We live in a world that refuses to believe in the existence of Magick. Magick, intrinsically represents the unknown Mysteries, the impossible being achieved against all odds, our very birthright of divinity.
It has become very obvious to some of us that this was a great illusion cast over the land to make us believe that we are powerless. This illusion would have us believe that there is no other choice but to succumb to the Machine, with grinding gears for teeth and piles of one dollar bills and the false echoes of power-hungry voices, as intestines. This Machine is the biggest threat to our existence, steam issuing from it and scalding all those who stand in the way. Breaking us apart, and mowing us down in droves and mercilessly, without compassion, this is built upon each one of our backs. It thrives on our sweat and blood, and it starves us of our rights and our own Spirit! And for a long time, many of us have forgotten that we have the tools to fight back, the power to return to our own stories against the controlling will of Capitalistic forces. I embarked upon a journey to seek out one who could reawaken the Magick, one who knew about the Old Ways of the humans. I found the Hawthorn tree, on the seashore.
This Winter is dying. Spring is threatening, but there is no sign of new growth. It is low-tide and gulls poke compacently along the shore. The tree is stark silhouetted against the ocean, bare arterial branches almost daring me to encroach, it’s perilous thorns grasp at my skirt. Caught, I sit to admire the fruits of the low growing tree, a mellifluous dying symphony of crimson berries, circumventing the ocean breeze. Here is the Guardian of Magick who has sworn to protect the Enchantment of this realm, which has been unjustly persecuted. For a very long time, and in many medieval poems and rhymes it has been said that Hawthorn was the meeting place, the Gateway between the realm we walk about in, and that of the Faerie Queen. Used as the original May-Pole to celebrate the bringing back of life into the world, and also an esoteric crown of Hawthorn was said to sit upon the head of Jesus Christ as he was crucified to death, to be be reborn again. There are many worlds to traverse, says the Hawthorn Guardian, all while blood runs red through your veins.
I completely forget about untangling myself and have no desire to go anywhere else, distal winds playing along the water’s surface, entrancing in their criss-cross alchemical adventure along the pathway of this Hawthorn. The screeches and metal-on-metal scraping sounds of the Machine, fading into the distance, more like the cries of gulls. Sitting on the water’s edge, I feel myself getting pulled down a sweet and sultry road from which return was unlikely. My spirit was snared, and I was drawn closer like a moth to a luminous window; a window to the heart, where Magick is borne and bestowed upon the travellers of the Hawthorn Guardian’s path. I caught a glimpse of a brightly lit window far away in the distance while sun hangs like frost on the reflective criss-crossing surface of the ocean. Got to get back to reality. Which reality? My reality?
The sharp sound of screeching tires and exasperated honking traffic brings me back to the city, and to the reality of the Machine. Before I can leave I am so tangled up in the tree I must snap off the end of a twig to escape the seducing lull of the Hawthorn. It is one little thorn that held me so close, to exist in the rift between realms. Ours is a world where Magick is endangered, and fraught with the peril of civilan hopelessness. In times like these heart medicine and Magick (for often they are one in the same) becomes especially important. The Machine is threatening our divine selves and our home, and the chalice that overflows with the self becomes cracked trying to brigade the immense crashing waves crashing in and around it. That is our heart battling the waters of displacement, confinement and self-erosion. The Holy Grail.
I stand back, and regard the tree. Even the decomposing berries rotting on the branches are beautiful to behold in an ever-frozen thorny vignette of birth and death perpetually spiralling above it’s glistening trunk. The berries are held in cadence at blood-red frequency. The joy and ease in life, and the tender thorns of death both are reflected in blood against the paleness of the moon, waxing and waning. The tree speaks to me of the deep power of knowing and transmuting those boundaries as guardian of the great cycle that connects us, and then isolates us as we pass through time. The rebirth of spring is the death of winter, the phoenix rising from the ashes. Worlds merging and colliding. Complete and utter vulnerability and thorny protection entwining into blood-red berries in the poetic moonlight. This is the same blood we all share, that rejoices in the biological Magick of the universe and collides perpetually with a macro-plane of other organic ecstasies while our hearts beat out symphonic stratagems of pleasure in our rib-cages. Hawthorn, Giver and Taker of Worlds.
It is time for the Machine to die, and our lives to be reclaimed and the world be made anew. It is time for the Resurrection of Magick.
Completely devoted to the re-enchantment of the physical world, Deer is a fiery autistic Unicorn studying in the BlackHeart Line of the Anderson Feri Tradition of Witchcraft. She occupies a rift that lies between two worlds and her sole mission in life is to build a bridge so that we may occupy yet again what was seized from us. As a herbalist by trade and a student of Western Plant Spirit Medicine as well as Traditional Chinese Medicine, uniting dualities and building connections is what she was born to do. She is infinitely passionate about Animal Rights and the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. When she is not working magic with the written word or interacting with the natural world, she is riding horses, crafting Magickal objects, singing, playing the Cello, drawing or painting, and searching for any other Unicorns that may remain. She hails from the Wild West, New Mexico, USA.