Morrigan makes time

I had to repeat this image... dandelion clocks are so fabulous!

A galaxy unto themselves.

So, the Morrigan. In Foster's The Edges of the World book, he talked of self-hypnosis... going to a safe place (a mental one - mine is a room that is inside a huge hollow oak, with bookshelves and an armchair); leaving via a door to a garden (a grove in a wood, a dark wood that Dante would like... or not...); looking into a pool to see yourself.

In the pool, I saw the Morrigan.

She said that she is the force that draws us onward in life toward death. She calls us into action and life and love and growth and movement and all that's good. Without the call-to-death, we would rest, grub-like and flaccid, in some infant state. Without the call-to-death, there would be no time, no space, no living. This made so much sense to me.

Then she became three, the three figures of the goddess. To her right (so on the left as I looked), the lady (white, she was) who sends us out into the world, who oversees the process from non-being to being (as the Morrigan's call leads to our becoming). On her left, so to the right as I looked, the amorphous, green, brown, gold, and green, figure of... well, who was she? Nature? Like a giant toad she was. The power of transformation and metamorphosis. She who composts all that is dead and prepares it once again to be made, by the white lady, into a being. She is indescribable. All change. All creation.

The call-to-death takes us back into her infinitely powerful green hands.