The fairy-tale has nothing in common with fiction. Imagination – no matter how vivid – is of no use if you don’t have enough humility and perseverance to follow where the story leads. If it guides you to the Forest to seek advice, there’s no other way but to leave home and enter the living Forest, stop there, pay your respect and wait patiently for Its answer. If the story tells you that only in moonlight can you see the truth which in sunlight can hide – you must wait for Full Moon and then discover how to look not to miss the essence.

If only a woman – granddaughter,  a woman – daughter  can discover the secret then... you can’t tell it until you become granddaughter and daughter.

It’ll take some time but... a fairy-tale told like this will always live in you, you won’t forget or miss it, you won’t reject or judge it. Because you know that it can only be the way it – through you – told itself.

The Voice of the Lake

There once was a Lake, happy in its own boundaries, joyful and at peace, a tiny lake, in which the huge sky reflected. Today nobody remembers what a clear voice it had, how beautifully it sang, how high its voice could float. With a soaring bird, a bird of strong white wings it travelled, high, not low, openly and clearly, that’s how it sang. When the Sun shone - a golden bird, when Grandmother Moon appeared - a silver one.

The Grandmother was never in a hurry, she played in the Lake for hours, dancing from shore to shore, tickling it and making it laugh. And you should know that the Lake laughed easily, it didn’t take much to have it burst with laughter. Even less to make it dance: subtly, delicately, no sudden moves, even during the worst storm it didn’t skip its silver, lunar rythm.

But that was a long, long time ago, before the time of the huge stone. From where it appeared, it didn’t reveal to anybody, why it came to live here, it never said, it remained in silence, enormous, oval, smooth, filling the whole Lake with its weight.

The Lake hardly breathed, not to mention singing. That is how its voice was trampled, under the huge stone trapped.The Lake grew grey, grew sad, with stone-heavy sadness, which nobody can cure, hardened with sadness, it didn’t dare look at the sky. It covered itself with green reed, white lillies, until it hid completely under the greenness, grew silent, like the stone.

Water bird, ancient bird, where are you? – called the unconsoled wind. Come, dance with me under the hot sun, under the sky eternal, let’s greet Grandmother Moon. But the voice was silent, no song came out.

And so years passed. Silent years, without song, years of sadness. Nobody even remembered the singing Lake, nobody would have believed that here, where only reed rustle, Grandmother Moon danced, wetting her skirts in depth invisible today. And so years passed  heavy with burden which nobody even noticed anymore, because everybody thought that it had been here for ever, an unseparable part of life, of which they learnt to think that it should be like that: hard and heavy, like a stone.

And then the day came, which long hadn’t come, the day when the woman returned. Where she had travelled, only she knew, if she had found what she was looking for, not a word did she say. One thing is certain: as soon as she returned she felt a burden in her breast, a burden which bends your back, doesn’t let you look up to the sky.

What woman? – you may ask. No other, but the one in whose body the Lake had its home. Didn’t you know that all lakes and streams, all rivers big and small have their source in a woman’s body? From her they begin and into the world flow. It has always been so as so it will be, nobody can change it, even if a huge stone, hard rock, is thrown into the water, even then the source remains alive.

Oh, woman, who feels this huge burden in your breast, what are you going to do with it now, when you are home and can no longer pretend that you don’t feel what you feel? What are you going to do with it?

The woman grew pensive, looked inside herself and said: I will go to my Mother and ask, I will go to my Grandmother and find out. As she said she did. On her Mother’s belly, big and warm she lay, asked for advice. But the Mother was silent, not a word did she hear. The woman understood that silence was her answer, gift so precious, so limitless, which she never expected. She opened her heart to receive the gift, opened her head, her ears, and what did she hear? A song unending, overwhelming, woven from many tiny songs which the Earth continuously sings through her winged children.

