It is Beltane and I dream of cattle. No leaping through fire though, just standing together looking in the same direction, the bull and I, my hand curled around his horn, his breath coming soft and warm. He has pulled me from the swirling void and into place, this place, forehead to forehead he drew me into being. May I never forget the cradle of his broad head, the calm capability, the way we reflect one another, as if I have form because he looked. I am what the bull sees. I am seen.
He leads me to the field of flowers. I hold his horn so I don’t get lost. So I don’t forget. The grass is lush and tender. My chest opens and all the butterflies fly out. Night falls.
There is a small fire where a traveller sits at his dinner. The bull and I cross to the fire. The traveller bids us welcome and makes an offering to the goddess. I make a small “oh” sound of sudden understanding. The bull is goddess. It seems so obvious now. Everything makes sense.
The traveller hands me the plate. “Not me,” I say, “I’m not the goddess.” The bull turns his head and breathes on me, gazing. In the breath of the bull I find I am goddess. I accept the plate.
It is Beltane and the moon is coming on full. I dream of a traveler who sits across the fire. He is a spool of stories barely contained, his breath thrilling the still. I settle myself across from him. A small chime of bells. “Tell me,” I say. “Tell me everything.”