Many would be amazed to discover that so many of the old fairy stories we tell to our children are yarns that were spun, with silver threads and golden needles, by the fairy godmothers or womb shamans of the past, to hide the old lore of the Weave about sacred sex magic until the time was right for it to be revealed.
My feeling is that its time is due, even if it can only be revealed, at first, to a select few who have the understanding. So I will be publishing a number of articles on shamanic sex magic here in the upcoming months. In the meantime, I think this poem Hollow Bones, by Amara Bronwyn MacEachern, illustrates the revelatory process of the Weave perfectly.
We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys.
They sank in our Rivers of Blood,
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the Mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths,
And then burned the earth with our rage.
We didn’t teach our children;
It was the only way to protect them,
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind,
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
and put out the fires,
For the dams to break,
For the rivers to flood,
For the paths
to be walked again,
For the soil to breathe.
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble
We find we’ve always had the keys.
Our stories and our maps,
Our paths are revealed to some,
And the seeds grow again
The threads are unspun
And woven again.
Amara Bronwyn MacEachern, Hollow Bones