I have found my high holy days, in the womb of darkness—Solstice, the darkest days of the year. I rejoice in the deep, with its chaos and blindness, its promise of the unknown thing ahead.
I have meditated on Mary all year, beginning last Advent when I began to contemplate each of the words given Jesus’s mother in the Christian Bible. She is allowed 191 words, which takes a person about a minute and a half to speak. Over the months, I found myself listening to the thousand things Mary was not allowed to say, the spirit behind the unspoken words, the story behind such silencing, the ancient knowledge in my own female, human body of what it means to love, to lose, to suffer, to be silenced.
I’ve been immersed in the vast silences of the other Mary’s as well: Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, the three Mary’s at the foot of the cross. I have found these women in my dreams, singing in my blood, stirring in my bones. My dreams brought me to Isis and Sophia, the mother of mothers, and the mysteries of the feminine that wait for us all, in the deep pool of our beginning. This is the essence of the song I hear: There is the All, and then there is the Mother of the All.
Out of the Darkness—the Mother-of-All—the divine child is born. We rush to the child, to the light. May we linger at the source, and open to her guidance.