A young man asks, “What is this? What is happening?” Someone throws another log on the fire. Winter has settled in, yet below the frozen surface the waters are rushing. Psyche is edgy.
“There is a solar reversal coming,” says one. “Pachamama wakes,” says another. “So many people are asking for aid!” adds a third.
This is a sacred time in Northern climes, an ancient space of mystery. Somehow, even in the midst of the mercantile wildness asserts itself. Through tiny cracks in an indifferent culture Nature creeps, offering solace to some, unsettling others.
As we breathlessly await Santa and his heaps of gifts, his almost unimaginable contribution to the world economy, the Mythic slips in, perhaps assuming the form of Saint Nicholas, tough, edgy, determined, barrel of cold water at hand to quell lust and avarice. The carols we sing float atop deep rivers of desperate hope. “Buy!” we are told. “Care and aid,” demands the good saint. “Wake up,” whispers Pachamama.
Even the birds demand our attention, breaking their rules of distance to stand before us and invite awe. “What do they want?” a woman asks. “Why do they come here?” echoes another. Hundreds of them, hovering before doors, filling the bushes through which we walk, inserting themselves into our dimmed awareness.
Surely something is at hand. Do you hear the ringing of bells? The songs of stars? Do you feel Mother Earth’s heart beating within you and in the larger world? What is afoot? Who will be become?