Flamekeeping Meditation

Fire and Water in the Earth of my body,
I honor you, Brigid, Bright Goddess of Flame,
I honor you, Lady of Wellspring and Starlight,
And inscribe in my heart your thrice-holy name.

The candle is the center way, open between the worlds. I hold my hands as though in prayer, then slowly bring them apart to rest, palms upturned, on my knees. Above the soft sound of my breath as it rocks back and forth, ebb and flow within my body — the rustle of the wind in tree branches.

I am in a forest, rich and thick with the scent of evergreen. Tall pines stand all about me like the buttresses and columns of a great cathedral, shivering and shifting in a breeze. I feel as though I can sense every thin, green needle spread like whiskers, scenting the wind, turning this way and that. I stand in awe for a moment, unsure where to go or what to do. I place my hand against the rough, red trunk of one of the trees. Sticky sap seeps beneath my fingers, clinging to my skin.

A figure behind me — it is She, the Bright Goddess, this time draped in subtle, shifting green like the pine trees, her hair in radiant, auburn braids plaited thick and draped about her shoulders like a luxuriant fringe. "Taste," she seems to say with a small gesture, "the sap is sweet." Like the amber was once, I find myself thinking as I raise my fingertips to my lips and lick the sap from my hands. "The amber that once flowed through the veins of ancient trees," she agrees. "What is it that makes the sap sweet?" I do not know how to answer her. "It is the connection between earth and sky, the roots seeking deep for water, the limbs reaching, striving towards sunlight." She watches me as my gaze drifts beyond her back to the great trees of the forest. They seem to dwarf both of us, and I'm struck again by how small her form is. "It is the movement between the realms, the connection that flows through living veins, that makes the sap sweet."

I kneel down at her feet as she speaks these words. But she raises me up again with a gesture or a glance, or simply by her refusal to be an object of groveling or subordination. What do I need, what can you give me as guidance and aid? I try to ask her. But she says, almost sharply, "You already have everything you need." The amber sun — "Yes, the drop of liquid fire, the sweet sap of life-blood connecting the three realms. And the spiral shell? She smiles and looks to the new amulet I now where around my neck, the blue goldstone surrounding the glistening spiral forged of silver. "The dark waters of space, the depths of source and creation — do you think this amulet is so different from the spiral shell you were given at the wellspring?" And the sword? The missing piece, the gift I could not yet quite see — is it the sword of starlight? The simple athame? In answer, I find the small knife in my hands, lengthening into a sword glistening, pulsing with a light of its own, starlight or moonlight in the twilight beneath the trees.

I swing the sword, as though to test its sharpness and my strength. It slices through the image of the lady standing before me, slices it in half as though a flimsy veil, and the reality of the woods flap loose like a rip in space itself. Through the tear, a glimpse of dark night scattered brilliant with endless stars. I peer through, and seem to hear her voice coming from that beyond-place, reassuring me that I have not hurt her, only cut down the image of her to a larger reality. I wonder if this is the threshold between my inner landscape and the deep places of the realms beyond, the collective unconscious, the place of Spirit and soul. I remember the card I drew this morning, the image of the wanderer stepping out onto the thin earth-bridge made by the very act of stepping, a bridge created by the journey. I step through the tear and into the gulf of space.

Below my feet, it seems a thin foot bridge solidifies, bearing up my weight. I step again, moving farther out into space, and farther. The bridge, which at first seemed made of earth and brown stone, starts to sweat star-stuff like condensation, drips of night sky gathering like dew along its edges, running down the slope back towards the rip in space that leads back into the pine forest. The droplets of star-fire space sparkle darkly like pieces of tumbled blue goldstone, and I gather a few as amulets and charms, thinking somehow to bring them back for others. The bridge beneath my feet is soon coated completely with the shimmering dark surface, lit from within and glittering with stars, so that the bridge itself seems made of night and starlight instead of earth. All about me, the black abyss of space yawns open, the distance and nothingness sending a brief sense of thrilling vertigo through my body. Still, I keep walking — ahead of me, She is there again, her hair loose and flickering upwards like a flame, her form now draped in dark blue velvet robes that catch what little light there is in this place.

I can go no further, but far in the distance I seem to see the faint flickering of orange forge fire. I ask her if she can take me there, to the place where the stars are forged. She takes both my hands in hers and lifts me gently from the bridge, waltzing me across the distances, our feet trailing rippling mists like the tails of comets. When we reach the forge, it glows warm and pulsing like an ember nestled in a cave-like nook of nighttime. The hiss of steam and the noise of the bellows surround us, the ringing sting of the hammer against the anvil — and I see the forms being created there, tiny round discs of silver with curling rays, like miniature suns. They look quite like my own sun charm, except that their centers are empty. I ask this goddess of the Star Forge where is the amber, why the charms are incomplete. "Don't you see?" she seems to say. "These are only tools and symbols, but the amber is the life-blood, upwelling from the source — it must arise from you, from your life and your work. Only then will the sun become complete."

My mind wanders to the prayer beads I have crafted, and how I might make more to use as a tool for prayer. She laughs at me as though indulging the amusing obsessions of her child, chiding me a little for always wanting so much to make things, instead of allowing my work to be the upwelling of my life to fill in and complete what I have made. As I ponder this thought, I seem to hear the ocean waves in rhythm on the shore. In time with my breathing, they seem to draw me back to my inner landscape, and I find myself wandering down out of the tall pine forest to the pebbly beach, the ocean stretching out deep blue and etched with rising star light as, on the western horizon over the mountain, the sky blazes orange and red with the sunset. I sit for a little while, watching the dusk fade to blues and purples, holding a small memory of that fiery sunset within me as I prepare to keep the flame from this sunset to the next.

Bring my hands together again, I bow my head in gratitude for the wisdom shared. I slip the small flamekeeping pendant over my head, and breathe deeply as I sing my awen and promise to carry Brigid's Fire and Water in the Earth of my body. The meditation has ended, and I speak the words of peace as my breath moves through me like the tides beneath a night sky.