Hear the call of Artemis. The Greek goddess of the Hunt, the moon, unfettered wilderness. The guardian of Children, girls and woman in childbirth. Be supported by her insight, and take her bow and arrow as your own. Leave your freedom in the hands of herself, when wordly duties call to you
(Artemis) Wisdom often comes to the broken when we are soft and yielding. A hard seed yields to the pull of the earth and its fleshy core makes way through the clod.
Even patience is fierce and holds fast against the invasion of distrust. To speak little and listen much at times is a great strength that is not physical. And like all women internally strong.
To read the currents beneath the fray is a greater strength even more than a man can give. The truest hunt is to bed with ones own nature.
We catch the bear to honor the most wild within at our altar. Being so it is within our sanctuary to visit. Our arktoi To protect our strength so it is saved for those who deserve it and if not, at most for you.
To summon such things within yourself when not seen. For you can find it even in the night of self. Where the moonlight precedes the hunt.
(Artemis) And you child of sight, will always be wild and free, and vision made from instinct, a bride to intelligence. Married you are already to that within you.
The fringe of civilisation, the liminality you shall reside within. A crossroad where men dare not tread. For it is yours unencumbered. Give up your robes, your dressings and walk barefoot, in vision. For we cannot hear all parts of you without such.
Performance as armor will not be yours. Status and nobility will fall. Trust your hindsight, and let us be under a moon that begs to differ that the only way to see is through sunlight.
For the moon offers up a greater revelation that bears witness to the night sky. For all it holds is vast, agape, unveiled because it does not fear it’s own freedom.
(Artemis) Come my Arketeia, the howl is deep the dance is slow. Become our companion.
Throat to the wind, hands to the air. Shed no more, do not weep, as we guard the transitions, one to the other, the midwife.
Such shedding leading to no more. Lykeia light, internal focus not phased, the silver glint on the dawn.
Saffron to the unleashed. Your instinct will never be theirs. Your hands the server and served.
(Artemis)Why speak now in a world that forgets the old Gods. With those who prefer the gathering of sheep. Who are easy pickings for the wolves.
Wild wolves, for even they have the conviction to transverse the forest alone, and also do the hearts of those seeking difference and change in their lives.
We show our face in the strong, the purity of conviction, no matter its bitter truth. For what woman knows our name, which nymphs even foster.
And those who bathe in the water of themselves shall not be alighted upon by wrong eyes. And the chariot shall be open to those invited to sit at my side. And if you take the reins, weakness shall not speak of you.
(Artemis) Our heels are quick to find speed in the chasing of none. We chase for the glory of feeling sweat on our brow and wind in our hair.
We but the huntress, the blessings of woman and child. The chastisement of men who dare to defile.
And the deer does not stray far. Yet those who look without true reason become the stag. So lift that heel, and hounds will be beside you.
The Innocent protected and those who disregard, quick to gleam the quiver where my arrows go.
Feel the tree and know the structure is your own. The labor to endure is whatever you birth. And the taste of figs..