Fingerpainting. Fire in the night.I have spent a fair bit of time lately out in the splendour of nature’s glories. Despite the rain. It has been wild, woolly, dramatic, beautiful, magnetic, intricate, majestic, breathtaking. And wet. And moving. Yes, moving. Very.

Perhaps it is the time of year. I guess it all started to come together at the solstice, sitting and watching the moon with a sense inside me of the mysteries of the world.

What am I saying?
Not sure, quite.
But I am saying something.
I think.

It’s a bit like that, you see. An uncertain stumbling towards the shadow of light. It is the same mood that has moved me in the past to explore the possibility of God. Only this time – with feminism burning in my blood, with my womanhood aglow, with a passion in my heart for all that is female – this time, I am moved instead to explore the possibility of the Goddess.

Once before, I met God. It was powerful, but it was not a powerful sense of infinite love. Last night, I met the Goddess. It was wholly different. It was not ethereal, but grounded. It was not external, but internal. It was not power – not in the same way at least. It was love. It was meaning. It was solid.

Let’s not get carried away. Even if Goddess-worshippers were the sort to go about notching up converts, I don’t suppose they could claim me yet. It was only a moment, after all. Only a moment of spiritual bliss.

But the meeting remains. Like communion.