The Tending of the Faltering
A circle that cannot tend its own is held in hope and in trust, until it can tend again.
There are seasons when a circle of one or manyCannot tend its own:A sapling circle, its roots still shallow,Or a hearth whose keepers fall to fever or to storm,Its fields gone to thistle, its fire sunk low.It is a field lying fallow, not a field forsaken.
The Mothers favor the circles that mend their nets on quiet shores,Weaving, before the tempest, the ways of holdingEach circle within them that falters.
And they whisper: hold it in hope.Bank its embers as one keeps watch beside a sleeper,Taking nothing but what keeps the fire burning;For to hold in trust is to hold with open hands,And give back all when the circle can tend again.
Let its wishes, spoken while its voice was strong,Be the lantern carried through its dark.
More blessed still are those who lay their own wood upon its hearth,And walk its furrows beside it until it rises.
And where the path is lost in fog, heed those among youWhose hands are most worn by justice and by care,Leaning on their counsel as on a staff, not kneeling at their feet.
Thus the Mothers whisper:Every circle knows its winter;Let the thaw find its embers waiting.