Here on the long nights of the year,
in the darkest hours of mid-winter,
I call upon those wise, loving ones,
those radiant, bright elevated souls
whose names are beyond my reach.
Those who are well in spirit, come
and shine your healing light of love
all the way down my ancestral line.
Far past the ruinous family shadow
of madness, violence and addiction,
towards my true ancestral blessings
of creativity, healing and devotion.
By nightfall I am blessed with vision,
yet where does this gift come from?
From another, I am shown, long ago.
She who wears the cloak and hood,
another greying witch in the family,
native to the same red river of birth.
Made up from blood, bone and stars
whose eyes I cannot completely see,
who called to me as I turned to death.
She who whispered inside my head,
she who whispered inside my heart,
“It’s not your time, it’s not your time.”
“Go light the lamp by midnight’s door,
open the old scrapbook of your heart,
offer heartfelt prayers to the ancestors,
listen to the ghosts of Christmas past.
You were called to become a shepherd,
you knew this from the start,” she cries.
“You who turned us away years ago.
Do you remember when we gathered
each and every night to keep you safe,
while tribal madness descended below.”
Now as I summon those ancient faces,
I remember the gathering and the fear.
On this cold, clear, crisp winter night
let our souls ascend our family trees,
hang out with their saints and sinners.
Watch as each related branch widens
with new life birthed by olden hands.
Within each tree let our burdens arise
to meet our blessings in its branches.
Come let us honour the ancient roots
and sing to the spirit of our ancestors.
Let us offer up prayers as reverence,
let us offer up our hands and hearts,
let us weave together as the veil thins.
Dear elders help us find the courage
to dance in darkness, to rebirth light.
Help us to heal deep family burdens.
Help us sit in peace on this still night.
Help us bow to our ancestral wounds
and bow to the wounds of others,
for all are born to wounded parents
with old family stories being retold.
Let us meet the truth of who we are,
let us stay until we understand love,
show us where our work comes from,
for all is discovered in the family tree.
As the living face of our ancestors,
the result of the love of thousands,
we know it is time to stop and face
those lost, lonely, earthbound souls,
help them soar with new vibration.
Let us light candles, say their names,
offer up midwinter’s ritual flowers,
holly, mistletoe and first snowdrops.
Spirits of the air, spirits of the earth,
above us, beside us and around us,
let our holy hearts know themselves
as the healing light of ancestral love.
Copyright © Deborah Gregory 2017
Image Credit: Google Images
Dear Poets and Dreamers, Thank you so much for your continual love, inspiration and support. May
your Solstice night hold bright the healing light of ancestral love! Warm and wild blessings, Deborah.