This morning I spent with a lavish once goddess turned saint. Slowly like parting the lustrous long tresses not of cypress trees and it’s heady cypriot moss dance of perfume, but of mysterious trees I shall never see because they wear melodies which only existed when the Celtic Queen of Brid summoned fierce countenance. Weeping green languid willows with tickling tendril wispy leaves in the key of A minor. Oak mossy carpets dotted with crystalline winking dew drops. So soothing, so expansive yet coveting all of ones breath and mind. I said Saint Bridgit do you really exist and if so why have you never come to me? A cool celestial fougere, a feathery whisper with shiny pure silver flutes blew soft mirthful music green. I found myself travelling into the deep emerald world of Ancient Ireland with large hewn boulders and their tarnished platinum stones. It was not impossible to imagine why High Priestesses were so dazzled with these orchestral forests.
I walked with the bare feet of my mind, well wearing a soft golden coumarin leather slipper of a boot filled with breathing perfume like an elf. The sacred earth was springy and yet moist. I could begin to understand how the flora and fauna spoke to poets, fingers whom plucked music from strings and how flutes were the way to talk to Mother earth. My mind felt so soft and gently intoxicated as if I had been resting the rest of Rumplestiltskin dreaming of lemony herbs, moss and spice of Rapunzels jade leaf salad of gems. . The music of the Celtic wind blew through this petite ravine. In the blue shadow of the tall trees I saw a white furry beast. No it was no
t a unicorn, rabbit or goat? Yet it sat It was a pure diamond white fur lavish, fragile trusting cow.
A cloistered sacred cow among the intoxicating ferns sitting as if she were a unicorn in a medieval wooly tapestry. I could suddenly hear Saint Brid’s voice telling me that this was the seat of her power, her legacy, her healing. Her mystical, porcelain white skin as glowing as the moon within the echo of a lake where only she could grow fire red within a glittering brook. The fire ran deep within these herbed cerulean waters like a velvet ribbon of little flames which was her hair. The fires of Queen Bridgit never extinguish their torches. She said just sit here as if you were in a basilica and I will be right with you in your heart. She said there is no difference between me, a giant oak tree and a bodhisattva. The anointed being of Christ is the divinity of love within your veins. My sacred cow filled with milk and cream reunites me with Mithra the Sun God and Tarku of Tarsus. We travel in mind from the powdery blue skies of Kashmir over giant steps before the holy grail. The milk of human kindness, gentle and sweet. My plants talk to the sky. Jupiter, Aires and Mars spinning for healing medicine Come back soon to see your Saint Bridgit and don’t forget it was you whom never visited my land of singing stones.