And through me? Through me She used to sing as well, when I still had my voice, when to me it belonged. The woman remembers what she had long forgotten, not with words, not with pictures, not thoughts, but with longing she returns to where she lost her voice, left it in old times. She saw finally where it was trapped , with what stone trampled. A huge stone this is, she thinks, but I’m bigger. The stone is powerful, but my longing is more powerful. And so went the woman, guided by her longing, into the dark night, to meet with Grandmother Moon. She forgot that in the time of new moon the Grandmother hides her face, covers it with a black veil, immersed in darkness, with death has a meeting.

The woman understood the answer, from darkness took the invitation, ready to taste death as medicine. What was good for the Grandmother couldn’t hurt the granddaughter. She touched her belly, felt how ready it was, how well prepared for death. She couldn’t wait to receive a sign. But the sign didn’t come, monthly blood wouldn’t flow, the path to darkness for the woman didn’t open. What is it? – she asked herself – what inside me fights death, doesn’t want to pass, stops blood, doesn’t accept my acceptance? What could it be?

The woman grew pensive, looked deeper into herself, deeper and deeper, so deep that she reached a place she couldn’t see because it was hidden in darkness. There it lived, there with unconditional acceptance. Made from the most fragile fragility, the most tender tenderness, open and soft, without corners or edges, open on each side, to everything, accepting everybody. There isn’t in the whole world a place more vulnerable than this place so trustingly open, so openly trusting. It hasn’t changed from the time when she was a little girl, innocent like a child – a baby just born to life, ready to experience it with its whole being, open to everything it brings. After all, this is why it came and not to close itself to it, to defend from it, to fight it like an enemy. Oh no, it knew nothing about fight, how to hit, how to hurt, it could never learn. It was born to love, nothing else, nothing more. 

The woman went deeper, closer. The more tenderly she approached, the more distinctly she felt trembling, light at first, then stronger, until it burst into tears. It was vulnerability crying, looking for its voice, fumbling in darkness, where nobody ever looks, that’s where she found it.

It was dusty, numb from long disuse, like knees from kneeling. The woman picked it up, warmed in her hands, held to her breast, to her ear, listened to it complaining.

I don’t understand – it sang – no-love I cannot understand. There is only one path – to love – which I know. The path which leads where worlds don’t end, I know how to follow the path where worlds join.

To giving and accepting, I know only such paths, when they are closed, shut down, it hurts so much. Why do I need to be silent I cannot comprehend, this is a simple, old, this is the only path.

The woman heard what there was to be heard, with open ears, open heart she listened, no word lost, each believed. The longer she listened the stronger the voice became, the stronger it became, the better she heard. This is how they met.

And then blood flowed. With an unstoppable stream, a rushing river, which takes everything that’s old and useless. The woman felt enormous relief. She stood over the river and without hesitation she threw in her old, completely useless acceptance to be silent. With enormous joy she watched it die, disappear in the wild current, with her own monthly blood.                   

*    *    *

And so there came the time of waxing Moon. Every night there was more light in the darkness. With every day the woman felt stronger as something in her trembled and shook, as if an earthquake was coming.

It was anger waking up.

From a long sleep, long hidden, too long silence. Anger was waking up and didn’t let her sleep, dream beautiful dreams, the kind she liked most: full of colour, filled with magic, from the depths of the sea of dreams. Now she didn’t dream, she felt what before had come only secretly in dreams, now it spoke undisguised, showed its face openly.

And so there came nights of sleeplessness, dark nights, in which the face of the Grandmother shone brighter and brighter. Immersed in Night she listened to this voice which was silenced. Who – she asked herself – who silenced it, by which law, with what force? Oh, it was not force, it was violence! So much violence against this place of tender fragility, so trustingly open for everbody, so generously offering love. How it survived – she mused – what life giving force it fed on, where did it come from, where did so much love come from in the midst of a night so dark?

From the source – such an answer she received, the moment she asked, she immediately heard the words: “From the Source, to which I am forever connected.” This is why – she understood – this is why you cannot comprehend no-love. Now I know! From the Source only love flows, how else could life grow and flourish, how could it bear fruit if poison flowed from it?

