I don't want to do this, was the first thought in my head when I felt the PULL. It was like a weird hook in my solar plexus yanking me in the direction of the kitchen. This is ridiculous, it's Pop Paganism, it goes against everything I do, my modus operandi, my academic studies- All the time and effort I put into being Historically Accurate, reconstructing how folk at home would actually pray, stand, kneel IF they knelt-
I felt more than saw Their stare. Arms crossed, gaze level. The Look I haven't seen since I disappointed Him/Them so many years ago. Inwardly I was cringing, knowing exactly how this was going to play and not wanting to walk that road. But it was already laid before me.
But... it's...
When you cringe...? came the question. A rumble of thunder. A lion's roar.
Do not kill the part of you that is cringe, kill the part of you that cringes, I recited dutifully, with a glare over my own shoulder at the statue that almost appeared to be smiling smugly down at me from Her place of pride.
FINE.
I flipped through my music first, knowing I would need a respite from the D&D game happening in the other room. That rankled as much as anything. But... needs must, and I do not get to control my space. Things happen when they are meant to happen, or not at all, all too often and this was important.
I want a 99C sponge. Their voice was implacable. Almost cold. Not angry just... cold. There, like a stone in the road.
Okay. It is still 103F without the heat index. I do not have much wiggle room on my card, and I don't think I could manage to haul my bike up and down 6 flights of stairs and make the 3 mile ride round trip and still finish the task.
I stole a look at the cabinets and suddenly the push from yesterday to order more baking supplies hit me like a truck. I followed through then- I had vanilla; GOOD vanilla since my usual brand was out of stock; I had new sugar, I had eggs... I had frozen strawberries. With a wince, I exhaled, and asked if it was an acceptable substitute.
You will make this with your own hands? Sacrifice your time, your energy, your closely-hoarded "spoons" of energy that you meant to spend on other tasks...? You will exchange the completion of this task for another? The tone was considering, His gaze still level, but a little warmer. Like sheets of ice and snow falling from a cliff into the Fjords when the sun hits them in the spring. I felt more than saw the smile, a gentle warming touch to my shoulder. It is enough. Continue.
I don't have whipped cream, I muttered to myself, considering what lay in the fridge.
He smirked.
Isn't the TRADITIONAL offering honeycakes? You have honey yogurt. Give me that.
~*~
I left the music playing and went to the computer, looked up recipes. Most called for so many ingredients in such large measures I knew that I would never complete them, let alone be abel to consume them. And the point of the exercise is not needlessly wasting food. The point was to make it, offer part, and consume the rest myself. Sharing a moment, time and energy, and thoughtful process with a God. Repairing a bridge I had unwittingly burned behind me 9 years ago, almost to the day. The significance was not lost on me.
The Nth wave travels furthest up the beach...? came the gentle-mocking voice and I nodded.
"The price is not the same as the cost.
The symbol is not the thing it represents.
The seventh wave travels furthest up the beach."
Anxiety is a deity that does not answer prayers. He answered, and waved towards the ingredients laid out on the stovetop. It is the 9th wave this time, but no matter. Continue.
~*~
There was a prickle in the corner of my eyes when I paused to take a picture. Breathe. Ground myself. I had found a mug cake recipe that was deemed acceptable, I had all the ingredients for it. So, I took down a mug and began the process.
Not-quite losing myself in the process. My logical brain demanding to have proof of the moment. Proof of the process. I measured everything, checked the recipes over and over again to make sure nothing was left too long-
When I got to the point of adding the flour the tears were in full affect. It didn't fit. There was too much, despite measuring so carefully.... I poured everything into a bowl and soldiered on.
Didn't you have something for this eventuality...? The tone was that ever-gentle mockery of my hang-ups, my assumptions about the way the world, magic, GODS worked. But He was right just the same. I DID. And... wonder of wonders, the amount of batter perfectly filled both. A minor miracle.
The recipe said to fill them half full... they were perfectly filled. I baked them with a feeling of trepidation, respect, and shaking hands. What if they exploded? What if they cracked down the middle? What if-
Do you think I only accept perfect things? Knowing where this began, knowing what you Know, having seen what you have Seen? You doubt, now? He had a point. I took another deep breath, and waited for them to be done.
