Iris' Dream
When she woke up, she was startled to find herself in her bed in a small cabin in the backwoods of northern Canada. She knew she had just left the Temple of the Mother, and the bright morning in this cozy wooden home didn’t fit.
Iris tried not to forget where she had just been and what had just happened, so she closed her eyes again, laying flat on her back under the soft down of her sleeping bag, recalling bit by bit the life she knew was the truth behind the veil:
Iris felt the damp softness of the grass beneath her bare feet and breathed the sweet, intoxicating scent of apple blossoms and early roses in the orchards. Emerald sea of growing spelt behind the fruit trees, meeting the horizon in a gentle sweep. The path to the Temple was well trodden, yet the light step of the priestesses had not destroyed the grass.
She was not alone. Her sisters in front and behind her, she was feeling excitement rising: today she was going to be ordained as a priestess of the Goddess herself. Her robes were white, gleaming amongst the saffron and peach and burgundy of the others.
Slowly they moved along the path, leaving their younger sisters standing by the stone houses that were their homes. In many of the younger women’s eyes there were tears and in some a hint of jealousy, not malicious though, just sad that it was not their turn yet.
Iris knew that emotion well. And so, she embraced her younger sisters in her heart, beholding them with love. Ah, but now, turn the gaze toward Temple and the power of the Goddess!
Temple was the most sacred place on the island, surrounded by large and ancient beeches and oak. Temple was a place in the womb of the Mother, a prehistoric ceremonial cave. Iris remembered the runes on the smooth surface of the outside wall on either side of the narrow entrance. No man would ever know their meaning.
Almiraya, the High Priestess, stood there, head high, silver and black hair flowing down her back, her burgundy robes adorned with small crystals. And although magnificent in her power, she had the smile of a gentle mother.
In the silence of reverence the women followed Almiraya into the darkness of Temple. One by one, knowing each step, down and down, spiraling deeper into the heart of the Mother, of Womanhood, of the Mystery.
The women gathered around the stone altar, illuminated by the glow of nine beeswax candles. Iris could see the Athame and the earthen bowl with water from the spring, and the iridescent feather of an exotic bird that was gifted to the High Priestess by a wayfarer.
Almiraya began to sing. Undulating notes like women’s hair in the wind, flute-like and yet deep from the belly. One of the older Priestesses started to drum the heartbeat of the Mother in rhythm with the song of Almiraya, and the women swayed as one with the holy music of old.
Iris had no thoughts. There was nothing but Life itself, the sacred, life-giving power of the Goddess, the blessed knowing of Women. Golden spirals of the divine Feminine encircling the universe, from millennia past to millennia to come.
The song and the drum stopped. Iris opened her eyes to look into those of the High Priestess. Almiraya took Iris’ hand gently and led her to the altar; her white robe was opened and slid off easily. Iris shivered. Almiraya’s hands lightly anointed Iris body from feet to belly to breast to brow from a bowl with warm, scented oil.
Iris heard the ancient words, the hallowed songs of the rites of the Goddess; she felt the oil warm her and the scent infusing her heart with sweetness. And she knew that this was what she was born to be: a woman amongst all other women in the service of Life, as it always had been.
Her new robe was saffron, and the mark on her forehead a crescent moon. Drawing the power of the Mother up from the sole of her feet all the way to the crown of her head, Iris stood tall amongst her sisters. Iris was a Priestess.
Slowly, one by one, the women followed Iris back up the spiral to the opening of the womb, where another world existed. One that needed healing.
Iris remembered now, opening her eyes again to the bright morning: a world that needed healing. Yes. And she understood now that it could only happen through the power of the Feminine. She also knew that the task was immense.
Iris sat up, looking at the summer sky outside, little puffs of cloud painted on blue. Another world. Yet she was always going to be a Priestess, bringing the teachings of the Mother into this world. Like many other women, who quietly did their work of healing, mothering, honoring. Even today - as it always had been.
And tomorrow - as it always will be.