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What if two of these unique aspects of the feminine consciousness could separately manifest and communicate with one another? ...
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What if two of these unique aspects of the feminine consciousness could separately manifest and communicate with one another? What would the Child and Crone have to say to each other? What secrets would they share?
Trined in Twilight is the story of "Little Self," a precocious six-year-old girl who ventures into the woods at twilight to discover "Granny's" cottage and spends a day filled with mystical wonderment.
The interaction between the wise old woman and the child full of wonder captures the sublime emotion we experience when looking into the eyes of a loved one and seeing the reflected essence of ourselves.
Hundreds of thousands of readers remember Mary Summer Rain's Spirit Song as a timeless classic. Now, Mary rekindles that very same light and joy of magical adventure and spiritual discovery in Trined in Twilight, a profound reading experience that will be warmly remembered for years.
The floppy Raggedy Ann doll, faded fabric worn and tattered in places from receiving so many exuberant hugs, was missing one dark button eye. The other, a shiny black triangle, was chipped and in need of tightening. The doll had been carefully set down upon the leafy ground with her back propped against a well-used basket of freshly-gathered fringed sage.
Warmly falling through tall lodgepole pines, liquid gold sunshine sprinkled dappled patterns that randomly splashed onto the forest floor in rapidly spreading tide-pools of molten glitter.
High above, fathoms of ocean blue sky gave the surreal and dreamlike illusion of one being able to reach up and immerse testing fingertips into its rich depths, as it created a seemingly touchable backdrop for the brightly backlit gold and amber aspen leaves.
Gazing up through the fragile filigree of autumn foliage, the small Child's deep mahogany eyes, wide with wonder, sparkled with the reflected delicate images of nature's mesmerizing beauty. Intent on observing everything there was to see, she smiled in wonder while watching the interactive play of dancing light and colors as they rearranged the living nature patterns with each new exhaled breath of mountain breeze. The breeze, gently blowing the patterns into shifting, swirling designs. The breeze, creating moving stained glass mosaics everywhere the Child looked.
Nature was weaving with grace.
Choreography, altering with nature's ever-changing depth of mood.
Like a magical kaleidoscope being gently rotated and tilted by the weathered hands of the old Woman of the Woods, the enrapt Child vividly envisioned the ageless elder blessing her with a rare, euphoric melding of each other's tender and sensitive souls. The little one deeply respected and loved her Grandmother Earth with all her heart. And throughout the whole of her young life she'd always thought of Granny Nature as being the perfect symbolic image of everything the true wise old Woman of the Woods was supposed to be.
Heady incense, the fresh pine and fir, the juniper and blue spruce, lazily wafted in thick swirling tendrils around and through the needled branches. It infused the dancing sun patterns with a heightened aura of blended magic—a powerful fairy potion permeating one's senses with joyful visions of happy things like puppy kisses, and tickling the heart with warm thoughts recalling most-loved memories.
Together, the potent fragrance and the spirit of Granny Nature joyfully joined their sweet essences to draw any and all receptive human spirits into their hypnotic dance of serenity.
Accustomed to routinely immersing herself within this tranquil enchantment of the woods, the Child was reluctant to break off the soul connection she'd made with it, and so a whispered sigh escaped from her small, bow mouth. With a measurable force of will, she voluntarily broke the soothing lull she'd allowed nature's spell to put her under.
Slowly, she sat up.
Her gaze was temporarily drawn to the wicker basket rounded high with its fragrant contents of gray-green sage before she shifted her attention to focus on the purpose of her journey to this high enchanted place, a place now seen a short distance away through the sun-dappled evergreens.
Wondering at the wiseness of coming to this particular remote forest destination, she thoughtfully took in and considered the many interesting details of the little woodland cottage just visible through the lush cover of stately evergreens.
As the late afternoon sun lazily lowered in the western sky, the Child's heart leapt to see how the orange orb's changing light washed the vine-covered cottage in a soft and rich shade of rosy alpenglow.
She smiled then.
She smiled with the thought that perhaps the warm feeling that this gentle light filled her with was a sign—a mystical signal that her trip here was indeed sanctioned by the wise Spirit Elders.
As far as she knew, no journey of this kind had ever been made or even attempted before, no such physical meeting between the separate Aspects of one consciousness had ever been physically manifested and, it seemed it was an unprecedented move on her part to even think of making such an attempt. She wasn't sure it would work. No, she wasn't sure it would work even if she timed the golden twilight moment just right.
Now, while waiting for that magic moment with butterflies flitting about in her stomach, she again studied her destination.
She'd not been disappointed at its modest size and appearance, for she knew the owner would feel most comfortable in a small dwelling. What did surprise her was that the place seemed to be the same structure that the Mother Aspect was currently residing in and, being such, wondered how this could be so? Yet there were differences between the two, differences that only the passing of time could account for.
