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Walking with Persephone In Woodland spaces

Walking with Persephone In Woodland spaces

persehone fall hades joey morris the house of twigs THOT woodland forest

The Forest is not a place to visit, nor where witches abide.Instead the Forest is where we live inside.

The Forest is us…
The tangled roots, the dew marked webs that weave into the tales of the land, the boughs that sway with the life essence of stories, as memories cling like raindrops and evaporate in the heat of a new day.
Branches creaking echo aching bones weathered by time and shivering in the bitter wind.
Soil nourishes us through the tendrils of our feet, sole to soul, singing a harmony to our hearts, yet only some can hum the tune back.

We breathe deep, sighing into the peace and stillness within petrichor, watching the light dappling over the leaves and we reach upward, basking in sunglow and moonglow.

Shape-shifting folklore swings us from natural woodland to frightening menace as our otherness is labelled villainous under the taint of misrepresentation.
Magick resides here, in the liminal spaces where we quiver and embrace the wyrdness, listening to the spirits of the trees and watch the moss women by the river divining with rods of Yew.

The guardians of the spiritual ecosystem, the trees are dusted in the legacy of humanity, organizing breath and conversing with those who have the wits to listen, and the eyes to see…

The Groves have innate knowing and allow for the decomposition of life, decaying shrouds in swirling leaves that rot and fraternize with fungi, replenishing and renewing, holding open the space within which to let slip the outgrown parts, shedding former skins so that we may step out under star-clad skies and shimmer back with our newness.

The problems arose when humans in their arrogance came salvaging and sawing, hacking off pieces and filing them down, labelling the outdoor raggedy and unseemly, and the varnished and suffocated the new sanitized and venerated.
Humans killed the trees and stole the life from death, holding them forever bound in a state unchanging; so asses on seats could be mollified staring at life on screen, so removed, sapping all the nutrients from the soul, as artificial and virtual drains our essence, and eradicates the connection to the green under our fingernails.

The forest bides, to everything its season, stepping in and out of the cosmic interplay, weaving on solid foundation… but humans have instant download and gratification and forget that seasoning of psyche needs all seasons.

The forest lets fruits ripen and seeds spread from the wisps of Hades’ breath to Persephones’ lips, a promise of eternity of gardening and dying, yet humans breed industry injecting hormones into nuked and irradiated sustenance until our bodies feel the strain of a life constantly stuck ‘on’ and never resting.

The woodland realms remind us that life was not meant to be sterilized and contained in beakers, history in graphs lacks depth, humanity is lost in the statistics when we seek to remake community into workforce, and drain all the colour from art, we lose ourselves in numbers.
If only we would honour our deep connection the wild places we would remember the essence of what it means to be.

And so with sombreness upon our lips we tilt our heads in reverence, seated betwixt the gnarled roots and leaves of crimson gold and lave our skins with autumn rains and speak to the Old Gods of harvest and sanctuaries.

To take a knife and plunge it into the firm flesh of pomegranate and wear the blood wine juice dripping is ritual incarnate, tantalizing seeds on our tongues that invite us to delve into the mysteries of what it means to press against the bark and fall headlong to the world beneath the world, where those very kernels of fruit and knowledge take root within the dirt and begin to till the Earth from within.

The union of Life and Death is the ecstatic embrace in the Underworld, where Persephone who walks between worlds and carries the weight of all tales alongside her meets Hades who holds the natural balance.
In her Otherworldly garden she holds a seed aloft and pushes it into the arches of Her Cathedral cavern, a gift and a promise from the beyond which grows upwards into the Groves of soul.
A lifeline between one realm and the next, the heart of it is Kore.

She sings to the kernels, infusing them with the spark of existence before their journey begins, reminding them of the glory of their blossoms yet to unfurl, and how they too will return to the Earth someday; it is the same song that reverberates in open choir within the Groves.

Persephone stretches her limbs and unleashes her tresses, removing the binds of twine and weed, shaking loose the memories into the ether.
Keeper of the tales of mankind and womankind, Seer of all that has been and will ever be, ferocious and kind, a lifelong Spirit gardener.
Remembrance is the providence of the Shades of the Dead, aglow in the meaning of mortals and woven into the fabric of Rebirth.
Humans would sanitize Death and lose this piece of their very being, for without movement, without decay, we cannot step into the beyond.

So allow yourself to die in moments, even when it is painful to do so.
Change is always on the wind, in the veins of the woodlands, as Persephones’ gently crooning lullaby entices the movement along; always wandering, always walking, always in motion.

Honour that which passes and fades to rise again, it is life and living, death and dying, and the moments of soul in the telling.

Many blessings,

Joey Morris

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My name is Joey, and I am a Celtic Creatrix and UK based daughter of The Morrigan. I work very closely with tree magick and spend much of my time communing and foraging within the spiritual ecosystem. This connection allows me to practise voice witchery and conduit for the Otherworld. “Wild. Ancient. Carefree. Who were we as witches before we learnt what the world told us to be?” – Joey Morris To become a tempered blade of The Morrigan, one must be baptized in blood and fire. These struggles within my lifetime have led me to become a voice for the voiceless, to reach out to the broken, and to poke the shadows in others so that they might begin to heal. “Such a path is dangerous. But so are we. This is the birth of a wild witch who sees with their ‘Other eyes’ and treads the path of edges, sharp and unsual, but filled with adventure, magick of the liminal and the in-between spaces.” – Joey Morris Within the spiritual landscape my soul mission is to deepen the understanding of our interconnectedness by both honouring the sacred and exploring the masks of the self through channeling relationships to the Divine through written work, poetry, videos, products and services.
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My name is Joey, and I am a Celtic Creatrix and UK based daughter of The Morrigan. I work very closely with tree magick and spend much of my time communing and foraging within the spiritual ecosystem. This connection allows me to practise voice witchery and conduit for the Otherworld. “Wild. Ancient. Carefree. Who were we as witches before we learnt what the world told us to be?” – Joey Morris To become a tempered blade of The Morrigan, one must be baptized in blood and fire. These struggles within my lifetime have led me to become a voice for the voiceless, to reach out to the broken, and to poke the shadows in others so that they might begin to heal. “Such a path is dangerous. But so are we. This is the birth of a wild witch who sees with their ‘Other eyes’ and treads the path of edges, sharp and unsual, but filled with adventure, magick of the liminal and the in-between spaces.” – Joey Morris Within the spiritual landscape my soul mission is to deepen the understanding of our interconnectedness by both honouring the sacred and exploring the masks of the self through channeling relationships to the Divine through written work, poetry, videos, products and services.
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