all is forgiven: Stella Coyote “stole” (not her word)  a large container of dark dark maple syrup, and ate most of it, and….
feels really good…

“You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.” William Blake.
So, no matter what we may have (over) eaten, our inner Coyote is just fine….

We journey on….

And the Birth of The Trickster Redeemer

awaits our partnering invitation

Advent: Waxing Moon in Waning Year

as Fate gives birth to Destiny
that we may “dree our weird” (“play our role.”)

And the texture of the air is made sacred by our dedication.

After the talk: the replay will be available here:

Let us  journey towards the birth of our dedicated expansive Trickster selves.
with our Sagittarian encouragers of defiant creativity William Blake and Mark Twain…

“I must create a system or be enslaved by another man’s; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.” (Blake)
In Greece at the Saturnalia, the chained statues of Saturn were un-chained, and may it be so for us, as we release that which has bound us and the World…
“Stamina” comes from the “stamen”, the length of our life’s thread woven by the fates, but stamen means we can thicken, lengthen and spiral it around.
As the sacred teacher Bullwinkle would say:
“This time for suuuure!”

 

Grand trine in Fire, that creativity passion warm our bones, Moon-Uranus stationing trine Sun, Ceres, emerging Venus, trine Jupiter stationing, and more! We shall animate!

We honoring approaching Winter, and the passing of Mark Strand:
As a reviewer said, “reading Mr. Strand “We learn what a big party solitude is.” Let’s delve into that Jupiterian celebration of Saturn and vice versa in reciprocal cahoots.

(and always honoring our Trickster Team-mate colleagues in Australia, “Hi, you Gaia’s, and thanks for holding the mythic mirror image of seasonal polarity…feel free to contribute your down-under perspective.”)

Lines for Winter

By Mark Strand
for Ros Krauss
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.