I returned home early Saturday morning. Was it weeks I was gone? Or years? Or lifetimes?
That liminal space between magick and mundane. I've been dancing there since getting back from Tejas Web Witchcamp. Being in Wonderland for so many days/months has left me shattered, in pieces, and open in a way that feels itchy and unfocused.
There are still bills to pay.
There are clients to answer.
There are classes to teach and to plan.
I find myself floating from one place to another, while finally being able to hold onto the experience that this is. Neither good nor bad, neither right nor wrong. I am in the space where I fight for integration and fight against it.
Oh paradox. We meet again.
The middle ground is a place of continuing wonder. Where will I go? What have I done? What will I do next?
I have no answers. Yet.
So many feelings. So many ideas. So much, so much.
I want to hold myself tightly and quietly. I want to breathe in the silence that is the pause before...something.
I am widespread and I am shrinking. Retracting and expanding.
I am connected and yet far away from new and old beloveds.
One part of my brain wants to figure it out so I can move onto what's next.
One part of my heart wants to feel it all and let it consume me.
What have I done? Look at all I have done.
There is a new story to tell in this new sight, in this new perspective. There are labels I have held (some with my consent, some without), and there are stories that do not fit me the way they used to fit.
In this moment, I can hear the watch necklace I wore during camp ticking and tocking. I can hear the passing of moments, and I can hear the sensation of movement. Onward and inward.
I don't know what any of this means.
And yet, I can see how magick does indeed affect all the worlds. I can come back to my home while my heart longs for my other home(s). And in this space of swirling, I can remember that from spinning comes new galaxies.
Perhaps I can remember the power of paradox, the power of floating, and the power of strength in the spaces between here and there.
And for right now, I can rest in the possibility that stories are sacred.
And the ones that are trying to tap on my shoulder are just as patient as the roots of trees.