When the timer beeped and I slid them onto the counter, I was shocked by how golden and perfect they looked. Turned each out onto its own plate, whipped up the yogurt as much as I could, and plated them with care. More to soothe my spirit than out of genuine fear, but such is life.
I was almost too afraid to look at it, then. So I took my time cutting His, dividing it until it sat perfectly on the offering plate, the same exact mini ceramic bowls I use for my regular pantheon. Moved a tiny dish aside, and put His there right beside Their libations of wine, and water, perfumes, and incense grounds.
I re-lit the candle, and stood there, quietly, watching it flicker.
"I didn't have to wait 9 years to fix this," I muttered, rebellious. "You could have told me, you know."
Nine years from your discovery that you could disappoint the gods, nine years from your discovery that you could talk to them, walk the Dreaming as you walked the Grey- Nine years of study, mistakes, penances, trial & error, and dogged pursuit of your self-betterment... and you didn't realize that til now? The gentle mocking tone was replaced with what felt like genuine pity. You stand there, cloaked and protected, with weapons in your hands and inked into your skin, God-touched, and think I needed to tell you? Truly?
"No. Not truly. I should have known and approached you to apologize much sooner than now. I should have known better, and I should have pursued it years ago. I was a child then, and I should have listened when my mentors told me you would not unduly punish a child; whether of age or inexperience.
I should have reached out then, the gate was open. But I was wrapped up in pursuit of the Morrigan. I did not truly believe I could make amends. Not to a god. Not to you."
For not recognizing a god you had never seen before, in an unfamiliar place, before you had built your Dreamscape, your personal lexicon. Before you had studied. Before you knew... anything, really. Newly awake, newly out of a horrible situation, and newly listening... it was a test, yes. But not so great a one as you thought.
I was seeing if you would pursue. If you would learn the lesson, and try again anyway.
Not just life, but the actions associated.
Breathing. Blinking. The rhythm of the heart at rest, and at work. It responds to the environment, like the planet itself is... breathing. Inhale and exhale. Start and stop. Ebb and flow. A heartbeat.
.
A rhythm
.
Some are longer than others. Some are shorter than a blink. Some take eons and some... well. Some you don’t even get to notice. Pattern recognition is a skill, and hyper vigilance will help or hinder in ways you’ll never see coming until the train is barrelling towards you full tilt and you’re stuck on the track with your shoes untied.
.
I digress.
.
Waves. That’s what I was on about.
The distant sound of waves crashing across the sand rippled like the heat-shimmer between me and the distant blue. Days like this you couldn’t tell where the sky met the horizon everything was so still.... save for the ebb and flow that meshed with the roaring of the blood in my ears. Mm. Heat.
Heat and salt spray that cracked the lips and dried the bones that lay littered on the beach. Broken off shells like a knife waited in the drifting white. Foam and sand. Where did one end and the other start...? Who could even say definitively? I didn’t have the instruments for it and anyway that’s not why I was here.
.
Waves. Hrm.
.
How many times have I stood on this self-same beach and listened while the Ancient Couple blathers on about old crumbling arguments that no one even remembers the inciting incident for, least of all THEM? How many times have I been crouched, thighs and calves burning, back breaking, scraping down the sides of the ship that will never really sail again? How many times have I lifted that green glass bottle to my lips, blown the sand and grit from the rim, and drunk whatever was growing in the deep murky depths?
That’s a digression of another sort. But such are the keys to the kingdom made of, friend. And we’ve been littering them across the web since.... well. Best not to think about just how long it’s been this time, eh? Soldier on.
.
The seventh wave travels furthest up the beach.
.
It’s almost rote, at this point. I mean really, what else is a prayer but a rote recitation of a lesson whose impact is worn away at the corners, dog-eared, and a bit limp from the heat of your grasp?
.
The price is not the same as the cost.
The symbol is not the thing it represents.
The seventh wave travels furthest up the beach.
Anxiety is a deity that does not answer prayers.
.
There you go. Breathe it in. Salt. Heat. Sand. Vague fishy seafoam on your tongue. Easy. Simple.
.
But the sand keeps getting hotter. And the waves keep getting louder. Droning. Like the blood in my ears... pretty sure those are burning too with the sun. Stupid Irish genetics and stupid pale ancestors with their stupid superiority complexes apropos of literally nothing but their egos but... here we sit anyway. Or stand, rather.
.
Beaches are to waves as prayers are to.... well. You understand.
