It is odd, how certain shadows can sneak up on me, loiter about, then pull on my threads of light, unraveling me. They are pickpockets—nasty doubt demons—and they grow fat off me till I turn around and there is now a giant of darkness stretched out before me. Hungry. Pool of coldness. It yearns for the warm blood of me.
And the shadow that haunted my footsteps today is not easily subdued. No matter how I twist and turn my thoughts, my prayers, there is the Sun at my face, and lurking behind, this fearsome ghost of the future. More specifically, the ghost of our future, the rattling bones of our Earth’s dismemberment, the agony of yet another forest felled, yet another thread pulled from the Web of Her Gown, and another, and another. My Mother. Your Mother. Sweet Incomprehensible Earth.
I am the one who hopes. I am a believer in things beyond our circle of story. There are always wild things happening on the outside of the human story, things we couldn’t believe till we proved them, things we didn’t know we could do till we did them. But today my belief is threadbare. And there is that shadow, my deepest fear, pulling my warmth from me like the cold suck of a black hole. The day is warm, but my heart is chilled, slow beating, clenched tight round the dream of Her that we all are.