Vultures

Dear You,

Thank you for the vulture feather.

I opened the package as soon as the postman delivered it. I knew what was inside.

Do you remember when we walked for two weeks in the mountains with the juniper, cedars, holm oaks, birch trees, carrying almost everything needed for two weeks . We slept under tarps that we tied to the trees, our bodies dreaming on the earth, washing our sweaty skin in the streams and brooks that bubbled up and trickled through the landscape.

À graveyard of the dead hunting dogs. Bodies thrown into a pit where the vultures cleaned away the flesh so the skull and bones could join the rocks.

Clear water reflecting the light… it soothes your soul just to look, washes away your thoughts, especially those that are not ours. I often think about baptism when I see the springs and pools. Our ancient custom of communing with the water, of returning like an embryo or fetus, floating weightless, plunging, cleansed. The water carries it all away… you can whisper your prayers into the water and they’ll travel around the world.

When we reached Pla de Les Bruixes, like the witches of the past , we met in circle on the site where the Akelerras once took place. Midnight gatherings, rituals held in the embrace of the dark. To meet at the highest point brings one closer to what’s above. On the plateau the trees naturally formed the edges of a circular clearing. This is where we made a fire and cooked freshly picked chanterelles with butter and garlic. At dusk the vultures circled above us. Hundreds of them. Their presence was welcome. Guardians of the Pyrenees.

After walking through the spiral threshold I returned to where I made my bed at the edge of the mountain. The view rolled out as the peaks faded in soft hues the further the distance.

Here I was completely alone. Bliss in fact. Just me and the wild. It began to rain and I crawled into my sleeping bag and listened to the drops play on the tarp as darkness covered me. I spent two nights here.

On the second morning we met back at the clearing and after walking the spiral back out, the ceremony was complete and closed. Together we embarked on the descent.

Integration and processing with every step down the rocky mountain path.

In my hand I carried a pick axe, which was heavy and awkward but doubled up as a walking stick sometimes helping me balance if I lost footing. On my back, piled on top of my rucksack were all the fire charred pots and pans we used for cooking.

We didn’t talk much, only to collectively chose the route. We were making our own path, and following ones made by other animals.

The sky was rapidly darkening …a storm was coming and we knew we wouldn’t make it back. So we headed to shelter in a derelict farmhouse that was further down the mountain. The rain clouds moved in whilst the sun pierced through with rays of golden light. Blazing bright yellow-orange as the sky does before à storm.

As we entered the stone walled farmhouse we realised it held a memory of a sudden abandonment. Objects left frozen in time. On the kitchen wall a pencil written note pinned to the beam gave hints of resistance fighters. I can’t remember exactly what was written and it wasn’t in my tongue, but one of us translated and it was something like “We are going but we will never give up…” We each found a room to rest in, it was dirty and dusty. A few of us made our beds in the animal barn underneath the living quarters. Some slept upstairs avoiding the rotten floorboards in the beds that still had mattresses… it felt a bit like Goldilocks sleeping in the bears beds…

We cooked on a fire made in the shelters courtyard until the rain came. The wind was picking up now… I was curious to explore this once home to get a picture of who lived here. Clothes still hanging in the wardrobes. We wore some to keep warm. I found a pink and purple boldly printed floral dressing gown made from polyester…a rather chic 70’s look for the mountains. And we sang in their clothes for the family who fled. Singing in rounds , harmonizing through the storm. The lyrics went like this ….

”El meu amor per tu és un foc a l’hivern”

“El meu amor per tu és un ocell a la primavera”

“El meu amor per tu és una rosa a l’estiu”

“El meu amor per tu és una cosa preciosa

We sang in English but here it is in Catalan because sometimes there’s more poetry in not fully understanding à language and filling in the gaps with imagination.

And we sang and sang the lines as they overlapped in choral rounds until we were in a trance , as one , àn incantation, a love song to Source and to those who have to flee, hearts full and eyelids heavy. The wind whipped around the corners of the crumbling walls, once more protecting its inhabitants. We made our beds on the hay of the long gone goats and hunkered down.

In the morning, after broken dreamy sleep I woke to a cup of fresh brewed coffee and clear skies. The others bustling around the fire and making breakfast. We survived the storm within the arms of this house that stood there for centuries. Might we be its last guests?

Until next time comrades,

I remain most humbly your loyal friend in service

Erin

X

P.s off to Neo Ancients festival to sell my Art and celebrate Beltane. 🔥 Have a great one and maybe see you there. Full Moon howl. Www.erinmacairt.bigcartel.com Erin MacAirt