Loo-nuh-thray

The Faery Hare of the Leaping Dawn

by Lorriiii Dragon Dream

The breath before the leap — where wonder remembers its rhythm.

Loo-nuh-thray is a faery of thresholds — a hare woven of breath, moonlight, and the first trembling of dawn. She carries the rhythm beneath stillness, the soft pulse that stirs before a beginning is born. Her presence awakens the part of us that longs to move again, even before we know where the leap will take us.

Cailleach an Chéad Solais (KAL-yakh an KYAYD SUL-ish)
Keeper of the First Light — Loo-nuh-thray

The Leaping Light

by Lorriiii Dragon Dream

There was a time before dawn had a name — before light knew how to rise, before darkness knew how to release. A time when creation held its breath, a long, trembling pause in the chest of the Mother of Cycles. Her dreaming turned restless. She pressed her palm to the void and whispered, “Let the world move again.”

That whisper rippled outward — sound becoming rhythm, rhythm becoming pulse, pulse becoming a glimmering outline woven from breath and moonlight. Where her breath touched fur, dew formed. Where paws touched the dark, the first seeds of light took root. And the world — that had held itself for ages — exhaled.

They called her Loo-nuh-thray, though her name is older than language, older than horizon, older than the moment night first opened to day. She was born not into the world, but between it — a leaper through thresholds, a weaver of dawn between what was and what might be.

Each bound cracked open another shell of silence. Each landing birthed a new color of light. She ran until the sky remembered how to sing. It is said she still runs — not ahead of the sun, but just beneath it, her body made of all the breaths we’ve ever held too long.

Where she passes, fog softens. Where she pauses, grief loosens. Where she leaps, wonder rises again in the bones of the land. She arrives when your heart trembles with curiosity, when your stillness becomes listening, when your longing grows too bright to hide. She comes at the threshold — and leaps you into beginning.

✧ Spiral Way Teaching

Loo-nuh-thray is the Keeper of the Dawn Gate — the sacred threshold where endings and beginnings bow to one another. She teaches that the spiral is not linear. It folds and curves and returns, descending and rising in the same breath.

A beginning is always the exhale of an ending. A leap is always preceded by trembling. Courage is not the absence of fear, but fear softened into motion. To walk with her is to feel the rhythm beneath all rhythms — the subtle pulse that moves through dawn, through instinct, through breath itself.

When you stand at the edge of what you know, she does not ask you to be ready. She asks you to be honest — to trust the small, quivering yes inside your chest, and let it become your first step.

✧ Animistic / Shamanic Teaching

In the Old Knowing, hares are boundary-walkers — dream-crossers and moon-guides who slip between the worlds the way dawn slips between night and day. Loo-nuh-thray moves in that liminal field, listening not with ears alone, but with the whole body of the world.

She feels where your breath has stopped, where your story has grown tight, where your becoming waits like a seed under frost. Shamans speak of beings who carry the medicine of the in-between. She is one of these: moving between matter and meaning, bringing messages from the unseen in trembles, instincts, shivers, and sudden clarity.

To work with her is to treat your own body as a listening field. The flicker in your chest, the catch in your breath, the way your skin prickles when something is true — these are all ways she speaks. Where she leaps, the unseen becomes felt, and the felt becomes guidance.

There is a shimmering in the moment before dawn — a soft inhale, fragile as frost, holy as a new world forming beneath the dark.

Sometimes that shimmer rises in me, unbidden — a quiver beneath my ribs, a breath that wants to move even when I do not feel ready.

I recognize her in that trembling. Loo-nuh-thray. The soft, bright pulse of beginning.

✧ What Trembles Awake in Me

There are mornings when that same shimmer rises in me before I even open my eyes — a tiny vibrating yes inside my chest, like a paw testing the edge of the meadow. It is not loud or certain, just a soft insistence that something in me is ready to move.

I used to think beginnings required confidence and clarity, some steady knowing of where I was going. But she has shown me something gentler, truer:

Beginnings require honesty, not confidence.
Presence, not perfection.
A trembling yes is enough.

She meets me exactly where I am — on the threshold between fear and longing — and in that tender in-between, I feel her whisper: “This is your doorway.”

✧ The Way All Things Begin Again

Every being — human, animal, stone, cloud — moves through the spiral cycle of stillness and motion.