No sooner did she utter “poison,” when again she felt a great heaviness in her breast, the same which bends your back and  doesn’t let you look up to the sky. She remembered how poisoned all the streams and creeks are, all rivers big and small, all waters in the body of the Mother. Whoever put so much poison in her bloodstream cannot love her, if he destroys a life-giving source, puts a heavy stone over it, forbids it to speak with its own voice.

But who? Who forbids, what force, oh, not force, I know, violence! By violence this huge stone, heavy rock was thrown into the Lake, by violence its clear voice, powerful voice was silenced.

Questions didn’t let the Woman sleep, dream nightmares about violence. She got up, stood on her own feet, from the warm bed, safe house went into the dark night. But no, it wasn’t dark, it was full of moonlight, the Grandmother’s presence, like a huge bowl, with light overflowing.

The Woman felt the Earth tremble under her feet, was it the Mother or the daughter’s anger, she didn’t try to guess, on her own, not somebody else’s feet she stood, didn’t need to ask what they felt. Now, when she was so firmly planted on the Earth, she was ready to hear this voice from which she earlier fled, ready to meet face to face the one whom she already recognized. No other but him in her long travels she followed, his paths knew, many of his secrets, hidden from the world, uncovered. So many names he had, all false, masks, one by one, she tore off. But he was like a multi-headed dragon, in the place of a mask torn off a new one immediately appeared.

But it was a long time ago, in the dark forest, which she had already left. It was far away, on the high mountain, from which she had climbed  down. All the traps he had set, from each she freed herself, one by one, until she found the way back home. She was certain their paths would never cross again, but alas!

But now it was a different story, she was home, her terribly long homelessness was finally over. On her own two feet she stood, from the belly of the Mother, Her powerful body, she drew force. Now it was a different story, she stood naked in the light of the Grandmother, in which you can see secrets in the daylight so deeply, so well hidden. The Grandmother knew how to unfold what is folded, uncover what is covered, She had her ways of doing it.

I am ready – only this said the Woman, three words which the Grandmother heard immediately, in a moment revealed the truth to her.

An old man, blue with cold, skinny as a bone, as if something was eating him from inside, and at the same time incredibly fat, with an enormous belly, which he wouldn’t be able to hold on his thin, spidery legs if he wasn’t sitting on the shoulders of a strong, young man, who, surprisingly, didn’t seem to notice him, focused completely on a woman standing in front of him, a woman who was opening her heart for him. The man wanted to do the same but the bony claws of the demon were clutching at his chest, cutting him from his heart.

“Tough, tough, that’s what you need to be! A man must be tough, I abhor weakness, I loathe it and so will you!”

Such words he whispers into the man’s ear, such poison seeps into his mind, in the moonlight you could clearly see it was poison, but the man, as if in a dream, cannot see it, oh, why does he lift his head proudly, why does he allow his feelings to be called weakness? Why doesn’t he hear his heart scream, call for help, fighting with the demon’s iron grip, why does he abandon his heart, betrays it so frightfully?!!!

In the moonlight it’s clear what enormous power the demon has over the man, rides him as he pleases, and he is ready to do anything to deserve praise. Oh, how it hurts the Woman’s heart, so she looks at his partner, but the other is equally blind, only sees her beloved, constantly feeds him from her heart, doesn’t understand why he’s still hungry when she never stops giving, oh, now she opened her belly when heart is not enough. She cannot see that nothing reaches the man, because the demon gobbles everything up, stuffs himself, and between bites whispers something to the woman, spits out into her ear: “Too little, too little, always too little, you let me down again, loved too little, gave too little!”

Aha, that’s why she doesn’t stop giving, although she’s shrinking and shrivelling, smaller and drier, focused on giving. If she only stopped for a second, listened for a moment, she would hear words filled with contempt spilling from the demon’s smelly mouth, she would hear as clearly as the Woman-Granddaughter, as the Woman-Daughter hears them: “I will use and abuse, use and abuse.. your stupid, naive, feeling softness, your empathy.. and you will feed me, feed me for ever, give, give, give. And I will waste it, eat and taste it, and then spit, spit spit. And you will swallow it, this poison, feeling of guilt.”

