I am Crone! I am Lemurian Ferry Woman. I am Queen of my World. I am Priestess!
As I row across the still waters I can just make out the rugged peaks rising out of the ocean, appearing to float above it. Mist wraps its soft, protective veil, encircling the island, providing protection from the uninvited. Only regulars and the faithful know how to access its tiny, safe harbor.
As we glide the only sound is the paddle softly swooshing, water rippling gently. My passenger is silent, lost in a world of thoughts and anxious anticipation. We have nothing to say to one another. The past we left behind is another country to which we may or may not return.
The Isle of Ancestors is a place of enlightenment. From the moment pilgrims step onto the rough basalt pillars that form the ancient quay, they are in awe of the mysterious atmosphere, an atmospheric few find words to describe.
Upon mooring in the tiny harbor we prepare to make the ascent, to climb to the pinnacle of the Holy Mountain, reach the entrance to the ancient labyrinth that winds its way deep within, down through linked pathways, to the counsel chambers. It is a slow, arduous trek to the pinnacle and the entrance of the foyer that leads to these ceremonial chambers. No one passes into the chambers without having submitted to a purification process. Each Pilgrim must be judged to be authentic and truthful.
I know the path to the pinnacle and those who inhabit it well. For newcomers it is a trial as they gradually ‘shed skins’ and make offerings at regular intervals. It is a test of endurance and commitment that not all are able to meet. Not everyone can trust the process, face the internal darkness that must be unleashed.
The first section is not so arduous. I stop to make a small offering to a mother Raven, sympathize with her that her teenage fledglings are still so demanding. They squawk as she shares some of the nutritious supplies I have offered.
I note that my friend the spider is hard at work. She weaves magical webs, creates designs women working their spindles can only aspire to create. She has no time to chat but is grateful for the stash of plump, fresh blowflies I have saved for her.
We stop at a waterfall. Clear water gurgles, tumbling joyfully over the rocks, headed for the clear pools near the harbor.
“We can’t stop” sings the water “places to go, places to be, sea to nourish”. My cup catches enough of this water, purported by artists who have made this pilgrimage, to be infused with creativity. I remember the special time I had by the Castalian waters in Delphi and carefully decanter some crystalline water into a vial I keep in my creative medicine bag.
Eventually we reach the sanctuary which houses the Well of Mnemosyne and the small monastic hermitage that has housed priestesses for millennia. It is here that memories from other lives have presented themselves to travelers, some think, like dreams. When I drank the sparkling water I remembered that I once had parents who were high born, high ranking Celts. They sing songs about that father, a renowned philosopher, alchemist, counselor. But it was this mother, Fedelema who was the most revered. She led a religious group on the island of Mona and it is said, has been passed down by famous cantadora’s, that she once enchanted the trees and stones to thwart invader. My fate was sealed from the moment she anointed me with oil of snake, named me priestess and laid me in my cradle. The title has never left me, no matter how many times I am reincarnated.
Tip when Writing with Tarot and Oracles
When writing a part of this narrative I used this spread that I found online. I highly recommend using it with a couple of different decks.
Wild Mother Calling 