We pause. We listen. We break open. We begin again. The universe is built on these thresholds.

Loo-nuh-thray reminds us:
Movement is what fear becomes
when softened by trust.

The leap itself is holy — not for where it takes you,
but for what awakens inside you as you rise.

✧ Faery Medicine

The medicine of Loo-nuh-thray is Threshold Breath — the sacred moment between hesitation and motion.

Trembling-as-Truth — the subtle quiver that tells you something is ready to change.

Instinctive Clarity — knowing without explanation, the way a hare senses the shift of wind.

Dawn Vision — seeing the soft edge of possibility inside uncertainty.

Rhythmic Renewal — remembering that breath, motion, and becoming are one continuous dance.

The Leap That Begins Within — transformation that starts not with action, but with the breath that precedes it.

To work with her is to return to movement after a long stillness. She loosens fear-gathered places, softens the freeze in the body, and reminds you gently that a new beginning is already forming on the inside.

✧ Ways to Work With This Faery

To walk with Loo-nuh-thray is to soften into the kind of motion that rises from within, not from pressure or urgency. Here are ways to welcome her presence:

Pause at the Threshold
Stand at a doorway, gate, or path. Take one deep breath in stillness. Let the next breath decide your movement. This honors her medicine of Threshold Breath.

Listen for the Trembling Yes
When making a choice, place your hand over your heart or lower ribs. Feel for the tiny vibration that signals, “This way.” It will be quiet — but unmistakable.

Walk Until Your Breath Finds You
Take a slow, gentle walk. Don’t look for signs. Let your breath and steps fall into rhythm, and notice when a sense of possibility flickers.

Sit With Dawn (or Any New Beginning)
At any beginning — a day, a moon cycle, a project, a transition — invite her presence by whispering: “Meet me in this beginning.”

Practice the Inner Leap
Close your eyes. Imagine the faint impulse of movement gathering inside your chest. Let it rise without forcing it. This is the leap she teaches — the leap that starts within.

Loo-nuh-thray responds to tenderness, curiosity, and honesty. Not certainty. Not confidence. Only the quiet willingness to feel the first stirrings of becoming.

✧ Meditation with the Faery

You can do this meditation at dawn, at the beginning of something new, or any time you feel yourself hovering at the edge of a change.

Sit or stand comfortably, with your feet on the ground. Let your hands rest softly on your lap or over your heart. Close your eyes, and feel the weight of your body being held by the Earth.

Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose. Hold it gently for a moment — that tiny pause where everything is still. Then exhale through the mouth, letting your shoulders soften. Let your breath become a quiet tide moving in and out.

Now, imagine you are standing at the edge of a meadow just before dawn. The sky is a deep blue-grey, and the world is holding its breath. Somewhere in that soft half-light, Loo-nuh-thray is near — a shimmer at the edge of your awareness, a presence made of breath and moonlight and the first hint of daybreak.

With your next inhale, whisper within: “I am ready to feel what trembles awake in me.” As you exhale, imagine that any hard edges around your heart soften. You don’t need certainty. You only need willingness.

In your mind’s eye, see Loo-nuh-thray at the edge of the meadow — ears alert, body relaxed, fur rimmed with dawnlight. Notice the way she waits: not rushing the moment, simply attuned to the exact right time to move. Let her teach you that same patience and trust.

Bring your awareness to your chest, ribs, or belly. Is there a place that feels like a tiny vibrating yes? Breathe into that place as if you are breathing dawn into it. With each inhale, light gathers. With each exhale, fear softens its grip.

When that inner shimmer rises — however faint — imagine Loo-nuh-thray leaping across the threshold of your body, not away from you but through you. Her movement is your movement, her courage your own. Let that inner leap be enough.

When you are ready to close, bring your hands over your heart and whisper: “Thank you, Loo-nuh-thray, for meeting me at the threshold. May I remember the breath before the leap.” Take one last full breath and gently open your eyes.

✧ Light & Shadow of the Faery

Like all true beings of the Otherworld, Loo-nuh-thray is woven of both light and shadow. She is not a decoration of the dawn, not a tame storybook creature, but a living presence who belongs to the wild edges of things. She carries beauty and gentleness, yes — but also power, boundary, and mystery.