Oh, how rotten and despicable this voice is, skin creeps on the Granddaughter’s body from disgust, but she lets disgust melt in the Grandmother’s light, plucks up all her courage to watch and listen again.

Always the same scene, she eaten completely, he locked on every lock, to him now turns the hungry demon, at him barks:

“You let me down again, didn’t try hard enough, didn’t give enough, indulged yourself, let yourself be weak.”

Oh, he eats him too, feeds on him, stealthily sucks this softness which he forbids him, from which he cuts him off, how cleverly he arranged it! Now the man is shrivelling, by the demon’s words so cruelly diminished, tears in his eyes, he wants to see his true reflection in her eyes, whole again, but she watches the crying man with contempt, suddenly disappointed, turns her back on him, oh, why do you do what the demon of violence taught you, why do you spew the poison he filled you with so skillfully?

The Woman has had enough of this story played out in front of her eyes, doesn’t want to watch the demon hitting the man with his feet like a horse, urging him to look for a new one, younger, full of fresh juices, since the old one is completely sucked out, used up, no point to bother with her. Oh, what an old cliche, just one more sharp blow at the end to make it hurt more:

“Love is eternal, it never passes, it conquers everything, heals all, if she loved you truly then endlessly she would give...”

“Love is eternal, it never passes, if he knew how to love then with everything, like a true man, with every obstacle he would cope, then  he would never ever had betrayed you.”

“If you loved me truly...,” “If you knew how to love...” And so causing pain to each other they repeat these words, like a lesson, not seeing how the belly of the great teacher shakes and trembles with laughter, stupefied with pain they cannot hear his words full of contempt: “How I like it, oh, how I like it when you swallow my spit, this poison, feeling of guilt.”

Enough, enough of this story, played out again and again for eternity, he and she: once older, once younger, their faces change, but props still the same, won’t it ever end, will it repeat itself till the end of the world, this story written with violence? Wait, is something going to change? Looks as if the woman is drawing conclusions, maybe her eyes opened? Oh, no, she only crosses over to the man’s side, she too wants to be strong, right, and the demon, hop... and he’s already on her back, clutches at her chest, cuts off from softness... change of places but the same roles, the story continues, how this demon can cunningly split in two, and still invisible. Hey, when will you finally wake up? From this dream about strength and weakness, when will you abandon it? When your love, so eager to give, so open to receive, when will you regain it? Just wake up for a moment and you will clearly see whom you serve, just as I can see now in front of me this demon of violence, who denied passing of time, himself decided to make immortal. Not to fall apart on other people’s lives he needs to feed... eaten by his own hatered he cunningly sucks love not meant for him... not to fall to pieces he puts his toothless mouth to the softness, oh, I know now, it is he who violates it endlessly, this place of tender fragility, so trustingly open, he abuses it, mocking it in return, despising, calling weakness its ability to give which he doesn’t have!

Here the woman stopped, here words ended. With words despair ended. So the Woman stopped and asked herself:

To whom am I speaking? To whom screaming?

To whom if not to myself?

I too am this woman, this man like my beloved,

haven’t I grown up in this story, been brought up in it,

haven’t I travelled so long to stand where I stand now?

Neither she nor he, nobody is separate,

both she and he want to come back home.

Now I am standing here, on the Earth, the Mother’s body,

love of the Grandmother bathes me in light.

Now I truly see, not only with eyes,

the dream of greatness will not mislead me.

Now I see you for what you are, demon of violence and division,

not fed by a mother, not born from the Earth...

Yes, when you looked straight into the light there was no doubt that the demon was never a child, blood, which you get from the mother, never flowed in his veins. Suddenly torn from his story, the only one he knew, without support, he was hanging in the air unable to touch the Earth with his feet, separated from it by his excessive greatness. Only now did he notice that he had been made visible for the Granddaughter by the Grandmother. With what hatred did he turn to her, with what fury did he shout out words to disturb silence, as if silence took away from him something very important, something he couldn’t live without.

