Crazy about crows

I love these sort of archetypal crow images. I think this is Three.

Today the crows were less scatty and nervous, which was a relief.

Only four Divines, but Divo came close again.

Not while I had the camera out. Divo is the one with the big head - his feathers all fluffed up. The two on the outside are kids - White Wing is on the far right.

Now, to do with my poplar wand, I have purchased a set of Morrigan prayer beads. Morrigan is a goddess of death and war. She's often represented by crows. In fact, she is three shes, rather like the Fates. Nemain, Badh and Macha. I can't recall what each one is all about - one has a particular crow connection. One is aligned with horses (think of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - those kind of horses, I guess). There is an Order of the Crow, which worships Morrigan. It didn't sound very convincing. As an order. But, anyway, crow energy often comes to us women when we enter the Crone stage (Maiden, Mother, Crone - I bypassed Mother) and is connected to crows.

You may wonder why I am getting into all this... but I guess it's related to the poplar, crow and tarot stuff that I have had going on in the background (mainly). And here, finally, is what I think about it (for now... I think) and how it connects to soil, worms, alchemy and all the bloody death.

It's decomposition, dissolution, transformation.

Recall - poplar - butterfly energy and transformation? Death as a transformation. Organic material and minerals and the activity of worms and fungi and the like making soil. Mindsets transitioning. Lives changing. The death of one thing allows, enables, the coming into being of something else. Death is the catalyst for birth.

Nothing stays the same. All is always and already transforming into something else. And we so struggle with this. We hate change. Growth, maybe, is OK - but the kind of change that demands letting go, now THAT we can't abide.

I am in my Crone years and there is so much to let go of. And by letting go I can explore the transformation. And the fire that burns it off, the oxygen that fire requires, maybe that is the anger that somehow, to me, is part of what I intuit in Morrigan. The anger that I turn into laughter or tears.

I don't know. Maybe I have to let go of my spaniel-self that seeks to please (but just as often annoys and offends) and transform into ta howling wolf. A wolf guided by corvids. A wolf whose action brings trees back to Yellowstone. A wolf in Crone clothing. Maybe there is such a thing as a lone wolf.

OK, I'll stop. I'm clearly utterly insane.

Back to the woods to look at trees.