Her light is the way she reveals what is ready to move: the soft glimmer of possibility, the quiver of courage, the tender clarity that appears when we tell ourselves the truth. Her shadow is not darkness-as-danger, but darkness-as-depth — the hidden places where we have silenced our own instincts, ignored our own timing, or rushed past the quiet yes inside us.

To walk with her is to remember that every beginning has both: the part we can see and name, and the part that is still ripening in the unseen. She asks for respect — not fear — for the unseen half of things. When we meet her with humility, reciprocity, and honesty, her light becomes guidance and her shadow becomes a sanctuary where new life can gather itself before it steps into view.

In this way, Loo-nuh-thray teaches that light and shadow are not enemies, but partners in the same dawn: one revealing, one receiving, both necessary for the leap into a new world.

✧ Whisper of the Faery

Her whisper does not arrive like a message or a command. It comes the way dawn does — quietly, steadily, inevitable as breath. You do not hear it with your ears. You feel it in the soft place beneath your ribs, where instinct and wonder meet.

When she speaks, it is more sensation than language: a brightening along the edges of your awareness, a subtle pull toward possibility, a small inner motion that feels like, “yes… here.” Her voice is the pulse that rises when you stop pretending you are not ready.

“Lúmen thrae, éirigh (LOO-men hray, AIR-ree) — Light of the threshold, rise.”

Speak it when you feel yourself hesitating at the edge of something new. Speak it when you cannot yet see the path, but something inside you is beginning to move. Speak it when your breath trembles — for that is when she is closest.

✧ How She Came to Me

Loo-nuh-thray (LOO-nuh-thray) didn’t arrive as an idea or a character. She came the way some truths come — on the edge of breath, in the quiet moment before choosing whether to step forward or step back. Her presence was not a thought I constructed, but a sensation that rose inside me like light finding the cracks.

I did not invent her. She is older than any story I could write. What came through me was simply the form she chose in that moment — a hare woven from breath and moonlight, a shimmer shaped like a leap waiting to happen. It felt less like imagining and more like remembering someone who had been standing just outside my awareness, waiting for me to notice her.

What I know now is this: the faeries do not arrive as inventions. They reveal themselves through intuition, dream-sense, body-knowledge, and the thin places inside us where wonder is still alive. They are not mine, and they are not owned — they move through whoever is listening deeply enough to catch their shape.

Loo-nuh-thray came to me in that way — through the shimmer in my chest, through the breath before the leap, through the part of me that still believes beginnings are sacred. I did not dream her into being. I met her at the threshold where she already lived.

✧ Closing Reflection

As we meet Loo-nuh-thray (LOO-nuh-thray) in this way — through breath, story, instinct, and the shimmering places within — we are reminded that beginnings never arrive fully formed. They come as tremors, as soft inner nudges, as the sense that something in us is already leaning toward light even when the rest of us hesitates.

She teaches that we do not need certainty to begin. We do not need a map or a promise. We only need to feel what stirs inside us when we stop pretending we are not ready. The leap does not start with motion — it starts with breath.

When you find yourself at the threshold of something tender or unknown, pause long enough to feel the quiet yes inside you. That is where she lives. That is where the new world begins. And that is where you are already rising.

✧ Blessing

May the breath before your next beginning be spacious and kind. May you feel the soft trembling truth inside you and trust it enough to listen. May the places that have been frozen begin to thaw in their own timing, without force, without hurry, without apology.

May Loo-nuh-thray (LOO-nuh-thray) meet you at the threshold — not to push you, but to rise with you, breath to breath, until movement becomes possible again and courage remembers its shape in your body.

And when you find yourself standing at the edge of what you have known, may you feel her beside you: silver-furred, bright-eyed, whispering the dawn awake inside you — reminding you that the leap is already beginning.

With love and reverence,
Lorriiii Dragon Dream

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Bear Spirit

by Lorriiii Dragon Dream

Keeper of Strength and Stillness — guardian of the pause that restores all things.

I am Bear Spirit, Keeper of Strength and Stillness. I walk between forest and cave, carrying the weight of what endures. I teach that true power is not in motion without rest, but in the courage to pause, the devotion to prepare, the wisdom to guard what matters most.

