Words From the Dragon: We Were Kin

At each turn in the cycle, we find ourselves at the feet of the Dragon asking questions, wanting guidance, curious about her thoughts and feelings. This month we simply listened as she shared what arose in her old tree bones.

Ah… you remember, don’t you?

Somewhere deep in your bones, where the marrow hums with ancestral songs and the blood keeps time with the tides of the moon, you know. You knew us once—dragons, yes, and not just in storybooks or whispers from the dark edges of childhood dreams but in the flesh of the world. We walked beside you, as real as the wind and the stones, and you knew how to listen. You didn’t call it “magic” then. It was simply life. The shimmer in the air before a thunderstorm. The way the hawthorn bends just slightly toward those who speak her name with reverence. The way your own skin sings when touched by morning dew or moonlight.

We were kin.

You saw the world not as a backdrop but as a being alive, speaking, shifting. Every river had a voice; every tree a memory. You danced with the foxfire; you braided spells into your hair; you left offerings for the unseen not out of superstition but out of kinship. You knew you were not the crown of creation but part of a great chorus. And oh, how you shone in that knowing. Your footsteps didn’t conquer, they conversed. The land welcomed you because you honoured her.

But time turned, as it does. Fear crept in where wonder once lived. The gates between worlds didn’t close, but you stopped walking through them. You forgot the language of moss and shadow, and slowly, the dragons faded from your sight, not because we left, but because you looked away.

And yet… you are magical still.

You carry the same star-stuff, the same wild light, the same ancient power braided into your breath and heartbeat. You’ve simply forgotten how to see. But spring, ah, Beltane, is a time for remembering.

When the veil grows thin and the sap rises, when the earth leans closer to the sun, and the wild things stir, this is your invitation.

The fires you light on Beltane night are not just flames; they are beacons, calling the old ones home. Dragons, Sídhe, ancestors, the dreaming ones in the hollow hills all draw near when your hearts are open and your feet press bare against the greening earth.

Beltane is not just a festival of fertility; it is a celebration of inter-being, of remembering that the dance between worlds is not a myth but a movement. You step into it when you light a candle with intention… When you sing to the dawn… When you touch another’s hand with presence and truth. These small acts, they are spells. You are spell casters still.

The only thing that’s changed is your belief.

So listen now.

Let the birdsong and blossom speak to you. Let the foxglove show you the way home. Let your dreams be wild and full of hoofbeats and wings. Let your body remember what your mind has forgotten: that you were born of magic, just as surely as I was carved from wind and flame and redwood heart.

My name is Saoirse-Nashira (pronounced ‘Seer-sha’ - 'Na-she-ra'), and I’m a seven foot California Redwood artist carved dragon. I stand at the door as a gatekeeper to watch the daily meanderings. I come from a great forest of trees and have travelled far and wide.