The Crone and the Thorn Bush
One of my favorite things to do is channel “letters” from your spirits and deliver them to you. These messages are beautiful, poetic, fluid and sometimes a little cryptic. All of the pieces of the puzzle but no picture or instructions to work from. I find them delightful to channel and even more delightful to share. While I no longer provide this as an individual service, I do still offer this to participants of Into the Veil, my introductory workshop to Espiritismo.
While every letter is my favorite letter (seriously - they are all SO good), there is one that my memory has refused to loosen its grip on. My memory is terrible (SO BAD), so for this one to stick with me must mean something. I think what sticks with me most about this letter is that rather than the usual “here we are, here's the guidance, here's the part where we tell you we love you,” they painted a picture. They shared a captivating vision that I reflect back to often.
Now that we are in the season of the Crone, my spirits have called me to share this letter with you:
"I keep seeing thorns. Thick and gnarled and matted into a bush. Like the briar patch. Sharp and ominous and dark with thick fog all around. These branches have twisted and thickened over the years...they feel ancient, much like the forest they are in. The sky is purple and grey from the mist.
And deep, deep within the dark thorny patch is a single rose.
Glowing red, like a ruby with a light inside.
The rose wants to be found, but it fears that hope is lost. The sharp brush around the rose was put there to protect it, to keep it safe from harm. But what was meant to be protection feels more like a prison now. The rose is longing to see the sky in all its vastness again.
The crone enters the forest. Fingers twisted and gnarled like the branches of the thorn bush.
She pulls out long, wide, sharp, scissors. They are shiny and silver with a bit of engraving on them.
She stands in front of the thornbush contemplating whether or not to snip it away. It has served her so well for so long….but it has been so long that at this point she can’t remember what she is protecting beneath it.
She pricks her finger on a thorn, and touches her wound to her mouth.
Her lips are painted a bright crimson by the blood.
She points her shears toward the sky and shouts “as above, so below,” and cuts into the bush. With every snip comes sweet release and sweet relief.