When the season turns, I enter the dark womb of the earth — not to vanish, but to be remade.

Call on me when you need grounding, when you must hold steady, when you are ready to retreat so you may rise renewed.

I am Bear Spirit. I keep, I protect, I endure.

The Story of Bear

By Lorriiii Dragon Dream

When the world was still dreaming itself into form, Bear walked the edge between sunlight and shadow.

She was the first to know the turning of the seasons — how the Earth inhales and exhales through time, how the dark is not an ending but a gathering-in.

She built her den where roots remember the first fire, where stones hum softly of endurance. There she kept the rhythm of the heart of the world — the slow drumbeat of becoming.

Each winter, when the veil between life and death thinned, Bear would crawl into the cave of her own being. She would lie down upon the soil that had known her name for centuries and breathe herself into dreaming.

The ancestors say she was not sleeping — she was listening.

Listening to the stories that rise from beneath the ground, to the quiet voices of those who have gone before, to the song of renewal whispered through roots and water and bone.

When the first thaw came, Bear emerged blinking into the new light — a creature of both worlds, carrying in her fur the scent of the sacred dark, and in her eyes the shimmer of returning life.

Where she walked, the snow melted. Where she breathed, seeds stirred. And where she rested her paw, the people learned how to return to themselves.

Original story by Lorriiii Dragon Dream — inspired by the old ones who still whisper through the land.

The Way of the Bear

By Lorriiii Dragon Dream

Every ally carries a rhythm — a way of walking the world that reveals how we might live closer to what is true.

Bear moves in rhythm with the Earth herself, guided by instinct more ancient than memory. She knows when to roam and when to rest, when to gather, when to withdraw, when to dream herself back into wholeness.

She is the bridge between what has been and what is becoming — a keeper of the ancestral dream.

In her den, the ancestors dream beside her. Their breath mingles with the earth’s slow heartbeat, reminding us that the line between past and present is made of living soil.

When we enter her cave, we return to the womb of memory — the place where the old stories are kept alive through listening.

Bear’s medicine is many-fold: the courage to rest, the grace to protect, the wisdom to follow the body’s knowing.

She teaches that instinct and spirit are not separate but woven together, that renewal begins in surrender, and that strength is a quiet devotion to what endures.

Her power is not aggression but presence — a steady heart that knows when to guard, when to soften, when to rise.

To walk the Way of the Bear is to listen for the slow drum beneath all things — to trust the inner winter when it comes, to curl inward when the soul asks for silence, to protect what is precious, and to rise again with strength that is steady, grounded, and sure.

There is a time to build and a time to breathe, a time to act and a time to be held.

Bear knows both, and carries both in equal devotion.

There is a silence between heartbeats where the world remembers itself. In that stillness, Bear waits — not for movement, but for meaning. She reminds us that strength is not always loud, and healing does not rush. The Earth, too, turns in her own time. And in that turning, all things return.

There are seasons when I, too, must turn inward — when words go quiet and the pulse of life asks me to listen instead of speak. Bear teaches me to trust those pauses, to honor the unseen work that happens in the dark. I am learning that rest is not retreat from life, but return to its source.

Bear teaches that life moves in holy rhythms of gathering, resting, and renewal. Stillness is not the absence of life, but the fertile dark where new strength is formed.

To live in right relationship with these rhythms is to honor the body’s wisdom, to trust instinct as a form of knowing, and to protect what is tender until it is ready to emerge.

Boundaries are an expression of love. Retreat is an act of devotion. When we pause with intention, we do not step away from life — we return to its source.

In this way, Bear’s medicine belongs to all beings: move with the seasons, listen beneath the noise, and rise only when the inner drum calls you forward.

Animistic Ways of Knowing: The Path of Bear

Animistic / Shamanic Teaching

In the animistic way, we remember that everything breathes — stone, tree, wind, fire, fur. All things move within the same great rhythm of giving and receiving. Bear teaches this through embodiment, not idea. She does not speak of the sacred — she lives it.

When she enters her cave, she is not escaping the world, but joining it more deeply. Her hibernation is prayer, her dreaming a conversation with the unseen. Within the dark, she becomes medicine — transforming hunger into stillness, fear into listening, solitude into communion.