I, yes, I put this stone in here! – he screamed, though nothing, except his threatened greatness, forced him to scream.

I, yes, I! Separated water from fire, fire from the earth. Long ago did I see where your power comes from - unity! And mine comes from division! Ha, ha, you stupid bitch, it’s no fun this rotten life, smelling of decay. It’s war! It’s fight! Father who smacks children, holds with an iron grip, he wins. Tough, be tough, only this counts, the rest is rubbish. I loathe it, yes I loathe weakness. Order! Order an discipline! Shut up! Stand straight! Quiet when I speak! I am God, I am lord over you! And who are you? Yourself! Just yourself!

The longer he screamed the bigger he became, all the more convinced about the rightness of his words, he shouted them in his own ear more and more delighted:

Yourself, just yourself! Ha, ha, ha, mighty great!

He is provoking me – it dawned on the Woman – to show him who I am. To prove him how great my power is. Yeees! This is the place where power turns into abuse, force into violence. Here begins the story in which you rule. But I am exactly this, you are right, myself, nothing more or nothing less. And this – for a change – is a place where you have no reach. How simple! The simplest thing in the world! To destroy you I don’t need to move a single finger, take a single step, it’s enough if I stay where I am.

And so she stood, the woman-granddaughter, the woman-daughter, all visible, not hiding behind anything, not diminishing herself, at peace with herself, in the love she had given to herself. Grandmother Moon saw it, nodded her head in approval, because from above she saw clearly as from the great lord, god powerful air escapes slowly, as he shrinks suddenly and in nothingness disappears.

*   *   *

And so started the time of  the waning moon. With each night The Night returned to itself, with each turn of the Earth to itself it got closer. With each night silence grew, the kind in which you can hear. The woman slowly bent over the stone. With each day closer to its rough hardness, with each night she heard better. When night met Night, when darkness to Darkness returned, then she heard:

I am old, so old,

So very, very old,

but you are older.

I am tired, so tired,

with old fatigue bent,

but you should not rest, not now, not yet.

Since you have found me, don’t give up,

since you can listen, hear the story

of two sisters, suddenly divided.

So said the lord of violence:

One of you is better, worse the other,

choose which one you want to be!

Neither wanted to be the worse one, unloved,

neither wanted this,

but only one place for the chosen one, good and loved.

A place so small and uncertain, constantly endangered

by the other one who always waited for her chance

to please the lord, to win his favours.

Fickle is his fancy,

today chosen, tomorrow rejected,

never certain what your fate will be,

no matter how hard, how hard you try.

Your fate not in yours but his hands lies

lord almighty about you will decide.

Why did he say these untruthful words?

Why did he assure you that the choice is yours?

Ha! For you to take the blame,

as you sure and well should.

When you are rejected to know

that you weren’t good enough,

loved too little, gave too little.

This is the story of sisters set off against each other,

good and bad, pretty and ugly, forever divided.

Not what it used to be -

before it moved in a circle, sang with many voices,

none false, none silencing the others.

So many sisters, a place for each one, as much as you take,

as much you have for the others.

So many sisters, none a rival,

so many sisters standing in a circle.

Hear me now, to your ear I whisper,

how the story into a stone hardened.

Sisters – rivals,

enough to praise one

for the other to feel scolded,

enough to diminish one

for the other to feel grander.

Two sisters on two sides standing.

How to meet when between them always this question:

Which one is better? Which one is worse?

Only two places to choose from, oh, what a wonderful trick!

What a masterful plan!

Oh, so long this story written in me,

monotonous like a fly buzzing,

nothing new could happen,

sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right,

in light or in darkness,

how little room, how little air!

Each sister changed sides so often,

betrayed herself, betrayed her sister so many, many times!

On betrayal the lord of violence built his power.

No need to stand over women with a whip

- they guarded one another better!

Learned to mistrust,

how can you trust her when you can’t trust yourself?

How to depend on her when with yourself you are disappointed?

