Often, what works does so simply because it corresponds to some interior structure we've built up over time. Everything represents! There are barns in me, a gears-level appreciation of projection, there are rivers that others call brooks, and there is a trusted ability to tie folks who insist on distinctions (as between rivers and brooks, say) into semantic knots. May I tell you a secret?
One falls in love rarely and never forgets the fall, conflates the fall with the one for whom one fell, and so never doesn't love falling. My middle name should've been Ascutney. The Mysteries are not harmed when we learn about them, they are not averse to being solved. The scriptural is delightfully sexual: every child of God knows this.
We who linger at hints - who sip and never quench our thirst - what god or gods do we suppose have welcomed our worship? What altar - if it could - would turn and worship us? For we do not pray but in bodies that love a lot more than just prayer.
Imagine a long drive north, or in a direction of your choosing, to an end you can dream but not guarantee. We invent the communion ritual by stealing joy from the ones who locked joy in boxes, invented compound interest and captured writers for marketing firms.
I mean picture the Eden we could make! The order we could restore! A kiss that exceeds anticipation of kisses, chocolate and bread and roses where the desert inclines towards mirages!
Witches know what works (you know). In our dreams a river, and in the river more dreams, and in each dream an image of a river. A hymn that is both our own and everyone else's. As if anything but this mattered.
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