Since I was a child, I have felt this heady intoxicating force in the presence of Nature. An animist, I believe in nature spirits and spirits of the place – I’ve met leshys, Wakinyan Tanka, Coyote, Crow, nymphs, and other beings, or animal guardians like vulture kings and the wolves Hati and Skoll who chased me through frozen wastes and fjords.
Reigning over all beings I know, all gods, angels, and demons, is the faceless Mother. She has come to me in visions veiled head to toe on a throne in a smoky cave hidden by shadow, her voice like whipping wind and smelling of dirt, green shoots, wet bone and wild woods.
There is a reason Neolithic Venus figurines are faceless – the Mother cannot take human form, not like the angels, gods, demons, or spirits I know. As the Archangel Michael told me “When She appears, She will Die.” I jokingly asked him to show me God a few weeks ago because I had never met Him – to my surprise, it was a Her.
Michael said I would die if I saw her, so he covered my eyes and snatched my soul from my body in the vision, then took me to Her Presence. This, he said, was the Holy Spirit, the Shekinah. Samael had joked about the Shekinah being far more than Yahweh, she the stage on which gods played their lives, the eldritch Mother of All, and though I brushed him off for years, now you can count me a believer that there is no greater power than Mother Nature, Queen of the Cosmos. The only way I could communicate the most powerful vision I have ever had was through poetry – not even visions of the War in Heaven, Eden, Original Sin, or my own supposed past deaths and future lives terrorized me as much as the Holy Power of the Mother:
“When you see Her you will die,”
Michael whispers in my ear, puts his
peacock hands over my eyes, then
takes me RUSH BLOW BOOM to Her.
God-Mother is ells tall, pine-barren
lumber over a waterfall, windblown
boulders in a storm, gale in the
reeds, eye of the tempest, heart
of a firestorm inferno, rainy marsh.
I cannot see, I cannot see Her, just
smell loam and smoke, She is All,
She is All, and we are just playthings
in Her inexorable crystal dove hands.
There are some things even angels
cannot fathom, some Mothers eat
their young, Death is just Her maw
the Earth Her womb, I am blind, blind
so in love, heartdrenched, when my
hourglass breaks, oh, then
I’ll see – “You will Know.”
Until then, we dance, waltzing
on the Holy Spirit’s lips.
She communicates in heady visions of storms, wildfires, tsunamis, great abysses in the sea, calamitous guts of Nature spilled out upon her altar. She is the Great Womb, Great Maw, and Great Death – you are reborn and remade and destroyed in Her arms, all at once. She is both succor, nurturer, killer, and destroyer, and she loves as a wolf loves, wild and fierce, or perhaps as a starving shrew that will eat its young.
In my dreams elves and fey have fled from her as she leads the Wild Hunt, “The Mother is coming!” they cry, racing through twilit woods as her hounds bay and Death approaches. She is Queen of Death and Rot, Queen of New Life and Creation – no one higher, nothing more than the whole universe and nothing less than every single being and atom in the cosmos.
She has warned of her arrival for decades now in my life – whispers among angels of the Mother, among nature gods of where their powers come from. So far removed from Her Children, watching on and caring little for our little worries and despairs – no, that is why she created the spirits as intercessors – She has a much higher vision and work to attend to.
I am the Icarus that flies to close to her brilliance, so intoxicated by Her I go mad.
God is Woman. God is Wild.