No place for trust in his kingdom

built on division, stamped with betrayal, oh,

no power greater than his!

Such a hard story carved in stone,

thrown into the Lake

to silence the voice he is so afraid of,

to stop it forever,

never to let it soar into the sky on wings light and strong,

let it sing openly and clearly the song which makes him tremble.

Open is the song, not twisted,

ancient, locked in the Lake.

When to the sky it will soar again

with a happy bird, on wings light and strong

then the reign of violence will end.

All life forces, all ancient powers,

will come to greet you.

So long they have been ready, waiting,

for you, woman, for your acceptance,

and you – always moving, still on the road.

When will you return – they ask,

so long, so long they have waited.

      The stone fell silent. Though she waited impatiently, not a word more came from it. Well then, it seemed that what was there to hear she heard. Her heart was open, her ears were open, she listened with her whole being – not a word lost, each believed.

     - Since they are calling, I will answer, since they are waiting, I will return. My feet are used to walking, my soul impatient, why wait more, immediately I will go.

      Too hastily she had decided, what she should have remembered, she had forgotten. She didn’t throw the old story written with violence to the Blood river which was flowing into the Darkness, didn’t let it die, no wonder that it cast a spell on her path.

-         My path, were are you leading me?

-         To the forest eternal. Ancient powers, life forces live there, they are waiting for you.

      So walks the woman, carrying wine red like her blood, fruit sweet like her body, bread baked from golden grains, gifts for these on the mountain eternal waiting for her to light a fire, to invite spirits to a feast, because this is the shortest night, filled with light.

      She walks briskly, confidently, though it is already dusk, no fear in her heart. She doesn’t know that it sneaks behind her like a shadow, the same which lives in the story of violence. She has forgotten that sisters divided don’t go to a forest after dusk, they never go there alone at this time of day. But he, a faithful dog, has not forgotten what his lord fed him, he remembers his lesson: suddenly he grabs the woman from behind, binds her legs, fills her eyes with fog, becomes a lump in her throat, blocks her voice. Through the fog she can see that somebody is lurking where the shadow casts, in a place darker than the night - a demon – most powerful, most dangerous of all, the Rapist, in whose presence you are always small. He stands there from the beginning of the story, put there by the lord of violence, barring way to the holy mountain, he sneers at the woman suddenly humiliated, helpless, in one moment to the story of violence diminished. He stands there on guard to put her back in her place, to make it absolutely clear that there is no way out of that story and there never will.

      But how could she fit into the old story if to neither of the places assigned to the sisters did she fit? Not trying to be better than herself, she had no need to judge herself as worse, even in a moment of loss, even bound by fear she didn’t turn against herself.

      She turned back from her path not to violate herself, not to fight with a fear too strong. She did it out of self love, rejection of violence. She felt that violence was not a way out of this story, she felt that there was a different path. What was it? That she still could not see clearly.                                                                

*   *   *

The time of waxing moon returned. With every night more light in darkness, with every day closer to what was calling her the woman got. The story in the stone, it called me not to seize me and trap in itself. It called me to help, so I need to see clearly all the places where its shadow falls – she spoke to herself and, as clearly as only in light one can see – she saw. Only in light can one see shadow, only like this. The demon most powerful, most dangerous of all, seen in light was only what it was: an old memory, old fright written in common consciousness. That was it.

Seeing it like that stopped the woman from letting a bitter drop spill into a river in her heart. Speaking to herself she didn’t let a seed of disappointment grow into a thorny bush, sharp, needlessly hurtful. It was the time of growing light. She was growing with it, and with darkness shrinking

It will shrink, it will shrink,

when cheap gains value, when mute sings,

sings and sings, returns to the tree,

to juices, to leaves,

to roots, and I can be poor,

naked and dumb, a little girl again

- such a tune sang in her, an old song returned, she learned it from the fountain which from the source springs, how long ago it was, when this gift she received, to Widow-Fiancee offered... A little girl then, she roamed, nothing to solve, nothing to heal yet, only to follow her path.. wherever her girly curiosity led her, whichever doors it opened she entered, whoever she met she greeted, and asked and asked...

