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May. 16th, 2003 11:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changelingSleepy again, but in a good way. We had an esbat ritual last night, that I mostly stole, as I was really not in the mood or frame of mind to write anything Wednesday night.
We had another esbat ritual for Wendy-class tonight...
...then Nat, Leanne and I did a spontaneous ritual afterwards. I'm walking on air...
And I think, with all this energy being sent out, I have to be able to move out soon.
(The Adana Printing Press)
Edit: I forgot to mention. We did a meditation in the Wendy-class, and I found a small cottage, one of those Australian takes on the English version, with the bulldog verandah in corrugated iron. The front door opens on a long passage, with lots of doors painted different colours. The walls are painted white. The floorboards are bare. I select the one that's a sort of magenta colour.
The door opens on a bedroom. From left to right, there is a single bed, a grandfather clock, and a bookcase on the righthand wall. The bed is neatly made, white linen or similar on it. Cotton sheets? Those white sheets that are quite thick and rough, anyway. The bedframe is metal. There is no carpet. It has the feel of one of those rooms in a house that's in Sovereign Hill, or Timbertown, or the nautical museum-y place in Warrnambool; it's old fashioned. It's a poor room. It has a strange aura, as if whoever's living in it has died or disappeared suddenly, and it's all just been left behind.
Wendy asks if there's anyone in the room with you, and suddenly there is. There's a little girl, with very long, straight honey-brown hair. She has a dress with a pinafore.She stands behind me, and is aware of me, although she isn't vicious, or happy, or anything. She's just blank. As if she's waiting for something.
We're instructed to get a book from the bookcase, and I get a large volume, in dark red leather. It has thick, creamy paper. It is an old-fashioned object. It is hand written, with a sharp, ink-black script. I see the word shadow, then that almost fades into the page (think Chamber of Secrets), then I see a medieval German woodcut of a witch being burnt at the stake, and then I see the sentence There is strength in the smallest boulder; not a sentence I would make myself. I don't like trite statements, and avoid them wherever possible. And boulder? A strange word to chose when describing a small rock. A strange thing indeed.
We had another esbat ritual for Wendy-class tonight...
...then Nat, Leanne and I did a spontaneous ritual afterwards. I'm walking on air...
And I think, with all this energy being sent out, I have to be able to move out soon.
(The Adana Printing Press)
Edit: I forgot to mention. We did a meditation in the Wendy-class, and I found a small cottage, one of those Australian takes on the English version, with the bulldog verandah in corrugated iron. The front door opens on a long passage, with lots of doors painted different colours. The walls are painted white. The floorboards are bare. I select the one that's a sort of magenta colour.
The door opens on a bedroom. From left to right, there is a single bed, a grandfather clock, and a bookcase on the righthand wall. The bed is neatly made, white linen or similar on it. Cotton sheets? Those white sheets that are quite thick and rough, anyway. The bedframe is metal. There is no carpet. It has the feel of one of those rooms in a house that's in Sovereign Hill, or Timbertown, or the nautical museum-y place in Warrnambool; it's old fashioned. It's a poor room. It has a strange aura, as if whoever's living in it has died or disappeared suddenly, and it's all just been left behind.
Wendy asks if there's anyone in the room with you, and suddenly there is. There's a little girl, with very long, straight honey-brown hair. She has a dress with a pinafore.She stands behind me, and is aware of me, although she isn't vicious, or happy, or anything. She's just blank. As if she's waiting for something.
We're instructed to get a book from the bookcase, and I get a large volume, in dark red leather. It has thick, creamy paper. It is an old-fashioned object. It is hand written, with a sharp, ink-black script. I see the word shadow, then that almost fades into the page (think Chamber of Secrets), then I see a medieval German woodcut of a witch being burnt at the stake, and then I see the sentence There is strength in the smallest boulder; not a sentence I would make myself. I don't like trite statements, and avoid them wherever possible. And boulder? A strange word to chose when describing a small rock. A strange thing indeed.
