The young woman, heavy of heart, spoke to herself, addressing her Soul.
“I have anointed myself with the oil of the witches. On my third eye that I might see the way clearly, on my throat, that my voice will be heard and my words used wisely, and on my heart, that I may walk in love and compassion.” And she left her home straightaway, to walk among the trees.
For she may not know the answers, but she knows the path. She knows the medicine.
This is the medicine you used to seek, Pilgrim, when you traveled to the edge of the forest, to where Old Woman lived. This is the medicine she gave you, after you sat at her table and sipped the tea she brewed, and listened to her stories. This medicine, sprouting from the earth, carried on sunbeams and moonbeams, laced with magic and intention and generations and history and love.
Old Woman sighs as she grinds the herbs, sighs over her mortar and pestle, because she too knows both sides of fickle Self. She knows that you forget the flowers and the trees and the healing all around you, even though you have shown it to be true that it’s vital for survival. She knows that you forget the stories, as you walk on concrete paths with blindfolds on your feet, and miss seeing the entrance to the forest, as you rush back to the box you dwell in. She knows how easy it is to become entrenched in the business of surviving, forgetting that without coming to see her, you are merely existing instead of living from a place of joy in each moment.
She waits there, Old Woman, stirring her pot and praying over the bones. The fire is in the hearth and the lantern in the window. She waits there.
Go to her, Pilgrim, Sojourner, Wild Woman, Awakened Man.
Traveler, Child, Seeker — go to her.
The path to Old Woman turns inward. The door to her cottage is the entrance to your soul.
Go to her.