The storm king is singing on this sacred day. His voice is the white-winged wind, his eye the light on the sea rising. He sings through the trees and the bones and into the very soul of me. He sings gull, dragon, thunder, rain. He whispers and roars, is smoke and the gentle breeze.
I don't want a god I need not kneel to, a god who will serve me. I'm not in this wild religion to find my own power or co-create anything. I follow my god into the longest night, unmooned and unsure, for the simple truth of love. What can I do? I am dirt, feather, sea, hill-bone. Every instinct draws me to him. Every moment. I breathe him in; I move through him. My words are rooted in the earth of me, but he gives them sound.
And he sings, he sings, love and storm, on this oldest day of the year.
art by andre alexandre