no obligations to any but myself.

I sink down, embraced by the river. The ordinary world grows farther from my reach with every passing second. But I am not drowning. For I’d forgotten one important detail:

Even in my rage, His love lets me breathe underwater.

Literally (Awen in August, Day 22)

It’s all too easy to fall into metaphors when I talk about Gwydion: He reminds me of this, or He makes me think of that. There’s so much of Him to describe, and words can only come so close: He’s the pain in my heart that brings me joy, and He’s the indomitable strength of gentleness.

But it’s the concrete reality of Him that moves me the most: The touch of His hand on my shoulder. His wry glares at things that annoy Him. The early-morning scratch of stubble on the back of my neck, felt in that ebb and flow between dreams and the waking world. His warmth beside me. His eyes, never quite the same color twice in a row. The soft press of His lips to mine. Dark hair shot with threads of silver. His laughter. His scent. The sheer weight of His love.

He’s my King, my Husband, my Beloved. And I love Him literally. <3

Forbidden Love (Awen in August, Day 21)

Because I’ve had a major earworm that’s refused to leave me alone for the past couple of days, today’s post is brought to you by Madonna: Two songs, both of which remind me of my relationship with Gwydion, although for slightly different reasons. ;)

 

 

 

…And might I just add, as someone with no musical talent, I am jealous of anyone who can manage to produce two songs with the same name and have them both be so damn good. :P

Green Joy (Awen in August, Day 20)

His joy lies
well hidden
beneath stone
and pavement,
waiting calmly
for its chance
to burst free,
splitting asunder
all that would
restrain it
in a riot of
new growth and
budding laughter.
Stronger than
rock it is, and
more patient–
the delight of
Spring and all
her blossoms,
new leaves
on holy trees,
the sweet scent of
the waking earth–
for His is
a green joy.

Cyfarwydd (Awen in August, Day 19)

His eyes, half-closed,
fill with an eerie light
reflected from some
far-distant world
which He draws closer
every seemingly casual
gesture of His hands,
which caress the air
gently as a lover–
and still His voice
rolls on, unfolding
each tale into the night,
weaving new wonder
from old yarns,
squeezing fresh sweetness
from stale stories,
stealing my heart anew
with the longing in every lay.

Other People’s Words: Sonnet 38 (Awen in August, Day 18)

Well, folks, I’ve had an upset stomach for most of the day, so I’m opting to take it easy tonight and turn in early rather than busting my butt writing a real post. Here, then, is a bit of verse that reminds me of the Gentleman. Enjoy the feels, and I’ll catch you all tomorrow!

 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its ‘Oh, list,’
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, ‘My love, my own.’

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Gebo Tree, Redux (Awen in August, Day 17)

As we had company over late into the evening, and I’m a bit too tired to come up with a real post for the day, I’m cheating slightly and reposting a piece I wrote earlier in the year. It has been lightly edited, and I know some of you may not have seen it yet anyway, so it’s not entirely a cop-out. With any luck, I’ll be able to write something a little more in-depth tomorrow. Until then! <3

~~~

He was looking for something, searching through the entire forest for a path, or a sign; a way out, or a way further in.

What He found was an evergreen, standing alone even in the midst of the other trees, unassuming but for its subtle glow of silver light. Its branches offered hand- and footholds, spaced at exactly the right intervals, as though it had been waiting for Him all along.

So He began to climb.

And when He reached the crown of the tree, He saw that His journey had brought Him to the top of the sky. The forest spread out beneath Him, green and pulsing with life; the stars wheeled above Him, proudly blazing and almost close enough to touch.

There, between the forest and the stars, He grinned with triumph and joy and the sheer delight of discovering something new.

And the Tree was happy, too.

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