Connecting

I know that Nemetona wants me to come out to Her. I just don’t know where because things have changed so much. It’s not the same staring at a bedroom altar. I have a sacred space on my property, but it’s not private. No kind nuns will come looking for me if I’m not at my desk. Maybe those nuns were more priestesses than they knew. Maybe their motherly and tolerant treatment of a shy and troubled child was a form of initiation. I have no doubt that at least some of them hoped I would stay at the school and take the vows. I might have, if my father hadn’t moved me to public school.

I have only gratitude for those holy women who only once chastised me, when I pulled a fistful of rubber animals out of my pocket during mass.

I have a vision of Nemetona in my mind. I also have a detailed picture of The Morrigan that came to me in a dream. Maybe art is the way to connect. Maybe a few swipes of green and brown or a detailed drawing of a woman in bloody clothes on a battlefield, wielding a spear, is the way to reach them.

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