E-zine 1
May 2005

Soul Foraging:
Searching for self

Crow Magic

We chant open our hearts and the Great Mother enters the room —I feel her round form emerge from the black clay of my chest—She is crying—Her tears are springs of new life washing over us—The truth she sings becomes the hue of our shadow—She speaks us into the circle of life—

Black
            Is the beginning of life,
            It contains the spark of creation.
Black
            Is “nigredo” matter unformed
            Bursting with potential.
Black
            Is nothingness, the building block of all that matters
            The foundation of all matter.
Black
            Is the night sky
            Where the ancestors burn their fires and watch over us.
Black
            Is the canvas of our dreams,
            The roadmap to health and wholeness.
Black
            Is the moment before dawn
            Pregnant with morning.
Black
            Is the womb,
            The mother’s power and protection.
Black
            Is the coal she gave
            To fuel the fire of my childhood winters evenings.
Black
            Is faith, the ability to walk forward
            Without the comfort of vision.
Black
            Holds infinity,
            Unknown possibility and the potential of magic.
Black
            Is the crow,
            Cawing death, chance and prediction.

It is black we wrap around ourselves when we go inside, to the still, silent place where no one can harm us.

In black-ness everything mingles; it is where the spirits of the four legged and the two legged are one; it is where we learn to be shape shifters.

Without black, white cannot know itself as white, white cannot exist.

Black is the beginning. Black is the end.
Black is the Mother. Black is home.