Sometimes things just come through. They won’t let me leave the house or think about anything else until I write them down. This was one of them – it arrived in March of 2016, and I still reread it from time to time.
My friends are the children of the Gods, and we are not all sane, and we are not all safe. Sometimes we are the dancing lights of madness, sometimes the quiet glow from sacred shrines and sometimes we are the light that comes when all other lights go out. We are the illumination, and we are the wicks that burn. And yet, with this light, we hold the monsters at bay. Sometimes safely. Sometimes not. This dance is not always easy, and the steps can make us falter. We are the mysteries embodied; we are servants to that which is poorly understood, and the prism that you see us through tells us more about you than it does about ourselves. That is the Mystery, right there. To be at once mad-sane-beautiful-terrible-sacred and well aware of it. To watch from eyes that flash with benevolence-destruction-creation-entropy and know that we hold a reflection up to you somehow. What do you see? When you look at us, you see part of yourself. What part is it? How do you feel? And will you light your candle here, to help the others find their way?
I am so grateful for my mystics and magicians, my witches and wanderers. I am grateful for my seers and sages, priests and priestesses, followers of the dark, followers of the light, and all the points in between.
It is a blessed-painful thing to be Wyrd, but the company is amazing. 
