Yggdrasil, a Place to Stand

The red fox stands beside the tree gate.
I’m never at ease when he shows himself,
but he is flanked by the black dog,
ever watchful and reliable, a true guardian,
and there seems to be no conflict between them.
This is new. I could take the open door
down through the roots of the world tree
but I am distracted by the frisky moves
of a squirrel that is running down the trunk.

He is as big as an elephant, perfectly in scale
with the tree that rises into the clouds
and could contain cities. His presence confirms
I am at the place where a shaman-god
hung for nine days and nine nights,
sacrificing himself to himself.

Rattling his nuts, the squirrel of mischief
plunges into the Lower World ahead of me.
He is playing his old game, Wake the Dragon.
Fire and stink rise from the roots of the tree.
Earth shudders. The squirrel snickers in glee.
Ratatosk, Ratatosk, Ratatosk.
Here he comes back again.
He scurries up the tree, all the way to the top,
telling tall tales to anger the heaven bird
that keeps watch over all the worlds.

Dragon rises. Branches of the world tree
creak and groan as the eagle shakes out its wings
and comes down, talons eager for battle.
Between them, on a ledge in the tree world,
I see a man in a grey robe, with a broad-brimmed
grey wizard’s hat. There are birds on his shoulders
and a great company of birds all around him.
Lightning is with him. His eyes flash, his hands
spark white fire from the air. His form is never still.
He is the ancient of days, he is the magic man,
he is the young deer prince, antlered and horny.

As the dragon rises to join battle with the heaven bird,
he catches it by the throat with his left hand. His body
twists and buckles as he struggles to hold this power
and raise it. It is pulling him down, tearing him apart,
till he lifts his right hand, palm downward, and the eagle
lands on his wrist as the falcon returns to the falconer.

The balance is  made. The powers of above and below
are joined and turning together, evenly matched.
This is how the game of the world goes on.
The man with lightning eyes is calling me.
Come. Stand where I stand. See what I see.

I am drawn to him as the sparks fly upwards.
On his edge between the worlds,
my body stretches beyond itself,
my mind cracks open like the squirrel’s nuts.
Ratatosk, Ratatosk. There is a role for mischief.
And I have found the right place to stand.

-          October 17, 2014

From a vision while leading a group shamanic journey through the Tree Gate at the Hameau de l’Etoile, near Montpellier. We danced on the mythic edge all week, and my dreams and visions - like those of many in our gifted circle - often turned on Greek themes. But on a certain day, I was hurled deep into an indelible scene that seemed to come from the Nordic imagination.

Art "L'arbre et la brume" (c) Annick Bougerolle

Le Hêtre: Beech Gate

 

The roots of the beech are living serpents
There is a green woman in the tree gate
her eyes are the green fire of growing things
The winged deer stamps its hooves
impatient for me to go in or go up.
High in the branches, close to the crown,
the raven couple wait for me
but for now my way is down
into the painted cave, past the see stone
where a ruined king came to call me.

For time I do not count I am among the long
luminous elegant people who raised me
when I was away from my body as a boy.
But I will not spend another life with them,
not yet. I feel my way down, ever down
to the shallows of blind fish
where grains of sand sparkle like jewels.

I choose the grain that glows like cinnabar
and it becomes a universe. I see now
how the infinitely large is contained
in the infinitely small, how the high branches
of the world tree in one universe
are the roots of the tree of life in another.

Drawing: "Beech Gate" (c) Robert Moss

 

 

 

Proteus

 

Proteus

 

I am in many forms before I am bound.

I am the starwalker who won't come down.

I am the pond dweller who won't come up.

I am a hawk on a hill.

I am a bear in a berry wood.

 

I am the giant of the deep

who walked the Earth for ten thousand years

before he went back to the sea.

I am the sleeping king

who mated with the Earth

and dropped his horns in due season

and grew them back

 

I am the blasted oak that drew the lightning

I am the man in the Moon

I am the Hanged Man, and the Emperor, and the Fool.

I am medicine and I am poison.

I am the springing tiger and the quaking goat.

I am the one who makes a prison of the world

I am the one who makes the world his playground.

I am the death lord on his dark throne

I am a humming bird courting a flower.

 

I am the heaven bird in the World Tree

and the dragon coiled at its roots

and the squirrel that makes mischief between them.

I am a shard from a mirror

that was broken in transit from a blue star.

 

To release me, you must tie me down.

Published in Here, Everything is Dreaming: Poems and Stories by Robert Moss

Photo by RM

 

Visions of the World Tree

This glorious image, titled "Roots in Heaven", is by French artist Annick Bougerolle. In many indigenous cultures there is the tradition of a tree between the worlds whose branches are actually rooted in the sky, making a ladder to what Aborigines call the World Up Top. In the adventures in shamanic dreaming that I lead, our early work often includes finding and rooting a Tree of Vision firmly in our imaginations and inner senses. We then proceed to use the tree as a portal for exploring the Lower World, the Middle World and the Upper World of the shamanic cosmos. 

World Tree by Annick Bougerolle

We were fortunate to have Annick with us at my recent workshop on exploring the multidimensional self at the Hameau de l'Etoile, the restored seventeenth-century stone village near St Martin de Londres in southern France where I lead many retreats. 

Tree Self-Portrait by Annick Bougerolle

Annick tells me that in one of her reveries, in that highly creative in-between state of consciousness the French call dorveille, she saw a great tree with an opening that looked inviting. However, instead of going through the hole into a world-beyond-the-world, as she has often done, she was thrilled to see interesting characters coming out of the tree and engaging in the world on this side. This fired her artist's imagination and she has been painting new images of the World Tree.

The Tree and the Mist by Annick Bougerolle

I have a special love for Annick's painting of "The Tree and the Mist". As anyone with a drop of Celtic blood knows, the mist is the veil between the worlds, and a way of crossing between them. The resemblance between the antlers of the deer and the branches of the tree is one of those deep mythic correspondences that is embedded in the French language, where the word bois means both "wood" and "antlers".
    I am delighted that Annick has given me permission to share some of her extraordinary work here. Please note that all these images are (c) Annick Bougerolle. Contact Annick via her website.  

Le Hêtre: Beech Gate

The roots of the beech are living serpents
There is a green woman in the tree gate

her eyes are the green fire of growing things

The winged deer stamps its hooves

impatient for me to go in or go up.

High in the branches, close to the crown,

the raven couple wait for me

but for now my way is down
into the painted cave, past the see stone
where a ruined king came to call me.

For time I do not count I am among the long
luminous elegant people who raised me
when I was away from my body as a boy.
But I will not spend another life with them,

not yet. I feel my way down, ever down

to the shallows of blind fish

where grains of sand sparkle like jewels.

I choose the grain that glows like cinnabar
and it becomes a universe. I see now

how the infinitely large is contained
in the infinitely small, how the high branches
of the world tree in one universe
are the roots of the tree of life in another.

- Hameau de l'Etoile, April 27, 2014

Graphic: Le Hêtre de Ponthus, Forêt de Brocéliande