convection, n. 1) the transfer of heat by movement; 2) the act of conveying or transmitting.
She doesn’t just radiate indiscriminately. I am not the cat who sleeps in Her sunbeam and passively soaks up the warmth. It is only in the midst of movement that I can borrow some of Her heat; it is only chasing after Her flame-tufted tail and the sunset of Her haunches that I can grasp even a wisp of fire.
I am and have always been a Water-child. Striving to keep up with a goddess of the sun, Whose color is hearth-red and ember-burning, is a lovely irony. Her light glints off my rippling skin and pierces my depths, rays into a river, stirring the shadows with streaks of purer blue.
I am a moon, silver-faced and cold without Her, but gladly sharing what light She passes me with anyone who can see Her reflection in me. I may never flush golden like She does, never drip scarlet from my clawed fingers, but echoes of Her memories swim the blackness and filter into my hollow craters like coils of incense smoke. I am the barest sliver of Her brilliance, but amid darkness, even that is enough to illuminate the sleeping world.
Sometimes paganism is slam poetry and fingerpaint, carefully smeared across the canvas to capture a fleeting moment, impressionistically. Blots of crimson, roses like pawprints, and an endless road to walk in Her warming wake.