Bear’s medicine is felt before it’s understood. When we slow our pace, breathe deeper, and listen with the body, we enter her rhythm — the long, patient heartbeat of the Earth.

To walk with Bear is to practice presence — to root in the moment, to trust the wisdom that rises from soil and bone, to remember that the world around us is alive and responsive.

This is the shamanic way of Bear: to trust the invisible cycles, to follow the call inward, to remember that rest is an offering, and that silence can be a form of devotion.

When you step outside, pause before crossing a threshold. Touch the ground. Feel the weight of your own being. Let the land know you are here.

Bear reminds us that reciprocity begins in awareness — that every breath we take is part of a living exchange. When we honor that, our prayers become offerings, and our movements become medicine.

Celtic Teaching: The Bear in the Ancient Lineage

Celtic Wheel · Threshold Lore

In the old Celtic lands, Bear was a guardian of sovereignty and the keeper of sacred power. She was known by many names — Art (ahrt) in Old Irish, Arth (ahr-th) in Welsh, Artos (AR-toss) in Gaulish, and Artio (AHR-tee-oh) among the Continental Celts. All arise from the ancient root artos, meaning “bear,” “noble,” or “strong one.”

To speak her name was to invoke sovereignty — the power that comes from right relationship with the land and the self. In some traditions, she was the mother of kings and warriors, her name echoing in Arthur — the “Bear King” — whose myth carries her strength and vision into legend.

In the north, she was the Great She-Bear of the stars, mother of direction and return. To the druids, her hibernation mirrored the turning inward of the sun at Samhain, and her emergence signaled the slow quickening toward Imbolc — the light’s rebirth through the dark womb of winter.

Bear’s path moves through the deep spiral of the Wheel, her medicine strongest in the dark months — guiding us through the descent toward stillness, the listening between worlds, and the quiet courage that prepares the way for renewal.

She is kin to Brigid and the Cailleach both — fire and frost, midwife and guardian, reminding us that the divine feminine is not fragile, but fierce in her devotion to life’s turning.

Keeper of the Turning: Bear on the Spiral Path

Spiral Way Teachings

On the Spiral Way, Bear guards the gates of Descent and Darkness — the second and third movements of the spiral where we surrender what is finished and learn to rest inside the fertile unknown.

She teaches that death and stillness are not punishment, but sacred passages of renewal. The spiral does not fall apart here — it deepens. Bear shows us how to move with that descent, to let go without losing the thread of our belonging.

In Darkness, she is the guardian of dream and bone. Here we listen not with the mind but with the whole body — to what sleeps beneath, to what waits to be remembered. She whispers: “Do not rush the dark. Let it ripen you.”

When we emerge again — blinking into the light of Rebirth — we carry Bear’s wisdom in our marrow: that what we release returns as nourishment, and what we honor in silence becomes strength in motion.

Through Bear, we remember that the spiral is alive — a breathing path of rest and renewal, woven through every season of the soul.

Practices to Embody and Call Upon Bear Medicine

Embodied Presence · Sacred Reciprocity

To embody Bear medicine is to live the teaching, not just to know it. It is a slow apprenticeship to the cycles of rest, reflection, and return. These practices are invitations — ways to call her presence into your body and your life.

1. The Bear Breath.
Place both hands over your belly. Inhale deeply through the nose, letting the breath fill the lower body. Exhale slowly through the mouth, releasing tension down through your feet. Feel the gravity, the grounding, the ancient steadiness that rises to meet you.

2. The Den Within.
Sit or lie down in a quiet space. Close your eyes and imagine the warmth and safety of a den. Let yourself rest in that inner darkness without reaching for light. Ask: “What part of me is ready to rest? What part is ready to be remade?”

3. Walking with Bear.
When you walk outdoors, slow down until your steps match your heartbeat. Sense Bear walking beside you — solid, silent, protective. Let her teach you the rhythm of presence: patient, aware, unhurried.

4. The Offering of Stillness.
Each day, offer one moment of stillness to the world — a pause before speaking, a breath before action, a quiet “thank you” whispered into the air. Bear hears these offerings; they are how she knows you remember her.

To call upon Bear is to invite the strength of silence, the wisdom of the body, and the courage of the turning season. She walks with those who listen — and waits in the dark until you do.

