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There are no goodbyes, my Lizzy, only turnings of the Circle.
was sentient, fully aware of its role in the divine circle of birth, growth, life, and death. Althea had taken comfort in that, in the tides and seasons that made up their year, the belief that nothing was wasted or useless, that everything had a time and a purpose, and when that time was over, that purpose fulfilled, their essence lived on, and embraced some new purpose.
everything was sentient, fully aware of its role in the divine circle of birth, growth, life, and death. Althea had taken comfort in that, in the tides and seasons that made up their year, the belief that nothing was wasted or useless, that everything had a time and a purpose, and when that time was over, that purpose fulfilled, their essence lived on, and embraced some new purpose.
“Bees are like people, little girl. They attack when they feel threatened—when they’re afraid. It’s the same for us. It’s always the things we fear that sting us in the end. The things we hide from or push against. When we drop the fear—the resistance—things take their course in a more natural and painless way.”
“She raised you, little girl. And loved you with her whole soul. That kind of bond doesn’t end just because one of you stops breathing.
But the truth is incapable of real harm. It is we who do harm, when we refuse to face what is real, because it’s uncomfortable or inconvenient.
what isn’t real can’t hurt you. Illusions have no power—unless we insist on clinging to them. Then they become a warped kind of truth, a story we settle for because we prefer to remain in the dark with the monsters we know, rather than face new ones. That’s why the worst truths—the ones that do the most harm—are those we refuse to face.
But it is never a kindness to allow a lie to stand, however hard the pursuit of the truth may be. In the end, light is the only thing that has ever chased away darkness—the only thing that ever will. Seek truth in all things, my dearest girl. There can be no healing without it.
Seek truth in all things. There can be no healing without it.
Because you don’t feel in the scarred places. There’s no registering of pain, just numbness meant to protect against future cuts.
It wasn’t about anger or even hate. It’s never about those things. It’s about fear. Of anything that doesn’t fit into their tidy notion of what’s right and good. We upset the balance, you see, because we walk our own path and live our own truth. It’s always been a rough road for those who live differently from the herd. We’re seen as Other, a threat to the proper way of things. And so they label us, and they lash out. Because as long as they’re lashing out, they don’t feel their fear.
Bitterness is a subtle poison. It lulls with its righteous indignation and its false sense of power, then turns on you and burns your heart to ash. But forgiveness is balm to the wounded heart.
And love. We must never forget love. Not only as something we feel, but as who we are deep down in our marrow. Which is why fear must never be allowed to eclipse it.
Salve your scars with love, my girl, whatever comes, and keep your heart open. Love—even love that cannot be returned—is never cause for regret.
The best magick always takes us by surprise. We plan our lives like we’re in charge, lay all the pieces end to end like we think they should go, and then zing! Something happens we never saw coming, and we end up somewhere else. Sometimes it’s right back where we started.”
I have placed a lily between these pages. As you might guess, it was not an easy flower to press, too fragile in many ways to survive the harshness required to preserve it. But in the right hands, with the proper care, even the most fragile thing can withstand hardship and, in the end, yield a new kind of beauty—and so many lessons.
Renewal. Rebirth. Reincarnation. Different words that all mean the same thing—the return of life to a thing believed spent. The end. The beginning. They have always been one. A part of the Circle into which we’re all born. It’s been taught in many ways down through the years, in many traditions, but the promise is always the same: the hope of a life to come. It’s the natural way of things—or the supernatural way if one prefers—an unimpeachable truth etched in blood and bone.
But nothing is ever too far gone, my Lizzy. Nothing is beyond rebirth.
When she was a girl, she used to lie in the dark and imagine the house as a living thing, listening to its ancient bones creaking at the end of a long day, the ticktock of its clocks, steady as a heartbeat, its dark windows looking out onto the street like so many sightless eyes. And the curtains, sighing in and out at the windows, as if the house itself were breathing.
“Counting fireflies,” she said quietly. “I loved fireflies when I was a little girl. They looked like stars dancing in the treetops.”
Bridges can be built across the widest chasms, even when all we have to build with are broken pieces.
