up our bikes for upcoming cross country adventures. New tires, tweaking gears,
new break pads and reflectors, an entire workup. We put this kind of time into
them because when the weather is right (or close to right) we log in hundreds of
miles on them every week. We love to ride. The challenge, the workout, the
adventure. This year we are planning to go further than ever before. And we're
already preparing for it.
While removing a reflector panel to replace it my hand slipped and I cut it on
what I guessed to be a gear spoke. It was a little cut with an oddly large
amount of blood. I made my brother stop working and come over to where I was,
showing him the cut and measuring his reaction. Without trying to explain I
smeared blood on the center of my handlebars and then on the center of his.
Then, made him follow me up to the attic where Hera's alter rests.
I instructed him to get an incense to bur at the alter while I coated The Eye of
Hera in my own blood and placed in on the offering plate. As my brother placed
the incense I allow three more drops of blood to fall in a triangle pattern on
the offer plate and simply stood there for a moment. Within seconds, the blood
stopped flowing, the stinging was gone, the cut nearly invisible.
Relax nay-sayers…Hera had little to do with it. It was a superficial cut and
minutes had passed. I'm a fast healer. Let's not loose sight of what just
happened. A completely spontaneous and unplanned ritual with no fancy crap. Just
blood and a voice in my head urging me to do it.
Why?
Hera is not exactly the pagan saint of travelers. Her and I have a common pain
along with a common goal and a certain distaste for certain things. Perhaps, it
was the Eye itself, this single tear stained by the Queen's own blood, that was
the seed of the idea that sprouted when I saw my own. As I gazed into Hera's
eyes afterwards I had no such questions in my own. I simply did what I was told.
No prayer, no ritual, no circle, no desire, no spells, no requested favor in
return.
Most of the time I am not comfortable with Hera. She tends to make me nervous.
The excited but fear based kind of nervous that some might feel in the presence
of authority figures. Or perhaps, more like that of a small child with an
over-protective, spank your ass as often as possible for your own damned good,
touch love mother. In all honesty, I'm afraid of her. I try to justify that fear
by calling it a healthy and humbling respect. And anyone who has ever truly
dealt with Hera could testify that it is much better to have her blessing than
her curse.
The call was for blood, the pull and urgency strong. Why and to what end doesn't
matter. She called, I answered, and that's that. In the process I had the
epiphany of "pure sacrifice". A gift given with absolutely nothing expected in
return and no mortal whims or showboating to pollute the natural notion of it.
This one called for blood. Since time forgotten one of the most sacred and
spiritual of all substances that could ever be sacrificed to the Gods. Even
Jesus sacrificed his blood for his god and the benefit of his people. Probably
something he picked up on by overhearing some Roman philosopher teaching at the
Temple of Apollo.
Hera called for blood and blood was given. If nothing more happens from this out
of no where ritual "my people" at the very least have been gifted with this
experience in return and all the many hidden lessons there-in and I took the
lesson of pure sacrifice. To freely give up something sacred simply because you
were given the opportunity…it speaks volumes about faith, will, and the path
itself. The experience that woke the muse and lends to mystery. The voice in my
head telling me to do it without hesitation, and how to do it right, the
overwhelming gut based pull that pulled me into it, the simple satisfaction of
doing it to the expectations of a force beyond myself, the fear tinged
humbleness that followed. The deed is done, the sacrifice given, and the
question remains:
Was it really a gear spoke that cut my hand?
