A barn owl is perched in a blooming hawthorn, a tree of great enchantment and powerful heart medicine.
A new moon rises in the thinnest light of dawn.
In the crook of seven branches, a wounded heart is surrounded by a wreath of hawthorn flowers. The arteries branch from the heart then vine around the hawthorn tree; the capillaries spread along the bark like roots or lichen.
The owl holds the heart with one foot, but her talons are carefully curled up, so as not to injure it. In the other foot a red thread is curled around her toes and talons. She is sewing up the wound, the hole that is in the heart. To do this she has made a hole in her own body, and she pulls the healing red thread from herself.
Deep in the work of creating a piece, I was overcome with a feeling of fullness, of something pouring through me, something alive and potent. It felt as if the owl had chosen me to bring it forth, that she had her own work and meaning in the world, and I was merely the channel through which it moved.
As she took shape in front of me, she became Owl Woman. She stared back at me, with her own consciousness, her own meaning. My participation in her image became one of a devotee.
She is a Goddess, a Being of the Otherworld. My work can’t touch her power, her grace, her ferocity, but perhaps it can open up a door for her to speak to you as well
