On my right side, hand on shoulder, stands Saskia, a woman who survives by and large from the offerings of her Reindeer herd. She lives in a circular hide structure, like a cross between a tipi and a yurt. At times, Reindeer come inside for warmth and company. Being wedged between two or three Reindeer is an experience of safety and cosyness, tribe. Sleeping this way is comforting and familiar, when you have known them since calves. The fire is small, wood is hard to find and scarce, wholy and to be respected, especially for the warm food it creates in this harsh climate. It is central to the home come temple, and is surrounded by both altars and semi formed amulets, small pouches of herbs, bones, such like magical works in progress. They lay on soft hides, lain over stones in places, which absorb and retain the heat for her small hearth....
On my left side, hand on shoulder, stands Moraig, a woman who lives through trading with the village she dwells upon the edges of, in her stone roundhouse. Herbal remedies, sained over in words spoken from a heart strong in the wildness of this land and a passion for conversing with her plants, dolls made with intention and whispers of life giving blessing ways. From her ceiling hang drying bunches of gathered green folks, flesh and smoking fish, depending on what she has managed to swap for the contents of her basket o wares, or whom has come bearing requests, and queries, to her door. Sometimes she gathers what she has been working upon, with, places it in her carrying vessel and walks, door to door, over water in lean times, to make ends meet, in a time of trade and bartering skills....
Both these women, are of the Deer totem. Bear the antlers that show the mark of her. Yes her. Mayhaps the Stag comes first to mind, but the matriachal medicine signified by their presence, intuitive and gentle, yet taking no shit, is also old as the hills. Leads the way back, for me, and others, through to a sense of belonging.
It is from this source this image of a drumming woman, ready to strike a beat, echoing the heart at core of human and earth beneath, emerges. Woven into her dress is the knotwork that is as a labyrinthine path, at her throat a hag stone allowing envisioning betwixt the worlds. Upon her drum the Barn Owl, traverser of night skies, silent huntress and bearer of wisdoms, face a heart.
In her hair is intwined Ivy. This is part of my own story organically weaving it's way into the drawing. Worn as protection against intoxification through alcohol by certain gods of ol, it came through as a vegative wreath, mayhaps as a pointed reminder for me as a soul with certain tendencies ;). To seek spirits that nourish. Like those who watch over me as I type. My spirit kin....
May we all be connected to those that watch over us from other realms, walking beside us. I give thanks for those who inspire my makings, and growth, stumbling though it be at times. Aint that the way of incarnation, medicine ways, healing ways....
