29 Just a simple candle

29 Just a simple candle
December 16th to 22nd, 2011:
Wind, take this song to the laughing river.
Let it flow seaward as the long night turns.
And when the thrush heralds the sun's return,
World, hear our song; enough is enough!
The cave shines blackly like coal or jet. It's enfolded and ridged, smooth
and curved, soft to the touch yet firm. I sit in the dark and feel my bones;
muscle and flesh settle in comfort.
Down into the stillness I sink. My breath soft and even. Dark is the velvety
silence that holds me. Invisible arms whose touch cannot be felt suspend me
in this place before the seed begins to grow. Oh, I like it here!
In that space of nothing, a small flame glimmers. In that place of coolness,
a soft heat nudges my cupped hands. Nuzzlingly affectionate is that so
small flame that is hope.
"Deep in the earth, deep in her womb,
Cradled in the dark, resting in the tomb."
I sink down further in search of something else. There is nothing else. The
flame is enough. Light a humble candle whenever hope is needed. It's simple.

The next day, I am called back down into the earth. This time, a fleeting
image of Mama Bear and my wolf dressed as Beatrix Potter characters
astonishes me. Incongruously they move mincingly and with faux gentility,
their frilly frocks offensively mocking against their rough furry bodies. Am
I antromorphosising my power animals? My shocked mind reels quickly from the
thought and the images disappear
Here is a candle. I take the warmth and light of it into my body, my heart,
my sex, my belly. This is to remind me, in the darkest of times, of warmth
and strength and light. I hear the message for the second time of giving.
"Light is returning, although it seems the darkest hour.
No one can turn back the dawn." We sing. Into my mind comes the other verse.
I struggle to remember the words and notice the shift of emotions within my
body. Something is sad and poignant, touching and a little painful. What is
it?
"Let's keep it burning.
Let's keep the flame of hope alive.
Make safe our journey to the light."
Three days later, I drag myself away from everyday chatter. The clock edges
towards sunset. It is the beginning of the longest night. Pulling on my coat
and hat, I walk into the garden.
Robins, magpies and a thrush sing away as the last of the light begins to
fade. Airplanes grumble across the sky. Behind them, sirens wail, car tyres
hiss. The city sings its evensong. Amongst the chorus, my ears catch the
unmistakable sound of a blackbird, singing his joyous song as the light
fades. This audio talisman of hope lifts my heart. I sit down under the
castor oil plant.
What is it I need for when the sun returns? My mind is quiet. I listen to
the garden. I need to find time to do this, to be in this quiet space and to
observe the turning of the year and the everyday circumstances of nature
alive and singing. I need to mark this longest night by bookending it with
magical practice. That seems simple and achievable enough. I will use the
black candle as a symbol of dark and light, to help me find that balance in
this year that offers instability, financial challenges and an uncertain
role for me in public life.
Later still, shoulder to shoulder I stand with other singers, gathered to
show support to Occupy London stock exchange, encamped at the feet of St
Paul's. Voices rise on the breeze, entwine, arabesque, separate and step in
unison. As one, we turn, hands on hips and point accusingly at the Stock
Exchange. "Enough is enough!" we sing out loud and proud.
It is over. Hard by the Western Cathedral door, five of us arms around each
others shoulders, rock and sway, chanting rhythmically as we connect with
the watery servants of London's rivers running across this great city.
Beneath our feet, Diana's temple lies, her courage is that of London's
rebellion, her river, Isis's river, snaking its powerful way between the
shining buildings that control so much obscenely misused wealth.
We breathe and tone, sway and stamp sending our energy down into the earth,
to the waterways and the deep fast flowing river, out to the sea and to the
world beyond. A great connection with struggles across the world is forged
by every drop of water that flows through the city and its cousin tumbling
along between the banks of another great city across the grey roaring ocean,
united by the ever moving, ever dancing sea.
I yearn for the river. We walk to the Millennium Bridge and hang over its
rail, and serenade the Thames. She chuckles back as she swells and rises.
Passersby glance curiously at the little group singing to the waters.
Striding back towards the cathedral, we sing loudly and cheerfully. Our
harmonies encircle each other in haphazard counterpoint as words form and
reshape themselves.
"In the jungle, the concrete jungle,
the protesters sing tonight ...
Occupy, occupy, occupy, occupy!"
In the darkness, the thrush is clearly calling the sun's return. His
symmetrical sequences pierce the dark end of night. I throw open the garden
door and step out into the still coolness.
The cold breath of that time just before first light pats my cheek.
Carefully I move between the wet bushes. Twice a silken spider's thread
touches my skin, is broken and lets me through.
I sit down under the castor oil plant and wait. The thrush has been joined
by a hoarse-voiced pigeon, sounding every bit as though he's had a rough
night on the tiles! Beyond the trees, robins begin to quarrel and the garden
fence shakes as purposeful paws tread firmly along it. Wings beat soft,
gentle scirring oblique paths across the garden.
The city is awake. It hums and grumbles along the damp roads. Above, a plane
dissects the sky, and then another. I listen to the breeze shaking the ivy
leaves as another bird flutters by quite close now. With my ears testing
each texture of sound, I listen out for the change in the shapes in the
garden. My mind takes the curving path up between the trees to that place
where there's a spring, a rock and a leaping fire, sheltered by tall trees.
But I am not meant to be there right now and I withdraw myself reluctantly.
I am still. Purposefully, I empty my mind. I allow only the awareness of the
garden and its inhabitants, for this is enough. Loudly now the birds sing. I
sense we are on the edge, the cusp of something, something that will turn
soon.
The air is thickened to my right. Something is standing there, just in front
of the rowan tree. I reach out with my mind to meet the presence, slightly
inclining my head respectfully.
She - he, they - stand, slightly taller than me, strongly upright with feet
firmly earthed on the ground. A pigeon flies down and lands at its feet. The
presence bows to the pigeon and the pigeon bows back.
"Who is this"? I wonder, striving to make a connection. And then I know.
This is the powerful, purposeful successful me, the leader, the decider, the
battle for just causes. I open up my arms and she comes into them, melting
into my heart.
"I have a candle, I have a magical practice, and I have my voice. I also
have my strong powerful self. Four gifts with which to celebrate the sun's
return. I need no more.

