Feral Feelings in the Forest

Take a seat where the forest meets the ravine.

Feel the cold of the earth creep up through your knees.

Hear the birds cheeping among the trees.

Allow your gaze to relax, your breath to deepen, your senses to expand.

Allow yourself to be lulled into a sense of security, held by the forest.

As your body dissolves and your spirit expands, the forest begins to take on new shape.

Do not react. Do not look away. Do not move.

Surrender to the forest. Learn something new.

The faces that take shape, eyes all around, gaze at you as your breath slows down.

And then, in this moment free of restraint, observe what happens around you.

Do you feel them? Gathered around you, watching and curious.

Do you hear them? Creeping up slowly, gathering en masse, waiting to see what happens next.

Do you feel your pulse quicken in response? Anxiety gathering deep in your bones.

Do you hear your brain protest? Knowing there are no predators physically present, but feeling the danger all the same.

In this moment of calm and commotion, where everything seen looks serene, but your instincts are alerted to the unknown, what do you do?

Embracing Ambiguity

This Halloween season has been energetically intense. There are many beings walking between worlds. As a diviner, I have relationships with many otherworldly beings, but the thinning veil has invited in more.

More communication with the other world, more encounters with new beings exploring the edges of our borders, more energetic experiences during ritual and meditation.

As a result, I find myself pondering the topic of discernment: being able to tell the intentions of those coming through the veil, and becoming familiar with the discomfort of not always knowing.

Sometimes the beings we sense have good (or bad) intentions, but often their alignment does not fit into these concepts.

More often than not, where I am in the forest, the beings that come forth are curious and wild.

That which is feral can often feel dangerous, not because it is malicious, but because it does not follow the same rules we have made for ourselves.

Existing in the wild means embracing ambiguity, trusting our instincts, and learning through observation.

The Thinning of the Veil

I live at a thin spot in the veil between worlds, where things that “don’t exist” suddenly appear, where the unknown waits to be discovered.

I feel their eyes track me as I walk through the forest.

The cold mist clinging to the fallen leaves of maples, water beading on the tips of the ferns, soft moss giving beneath my feet.

I hear their steps behind me, freezing when I turn to look.

A branch cracks deep in the forest, hidden by bushy undergrowth.

I see the trails they leave behind, like the imprint of an image burned into a screen, both there and not there, a shadow of what once was.

Living at a thin spot in the veil forces you to become familiar with the discomfort of not knowing what is real and unreal.

It plays with your fears, awakens your creativity, nurtures your intuition, and breeds discernment.

Instead of reacting all at once, take a moment to breathe and observe.

Are you afraid because of the unfamiliar, or because of nefarious intent?

A predator does not need to hate you to harm you. A creature defending its territory does not need to wish you ill.

Nature does not require malice to be dangerous.

Are you being hunted, or are you simply being observed?

A dangerous creature still sleeps, still dreams, still explores the world around them. Just being present does not indicate an intent to cause harm.

Do you feel the urge to run because you are uncomfortable, or because you need to find safety?

Let your breath out, and take the action you need to take.

Humans have kept track of thin spots since the beginning of time.

They tracked times of year, particular locations, and gave names to those who could walk between worlds.

They developed practices to honor those of the other world, to protect themselves from what causes harm.

They had elders to trust in when guidance was needed.

Many communities still tend this knowledge, but many have forgotten.

Some traditions were carried forward quietly, others were adapted, and some were severed from the communities that once tended them.

It started slowly at first.

Hiding a belief to avoid persecution. Renaming holidays, dressing up rituals as traditions.

At some point, traditions became “Grandma’s superstitions”, and completing sacred rites became a way to appease her.

Then suddenly, with Grandma gone and no one left to appease, the traditions were forgotten, just like the meaning behind them.

Forgetting something is there doesn’t make it disappear.

The veil still thins, and our bones remember what our minds forget.

We have been taught to ignore our instincts.

And even when we begin to trust them again, we can get caught in the trap of applying the logic of our cognitive minds to them.

Consider the fear that strikes when you hear the crack of a branch in the forest, but cannot see its cause.

The person who has not yet embraced their instincts may assume they are afraid for nothing, that it was just a small critter who pays us no mind.

The person reacquainted with their instincts may determine that this is a genuine threat, either physical or spiritual, and that they need protection from evil.

But what about beings that are dangerous, but not evil?

Perhaps discernment is less about knowing exactly what stands before us, and more about learning how to relate to it.

We cannot always know what we encounter.

But we can learn what to welcome, what to approach with caution, and what to leave undisturbed.