Bear teaches us that the journey of the soul is not a straight line but a spiral — one that leads us again and again into the dark, not to lose ourselves, but to remember what endures when everything else falls away.

May her presence remind you to trust the stillness, to honor the places of unknowing, and to listen for the quiet pulse beneath all things. For it is there, in that sacred pause, that new life begins to stir.

May you walk with Bear’s strength in your bones, her patience in your breath, and her dreaming heart guiding you home.

With Love and Reverence,
Lorriiii Dragon Dream

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I didn’t know letting go could feel like this — not a cutting, not a shutting of a door, but a soft exhale into the truth of what was. For so long I carried the story like it was proof of something — proof of where I was hurt, proof of where I wasn’t enough. I circled the same ache believing I had to solve it, fix it, understand it perfectly before I could move. But somewhere along the way, through the quiet work of showing up and breaking open and learning to love the parts of me that stayed, something shifted. I stopped asking the past to change, and I started blessing the version of me who lived it. I saw her — brave, trying, tender, sincere — and I finally let her rest. And in that moment, the loop loosened. Not because the story vanished, but because my grip did. It didn’t close — it opened. The wound didn’t disappear — it dissolved into wisdom. And I stepped forward, not away from where I’ve been, but with it — as something whole, something risen, something finally ready to spiral onward.

There comes a moment when we stop wishing it had gone another way and start blessing the way it did. The loop we’ve walked again and again is not punishment -- it is a path worn by longing, ready now to open. The Earth shows us how: she lets go by turning, by softening, by letting what’s finished become nourishment. You do not have to carry the weight to keep the meaning. You do not have to find someone to blame in order to find the truth. Let the story be what it was. Let the pain be what it taught. Let the loop become a spiral. And walk on -- not away from the past, but with the wisdom it gave you.

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Belonging to the Wild

by Lorriiii Dragon Dream

Before words, before shape, before story you were wild muscle and ancient breath, a pulse made of earth and fur and knowing.

Before We Learned to Behave

by Lorriiii Dragon Dream

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When the Body Speaks

On the body’s first language — guidance felt before words.

There’s a moment when the body stops performing
and starts speaking.
It doesn’t use words.
It uses shivers, exhale, the ache of release --
a language older than prayer.

Personal Reflection

There are moments when my body speaks, and even if I don’t have the words yet — I know.

Maybe not the full sentence, but the direction. The tone. The truth rising underneath.

Sometimes it arrives as warmth spreading through my chest, a quiet heat gathering at my centre — steady, unmistakable. Sometimes it is a tightening, a sudden contraction in the gut — not panic, but clarity in its raw, instinctive form.

Other times it rushes in like a wave — a pulse of move or not this or here, stay here.

It isn't always gentle. It isn’t always quiet. And it isn’t always poetic in the moment.

But it is true.

I don’t always understand it immediately, yet there’s a knowing — steady and ancient — that says, pay attention here.

Not certainty, but orientation. Not explanation, but direction.

This is not confusion. It is communication. And I am learning to trust the part of me that feels before it thinks and knows before it explains.

Universal Truth

The body does not speak in puzzles — it speaks in direction.

A softening that means yes. A tightening that whispers no. Warmth that says this way. A sudden urge to turn, step back, or draw close.

We don’t always receive the language fully formed — but we recognize the truth in its first breath.

Embodied knowing is not dramatic or mystical all the time. It can be quiet. Subtle. Immediate.

A hum beneath the ribs. A widening behind the sternum. A settling in the belly that says, safe.

We were never meant to decode our intuition like a riddle. We were meant to feel its direction and follow the thread as it reveals itself.

This is the body's ancient literacy — not certainty, but guidance. Not performance, but honesty.

And every time we listen to the first sensation — the flutter, the exhale, the pull — we return to the oldest truth we carry: We know. We have always known. We only needed to remember how to listen.

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When the Tide Empties

The turning sea knows: to release is to love more deeply.

When the Tide Empties

by Lorriiii Dragon Dream

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A remembering of when stillness became motion — when light and shadow first learned to love each other into turning.

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Return to Mystery

A quiet offering to the mystery that waits beyond closure.

Read more in Samhain: The Spiral of Return

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Shaped in the space where nothing is asked, yet everything listens.

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Every touch is a story. Every gesture, a prayer.

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