Boston ivy, something the Mother was wanting to plant, was now donning its autumn costume of ruby red leaves as they shaded the northwest wall of the stone cottage in a blaze of brilliance.
Stone. The place was made of stone instead of the cedar she had expected to see.
Small multipaned windows sparkled their stained-glass colors between the thick frame of ivy leaves.
The gray slate roof line was broken by a chimney of river rock, giving evidence of a working fireplace or woodstove somewhere within and, high atop the roof's ridge poised a flying witch weathervane that gently moved in the breeze. This last made the Child grin in amusing remembrance as she recalled when the humorous witch had been installed back in the spring of 1999.
Beside the house were four feed bowls surrounding a stone birdbath perched atop an aspen stump. Out the back door of the cottage was a carefully tended flower garden bordered by a low redwood lattice fence. Birds of many kinds were freely helping themselves to the offerings in the seed and grain feeders on the covered front porch.
It was a good place.
It had a warm and welcoming feel to it. It was plain to see that all of nature's wild ones felt at home there because they were so openly provided for.
The Child hoped she would be too.
Noticing the altering light, she stood, then reached down to pick up her doll and basket.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to face the cottage. And gauging the distance between it and herself, she calculated the timing to reach the dwelling's wooden back door.
Timing was of the essence now. It was critical, for this meeting could only be managed if her knock on the cottage door coincided with the precise moment of twilight when Time opened its dimensional door for those who knew how to step over its threshold.
Releasing a long, deep breath to relieve the nervousness, the Young One began to place one foot before the other as she followed the well-worn footpath that led down the hillside slope to the mountain dwelling.
The former brilliance of the alpenglow was fading.
The brightness of the Boston ivy dimmed.
Two more steps. Three.
Small fingers tightened around the basket handle.
An arm squeezed the doll closer to her heart.
Sun, disappearing below the ridgeline, cast the cottage in a new wash of grayness.
Four more steps before checking the sky.
Then five more brought her inside the garden gate.
She stole a moment to look down at the profusion of thriving blossoms. Tall purple foxglove spikes grew beside maroon and white hollyhocks. Dwarf Shasta daisies encircled the feet of a French lilac like a natural fairy ring, columbines of various colors filled the spaces between the spreading red-blossomed yarrow plants. And Johnny-jump-ups carpeted the garden soil like an Oriental rug of miniature pansy faces. Trailing up the fencing were three kinds of red, purple, and ivory-colored clematis. Wild bindweed, thick and lush, grew copiously over the lower garden fencing.
It struck the Child that all the growing plants were reluctant to succumb to the sleep that the autumn spirit was attempting to lull them into.
Trying to quell her heart's excited flutterings and the queasiness that had filled the whole of her insides, the Child softly tiptoed across the decorative flagstone walkway that led to the back steps of the cottage.
Very quietly she ascended the three wooden planks and stood squarely in front of the door. Looking first at her doll for supportive encouragement, then down at the pungent stalks of sage in the basket, she considered rearranging the greenery but then decided that she couldn't make anything more presentable than they already were.
Inhaling and exhaling several deep breaths to calm her racing heart, she glanced one last time up at the sky and scanned the forest depths to calculate the light of the woods.
It was a bit grayer now.
Time was poised. She could feel it in her bones.
Twilight had come.
The magical moment had arrived.
Blowing out her breath between pursed lips, the Child raised her hand to the door and knocked ... once.
Disappointed, her mind raced as doubts speared in. Is this really possible? Could she really meet the wise Aspect of her Elder Self? Face to face?
She knocked a second time.
Was this Twilight thing just a myth after all? No, she thought with a quick shake of the head to dislodge the idea. She knew it was true. It was. It was true!
With firm conviction and greater resolve, she knocked once more.
And when the heavy wooden door slowly opened on silent hinges, the Child's deep mahogany eyes raised to look into the same deep mahogany eyes that twinkled back at her. "It is true," she whispered.
"Yesss," came a returned whisper from the old one inside, "it is true! Come in, Child, you already know that my house is yours."
The little one tilted her head before entering. "You know who I am?"
"Why, of course I do. I've been waiting a long time for you to come and visit. You're Little Self!" she said with a broadening smile. "Come in, come in! We need to get to know one another. My goodness, we've got so much to talk about, don't you think?"
Posted November 8, 2000
Honestly, I can't find the words to describe the book. All I know is that it was powerfully moving. If I had only one wish left in my life, it would be to meet with Mary Summer Rain, not because I idolize her but for the stimulating conversation that would ensue!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 20, 2008
No text was provided for this review.