28 Dancing Green Ribbon

28 dancing green ribbon
Monday October 31, 2011:
"SCATTERED with the bleached heads of dried thistles,
the quiet heath, Is like a dark sky full of bright stars.
Through the veil of the cool breeze,
THE ground soft beneath my careful feet,
I walk in remembrance of my beloved dead.
A green satin ribbon dances,
spiralling in the wind,
a shining tribute to a life too soon extinguished.
The pavements are stencilled with the outline of fallen leaves. The rain
must have plastered them to its surface. The wind has set them free to drift
away, leaving only their shadow behind.
Lights twinkle from a pumpkin set upon a doorstep. A silent group of zombies
slip past on soft-soled feet. The quiet street echoes with a sudden burst of
cackling laughter.
The night is warm and cloudy. It does not rain. We seem to have the heath
pretty much to ourselves. Walking up the hill is like climbing the rounded
belly of the goddess. London disappears behind the screen of the trees and
fades into silence.
We have the ducks, geese, owls and rustling, scurrying creatures to
ourselves. The thistles have dried up. Their bleached heads shine in the
dark in a startling meadow of pale dots. The grass is long and springy.
It holds us as we walk.
The ash tree waits for us. We circle it and cast sacred space. We call our
beloved dead and our ancestors. The wind touches my skin. I feel the
spirits of those we've called, cluster around us. The wind whispers in the
grass like the sound of a silken robe swinging around a walkers legs.
Led by a solemn drum beat, we move through the veil and across the heath.
Dressed in her beautiful green ordination robe , she walks with me. She's
stately and composed. She exudes compassion and serenity.
As one, we step into each other's footsteps, linked by frail woollen ties to
remind us of each other. Far away to my left, I hear an owl hoot. Further
away, another answers. We swish our way through the dried thistle heads.
They snatch at our legs, snagging trousers, reluctantly releasing us to move
on.
My mind chatters away, images of my beloved dead come to place themselves
before me. So many were so young. Their passing is forever a loss to the
world. But I am different because they were in my life. I can continue to
carry the memory of their wisdom with me on my journey forward.
We proceed circling through the field of thistles and back through the veil
to the ash tree. I hear her deep voice addressing me; I ingest what she says
though I am not conscious of the words. I immerse myself in the deepness of
her voice.
Hand in hand, we circle. Our beloved dead stand amongst us. I feel their
presence like the coolness of the gentle night air. We speak of our
experiences, of those we've lost and mourned and what they have given us.
I speak of the sense of compassion and serenity that Vijayatara has gifted
me. I tie a wide green satin ribbon to the tree in remembrance of her. It
swings and spirals in the breeze, as though bowing and stepping, turning and
reaching up in an exquisite arabesque of perfect grace. I cup it's moving,
waving self loosely so that I might feel its dance against my palms.
I sit on the soft grass. Somehow I feel sheltered here, closer to my beloved
dead, who cluster around me. We offer thanks to the spirits for being with
us this night and open our circle.
On the way down the hill I hear a duck cackle manically. The trees hold
their limbs up for us to pass under. We stand amongst fallen leaves to say
goodbye to the heath, taking the bond of our connection as protection to
guide our ways home.