Why shouldn’t she now shrink once again, now that she has given her greatness away, from the dream of weakness and stregth woken up... now how easy, how light it was to shrink. It is because what was cheap gained value, you were right fountain - giving, loving anew valuable. And it will gain even more, the price will soar, till people rediscover that nothing more valuable than their power to give and receive, nothing grander have they ever possessed or ever will. It is bound to happen, when mute sings, oh fountain, you knew it all along, what I had to search for so long in my travels!

      Tears of joy filled the woman’s eyes, to her own song she finally grew, to her gift shrank. Now she can return to her beloved tree, to juices, to leaves, return, like she had such a long time ago predicted, when her travels had started. She didn’t fight back her tears and didn’t even notice as the bitter drop with the first one fell, the seed of disappointment with the song’s current already flowed to the sea, the huge blue sea where everything that flows finally returns.

      She also flowed as the song carried her, and flowing shrank, still and still, till she reached the huge sea, life boundless, and as a small drop into the sea she fell. And then she heard what earlier, as a grown woman, she couldn’t hear. She heard the voice of the sea, its eternal song, which sings itself, in water, like in the sea immersed, unending, self-creating song:

As long as the beginning eternal

so long I rock and roll

rythm, starting, repeating

again and again, beginning

rythm, starting, repeating

again and again, beginning.

The sea left the drop on its shore, to be a woman, to grow and shrink, as a woman depart and return. She walked on and on, and walking grew, with each step bigger, she felt the boundless sea with her, within her humming, wild waves breaking against the coast, rhythmically returning, again, yet again, the song eternal begins, the song limitless sings.

      Once again, for the first time, yet again the woman came to the forest eternal, green. She bowed low before it and asks for the truth. And it speaks at once, without further asking, with its strong voice which from the earth grows to the sky. And she can hear clearly what before she couldn’t hear when so small, so diminished she would come here:

As long as life force endures I will live

as long as roots don’t dry there will be trunk

a strong axis from earth to sky

this is the law of light

the oldest one, nothing older

trunk from roots, branches from trunk

twigs, sprigs, leaves green and tender

from branches

so love grows by itself

so light, with love, strives for light.

And the light grew because it was the time of growing light. And the woman grew because it was her growth time. And growing, she imminently approached fullness.

My fullness, my fullness, how to celebrate you?

My fullness, my fullness, how to celebrate you?

Should I dance, should I laugh, should I make love?

Such a song did she remember, which in the time of full moon with sisters she sang, when they stood together in the Circle of Truth. And though there were many, many sisters, none one of a pair. That was the time when they were a circle.

Grains split, fruit ripe – so the song continued, flowed, sang itself – like the moon, the bread grows, for the road, for the road...

The road, the road, I know now where you lead me. Home, our common home, where sisters call me I return, it is full moon – they gathered in a circle, wait for me only.

      And so the road reached the sisters, fulfiled itself, led to the Lake. There they stood in a circle, holding hands to hold the Lake in a tender motherly embrace. And standing they wondered: why should we hold this stone, this rock so hard and great? Why such cold ice with our warm breath, with the fire burning in our bellies heat? And the woman – the one who travelled for so long – answered them: I only ask of you to feel how our love from violence hardened, I only ask of you to take this story which turned into a stone, filled the Lake with it, its voice, flowing from the source, smothered.

      And when they were ready, to hear what there was to be heard, when they had open ears and open hearts, when they whole listened, then the stone..., oh, then it could no longer speak, to such huge fire, to such closeness, to such pure love it was not accustomed. Like ice it melted, with tears it flew, tears which on touching the earth rid of all bitterness, from the Mother’s body sweetened like honey... Free at last, to the source they returned.

      When they all return, then as the Lake they will meet again, as The Lake they will rejoice, sing and dance. Deep inside the Earth they gather, in the Mother’s body, there they wait for you sister, for your readiness, and you, still travelling, when will you return they ask, for you, for you only they wait...

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