Winter Solstice Prayer | Abuelita Solsticio de Invierno| Live from Laughlin, Nevada | Energy Audio Tidbit

What's poppin love doves!

An Energy Audio Tidbit live from the wee hours in Laughlin, Nevada, on or around the Winter Solstice. Una oración original desde el corazón del desierto invernal, an original prayer from the heart of the desert winter. I call it Grandmother's Prayer, and in it I riff on an old classic in the hopes of makin it pop anew. 

Wishing all the radiant & resplendent dragonfly dreamers and lustrous listeners out there constellating across the rabbit holes of space and time a magickal and propitious longest night of the year.... more time for reveling in the mysterious splendor of our dreams. 

The indigenous Zuni People of New Mexico celebrate the Winter Solstice as the first day of the New Year, as it's the day in which the nights begin to get shorter and the sun starts to spend more and more time in the sky. As a Sun Worshiper, this resonates deeply with me. We only know the Light through its sacred contrast against the Darkness. We only know the lengths of the Day by the shortnesses of the Night.

Let's welcome the Sun back more and more each day, and let's be amazing humans to ourselves and one another for the full Cycle of this New Year. ¡Los sueños más dulces!

con amor y apreciación,
little raven kerkawww

"A Poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses.  All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences.  Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist!  For he attains the unknown!  Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone!  He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them!  So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable:  other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!

  . . . So the poet, therefore, is truly a thief of fire."

--- Arthur Rimbaud