27 Fire Lodge

27 Fire Lodge
Saturday October 29, 2011:
We circle the pyre, each woman picking a rock, blessing it with a quality to
bring to our sweat this evening and laying it carefully on the logs.
"The release of tears," I say, gently laying down my rock. The line moves
round and I stand with a magnificent rock in my arms.
"Revolution" I yell, capering forward and depositing it upon the steadily
growing pile. I am satisfied. I step back, brushing off my hands as though
to say, "Job done!"
The fire, skilfully built begins to sing as soon as a light is put to it.
We have stacked the wood and balanced the rocks. I say "we" though I've had
no actual hand in doing it, being employed building a beautiful alter to
celebrate the turning seasons.
We sing to the fire as the flames begin to dance amongst the structure of
rock and wood.
"Fire, sacred fire burning through the night.
Come to me in the dream-time, bring me visions of light.
Circle round, spiral down to these arms open wide.
Healing light, burning bright, dry these tears that I cry."
The air has thickened and deepens. Night has fallen. The circle of women
stand by the fiercely burning fire. I am naked. The cool evening air
touches my warm flesh. It is delicious.
I move closer to the fire. It's heat touches me purposefully. A small
westerly wind growing bold now blows smoke towards me. I stand in it's hot
gust and allow the breath of the fire to embrace me. I turn and turn in the
glow of the fire.
Sweet burning wood melts into the distinct herby perfume of sage. I feel
the outside world fall away with the reminder of my intent this evening.
Something else lies amongst the smoke. It is the warm dusty smell of the
hot rocks. The smell of a rocky outcrop on a hillside under a hot sun, I
think as I stand and am cleansed by the smoke.
Humbly, I crawl into the lodge. The earth is cool under my forehead as I
rest it in supplication on the earth.
"For all my relations", I say out loud, dedicating my prayers and my sweat
this night to everyone, for my growing changes all who encounter me.
The dark, bitter-sweet smell of damp earth and crushed grass fills the
space. Another indefinable scent lies across it, a reminder of the softness
of women's perspiration. Soon, the hot dusty rocks will fill the chamber
with heat.
"Hot rocks!" shouts the fire keeper as solid heat is rolled into the pit in
the middle of the circle of women. The rocks pile up, the door is closed,
and our prayers begin.
I don't know what others can see. I imagine the dark denseness. I imagine
that there are grades of darkness depending upon where one is looking. I
see in my mind's eye the bright shining hot rocks, shimmering in the pit
before us. I see them, red, pink orange and even blue and green as they
radiate different temperatures. Like dusty hot jewels, they offer their
heat to help us give of our sweat to the service of prayer.
I thank the rocks for their gift for, in time, the repetition of heat will
crumble them and they will return to dust, from whence they came. And with
that thought, I think of the wood that feeds fire that heats these rocks.
Outside, I can hear it singing. It hissing, zings, gutters and roars, for
the wind goads it on to greater heat. I place my hand on my heart in
thanks.
Women's voices rise in tuneful song. We sing. I feel my chest and throat
open as my voice, strong and confident, weaves a harmonious path amongst
others.
Sweat begins to run between my breasts. For the moment, the thin cotton of
the sarong upon which I am sitting, shields me from the cold touch of the
earth. I reach up and touch the bent hazel branches, stroke the blankets and
tarps that make the wall of this domed space in which we sit. It feels like
a round belly, the womb of the earth and I her child sitting, singing,
praying and waiting.

Water on rocs hisses. As more is applied, the air becomes moist with its
breath. The heat rises.

