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by Bronwynn Forrest Torgerson
The Goddess wrapped up 2000 by passing out Valentines, those bright colored cards you get in thin paper envelopes with your name printed on the front in childish scrawl. Everywhere I went, it was countdown to Lupercalia with cheeks aglow, hearts all aflutter and limbs and libidos intertwined.
In my mind's eye, I sat at my own little classroom desk and watched as She strode by. Nervously I said, "Don't you have one for me?" She peered down over her glasses and regarded me. "Are you ready to receive it?" She asked. Then She continued on.
I thought about Her question New Year's Day, walking along Puget Sound. A recent Midwest transplant, I wanted 2001 to begin and end with the ocean, the place where life also began. Only a few souls and seagulls were about as I picked through stones and shells and bits of smooth-scoured glass. Normally, I would have paid those no mind, but today the ambers and greens, whites and blues simply enchanted me. A sandy pocketful followed me home. I poured them into a clear custard dish and arranged them on my windowsill, where I could adore their jewel tones in the sun.
The following day, my housemate returned from a Christmas cruise with her family. As she began unpacking bits of the adventure, she apologized to me. "Bronwynn, I found the neatest igneous rock for you along the beach on San Juan, but then the tide came in. I had to snatch my backpack and my camera, and I forgot the stone. But I did bring you this." She dug deep into her jeans pocket and offered a fragment of ocean glass, this one aquamarine and as large as an ice cube melted. Enthralled, I added it to my inexplicable collection.
Why the glass? I posed this question to the Goddess in meditation that night. She smiled and explained, "It's a message in a bottle."
Having never seen the movie by that name, I was puzzled. Then came the ritual, dictated to me so swiftly I scarce could write it down. A listing of herbs followed, and advice when to give the ashes to the waves and how to trust my heart to wash ashore.
I had long felt the presence of my Other somewhere in the distance. His nearness was in part what drew me here Northwest. I had caught glimpses down by the water's edge. The scent of wind and water clung to him. His eyes were the color of the sea, and although life had carved its scars, his face held more creases from laughter than from tears. Before I left Illinois and began my journey here, he came to me in dreams. Together we planted a garden, worked effortlessly side by side. I awoke with salty streams of longing, gave notice at work shortly after, closed my savings account and headed my van toward home.
On the first day of January's full moon, I gathered herbs: hibiscus for love, lust and divination (where are you?); passionflower (be my lover and my friend); jasmine for prophetic dreams; rosemary for remembrance of past lives shared and recognition this time around; rose petals for love unfolding. Lastly, a pinch of mistletoe, sacred to my gods. I am Asatru, child of the Wanderer, and it was imperative that my Other have respect for me, my family and my Folk.
I selected three small bits of glass I'd been told I must include, plus a piece of rose quartz and of garnet, and poured this magickal potpourri into an etched glass tumbler sought for this occasion. Then taking pen in hand, I drew forth a single sheet of special paper printed with deep blue, star-centered morning glories and began to write out my heart.
That done, I adjourned to my third-floor sliding-glass-doored balcony, where a smoking cauldron lurked. The housemate came home, foraged for food and left me to my own Crafty devices. I asked the elements for their blessing in this sending, ending each invocation with, "Man of mine across the sea, come to me and blessed be!"
On the main night of full moon, I gathered with two others along the water's edge up near Birch Bay. A roaring bonfire and hot wassail, and the ghostly moon playing dress-up with dark fringed cloud shawls, all were part of this magickal night. When the time came for works of magick, I spoke my wish hesitantly, awkward and embarrassed at my need. I had been armored for so long in my aloneness and apartness that I feared the perception of weakness, should I disclose myself to others. They raced with me to the water's edge, where I opened and flung my bundle of ashes, stones, glass and a single lock of my hair. As I called across the waters, the breeze began to stir. Something snapped to attention and echoed, "So mote it be!"
The postscript to my petition had been, "When you come to me, may my heart be open to receive you." I had felt the Goddess smile. Now I was getting it right. Love could not walk through a door that was chained and locked and barred. But how to exercise? Were there aerobics for amore?
Apparently there were, for the following night, an amazon called and flirtatiously invited me to breakfast in the morning. A sister of Sappho, she wrote hot throbbing stanzas of erotic imagery, unquenched lust and incandescent desire. Her bed became the sacred space, with candles lit around us and Janis Joplin wailing us into flames. She anointed me with kisses, ground runes into my body with her skin. Again and again, our lava flowed and reclaimed the barren ground. I entered as a priestess, still cloaked in solitude. I emerged as a woman, caressed and reawakened to the oldest mystery. My heart had opened a crack, to let in light and love. Sunlight is contagious, and I trust its widening.
One day, I know that the Goddess will approach me, an envelope in Her hand. I'll try hard not to glance up, or appear hopeful, accepting still the risk of disappointment. But this time, She will pause. Laying one hand on my shoulder, She'll wait till I meet her gaze. And then will come words I am ready to hear: "Bronwynn, this one is for you...."
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