The door is flung open. Cool air slips in. Someone describes the fire,
framed by the door and a thin moon somewhere overhead, for the clouds have
cleared. More hot rocks are borne in upon shovels and tipped into the slowly
rising pile in the pit. They smell of the earth and also of sun-warmed rocks
on a beach.
I am moving down an almost vertical tunnel, but I am not falling. I find
myself in a low passage and am forced to crawl. I don't feel confined by
this though.
The tunnel opens out into a chamber about the size of this sweat-lodge. I
sit and wait. I am naked.
A paw comes through another tunnel on the other side. It reaches for me.
It's followed by a muzzle and then the whole head of the bear and then its
body, slowly crawls in. She is big for the space but she doesn't fill it.
She sits down and I lie on her belly. my hands in her soft fur. I rest
there, listening to her blood beating, being moved on the gentle rhythm of
her breathing as her stomach rises and falls.
Something heavy leans upon my knee. I reach out to feel it and touch the
bony scull overlaid with soft velvetiness that is my wolf. We lapse into
peace.
Time moves on. I am still, in the dark. I lie contentedly with the bear
and the wolf and together we listen to the earth turning and time spinning
on.
The quality of darkness thickens. A new coolness of moving air arrives,
along with it, the scent of something new. I feel both wolf and bear lift
their muzzles and sniff. I lift my nose and do so too.
And with that movement, I stir properly, roll over, separating from both
furry warmness's, and touching briefly, hand on heart in grace and farewell,
I move away.
Remembering the near vertical passage, I pause wondering how I will get out.
My wolf and the bear gently move on either side of me and steer me another
way. I find a less steep tunnel up which I crawl with ease until I come up
between the hot rocks, (which do not hurt me) and back into the lodge and my
circle of women.
I think about stillness. I think about touching a leaf, getting lost in its
simplicity. No matter how depressed I get, I can do this, surely I can do
this.
Everything seems easy tonight. The sweat is hot. The prayers are strong.
I forget the discomfort of sitting on the ground for nearly three hours.
Somehow the magic cushions my body and I forget the physical pain.
I give away what I don't need and call in what I do. I offer my use of
words and power as a lover of women. I plant the seeds of my career as a
powerful, potent, wise, trustworthy champion of the disadvantaged.
I climb out of the lodge and stand before the fire. I am naked. The fire
warms my skin and the air cools it too. Drawn to the fire, I lean into its
heat, turning in the power of its breath as I thank it for its work this
night.

26 Who is the Maggon?

26 Who is the Maggon?
Sunday October 1, 2011:
I stand bare footed on the cool wet grass. The sun streams down
unseasonably. My face is hot with its fierce caress, even though the
morning is not yet advanced.
I listen to the drum and feel my feet on the ground, my toes spread. The
bumpy dry earth lies beneath the soft grass. Small stones bite into my
tender soles. Gingerly, I dance. .
Through caves organically curved like a great vulva, I move into an arched
womb-like chamber. Dark and pulsing, it is empty. Beyond this, a sheet of
water that I must get across, bars my way. But I am a confident swimmer and
this is no barrier to me.
I immerse myself in its aloof coolness, cleaving through the water
effortlessly, revelling in the sense of power my warm blood zinging through
my rapidly cooling flesh brings.
It is dark on the other side. The pulse of my blood meets the rhythm of the
earth upon which I stand, mingles with the beat of the drum, and
involuntarily I move my feet. Dancing is everything, she dances too, and
she might be a flamed haired, flamed wearing goddess, swirling as I swirl.
Our dance is joined by a strange black and white creature with wings; a long
spiny tail and a beak come muzzle both dragon and bird like. Maggon (a
dragon-magpie or magpie-dragon) dances before me in a swirl of black and
white, illuminated by brilliant flames.
Who is this creature, what does he stand for? Dragon hoards, guards its
treasure. Magpie is enticed by bright shiny things. What does this mean
for my life?
I collect careers, activities, objects and skills. To my critical mind,
nothing is done to great expertise and I can't even describe myself by one
or two words even.
Yes I am a lesbian, a queer pagan, a witch, but I tread many paths. Yes I
advise institutions, coach people, train others, but I have many fields of
influence.
I've often longed for an all-consuming hobby, one thing I am am expert on,
birds of Britain, world music, playing a single musical instrument perhaps.
I enjoy all these things but am mistress of none. This is the same in my
professional life. I am infamously ubiquitous. My need to collect and
hoard spans from clothes, careers, pagan paths, personal growth regimes and
even my own fat.
My mind spins. We dance faster and faster. The maggon and the flame-haired
goddess do dance battle. Each swirls, leaps and arabesques, vying to outdo
the other. Their competition is fierce. The flames on the goddess sigh
shiver and diminish as the Maggon's stark silhouette gains dominance.
I dance on amongst them, helpless to do anything. Hours, days, week's even
years seem to pass as though but a second of time. The Maggon begins to
change as he melts into the flames. His dark outline merges with the
brightness of the fire.
My chest hurts. I am filled with pain, like heart-ache as though losing
someone dear. Maggon, austere in look, flamboyantly "bling-bling" in
pursuit is shrinking in front of me. I struggle to release that
aquizatorial tendency which I know now no longer serves me.
"But I want to do well in the world," I think as despair goads my heart.
"Why must I let go of this creature who has served me so well?"
We dance on; I focus on moving all parts of my body, as many parts of my
body at once. Am I trying now to collect multiples of muscle movements?
"Dance is the answer," I think, purposely seeing just how many limbs and
muscles I can shift at the same time, heedless of the possibility of pulling
a muscle. In the heart of the fire, where my feet stamp and swivel, she,
flame haired, flamed dressed goddess dances, her full attention on me,
loving me for who I am and how I am throwing myself into the dance.
The Maggon has gone! Behind, he has left a beautiful dancing fire goddess.
Enchantress of the fire, enchantress of my heart and destiny, we dance on
together. Behind the regret, the sadness, a new joy shines. I can dance
into my power as a woman.
Old habits have served me well. The MAGGON has been a fierce friend,
working only to support me in the only way he can. I no longer need that
which he has so long done for me. My mind whirls as I release old fears. I
dance in love of self, dance away from fear and restrictions, which leave me
as I dance into freedom.
Breathlessly, I stand slightly swaying upon the now warmed and trodden
grass. Sweat runs down my face in warm rivulets. The morning sun moves
across the sky. I hold my hands over my heart and bow to the sun and to the
shadows behind to the place of the Maggon for all he has done for me.

25 Equinox Fire

25 Equinox Fire
Friday September 23, 2011:

Tumbling leaves race playfully
along the gritty pavement.
Wood-smoke drifts in misty clouds,
around the quiet garden."
Conscious that I am repeating my year with fire (for I have lost focus for
the second time), I yearn to celebrate the equinox under its influence. Two
others and I, the embryonic beginnings of a possible new magical coven,
gather in my garden to contemplate this. We make fire in my cauldron and do
a working about equinox, balance and what we want from our new connection.
The fire is held by the roundness of the cauldron. Soon it is in fine
voice. It roars and hisses exuberantly. The wind spirals the heat and smoke
indiscriminately between us.
We sit in a triangle round the fire connected by three sticks pulled from
the wood pile. We contemplate our personal journey, that of the group and
what we feel is needed for the world. It feels important that any magic I do
has all three focuses.
I'm walking above a deep chasm over a narrow bridge with no sides. Below me
lies certain death, should I fall. There's something dark and threatening
in the chasm below, I can hear a faint menacing roar. I know that if I can
keep on the straight and narrow, everything will be alright. The bridge
however seems endless.

On the other side of the chasm is a place of dancing, of wildness yet
somehow of equilibrium. I dance amongst the flames, lost in their
spiralling contortions. Here lies certainty, purpose and adventure. It is
also enticingly laced with danger and exposure. I know it could hurt me, get
out of control even. The brave part of me speculates what that would be
like. The reticent part of me flushes hotly, scared to be exposed to such
volatility as seems promised by the fire.
Fire, smoke and wind in turn touch the three of us sitting in circle, and
from time to time come between us as though reaching to greet others amongst
us, unseen perhaps because they are not yet identified.
"Equality, inclusion, respect for difference, challenging patriarchy and
misogyny." The fire and its shadows seem to sing out to me.
"Ah, I'm on home ground", I think and feel comforted.
Beyond the circle around the fire, the garden is still and quiet as though
it is a dark night rather than an early weekday afternoon. From out of the
silence, a magpie frantically saws the air with his clattering song.
Further away, another answers in equal staccato.
"And what of balance for the world" I muse, nuzzling the smoke with my chin,
turning my head this way and that. Voices above us on the Parkland walk
break into our silence. They drift away on the wind and are overtaken by
the rhythmical sound of a rap song coming from over the garden fence.
The fire calls me back. I sing to it, stirring its tongues of heat with my
hands. I wonder idly why I don't make fire more often in my garden even by
myself, since I now know how.
The voices above us and the music from over the fence have broken the spell.
The fire has settled down into a gust of heat in the bottom of the cauldron.
Far away, a phone rings insistently. I remember I'm meant to be working and
drag myself back into the present.

24 Autumn Gratitude

24 Autumn Gratitude
Saturday September 17, 2011:
Walking through the woods, the hard edged noises of traffic moving through
suburban streets are abruptly swallowed by the trees who sing with the
softness of the wind. Acorns rain down from the oak boughs above our heads.
Damp mushroom odours, wind in and out of sharper green smells, misted by the
air into something hinting at autumn. There are not a lot of birds, and as
yet the children and dogs are not in evidence. We miss our way and end up
coming out of the woods and walking down the road.
A small group gather for the ritual. We agree and adapt what we will do to
suit the unexpectedly small numbers of participants.
Sitting back to back on a rug on the still warm earth, I draw strength and
comfort from my neighbour's strong back leaning against mine. The woods are
quiet aside from a small child in a red dress fascinated by our peaceful
circle and whose voice charged with questions pipes clearly through the soft
stillness.

I am small. The rough horned tree sitting before me moves. The Lord of the
wildwood is mellow and benign. He exudes encouragement, reassurance,
steadiness and strength. Breathing the muddy, mushroom, loamy smell of him
edged with something muskily potent, I feel calm. In my hand, the smooth
round acorn is warmly silky. My skin in contact with it, tender.

My mind is in turmoil. My thoughts shove each other out of the way
chaotically. It's hard to articulate what I am searching for; the thing I
feel will help me through the winter into the uncertain times ahead. In the
end I describe it as a desire to throw away the agitation that makes me
overeat. I fling away my acorn and immediately feel better.

Walking into the labyrinth, I turn the notion of how agitation affects my
behaviour. I would not have described myself as an agitated person; I am
often externally commanding and confident. The knowledge that there is an
underlying state of agitation and anxiety is one that is familiar to me.
Purposefully I step forward, weighing, examining that agitation and anxiety,
cast it off for it does not serve my purpose as a whole human being.
It had its purpose once. There was a time when it was the most rational
thing to do, but I don't remember how it came to manifest itself as a useful
behaviour, I only know I don't need it anymore.
Because she is silent, I am unaware that the strikingly fae red clad child
from earlier is walking the labyrinth too. She steps solemnly, deeply
focussed on her own internal process. Her mother watches her incuriously and
with delight.

I arrive at the centre of the labyrinth. I feel almost clear of that
anxiety. I light my candle indicating new beginnings, hope in the darkness
and warmth. I start walking back. On the edge of the labyrinth, I stand,
cupping my hands around the flame for warmth, dancing it with my palms, as
we sing:

"Every step I take is a healing step.
Every step I take is a sacred step.
Healing, healing, healing my body,
healing, healing, healing the land."
We stand in a circle, offer prayers for the dead Welsh miners and their
grieving community, the people of Libya, struggling friends and communities.
All around the wind touches the oak boughs and they cast acorns onto the
earth with cheerful abundance.
Holding hands, slowly, gracefully, thoughtfully, we dance and sing, to turn
the wheel, to wind up the connections we brought to it, to weave the magic
into being. We sing:
"Lady spin your circle bright.
Weave your web of dark and light.
Earth, air, fire and water,
Bind us as one."
Like the air, our circle is soft with gratitude. WE pass juice and fruit,
sharing blessings for the winter to come. We thank the earth for her bounty
and sing Pat-Mary Brown's Gratitude Chant:
"Thank you for the good things in my life.
EARTH AND WATER, SUN AND MOON AND SKY.
ON THIS LAND, HERE I STAND;,
IN GRATITUDE.
FOR A WHILE AFTER THE RITUAL'S ENDING, WE SIT IN THE EVENING SUNSHINE ON A
ROUGH HEWN TREE BENCH. THE WOODS ARE QUIET. ONLY THE SOUND OF THE WIND
RUSSLING THROUGH THE OAK BOUGHS AND THE PITTER-PATTER OF THE FALLING ACORNS
DISTURBS THE PIECE. BUT IT IS TIME TO GO.
MY COMPANION AND I WALK BACK THROUGH THE WOODS. THE SUN SLANTSLOW THROUGH
THE TREES WARMING THE BACK OF MY HEAD. AS WE MOVE DOWN A CURVING PATH, THE
SMALL RED CHILD AND HER MOTHER STEP OUT BEFORE US. THE MOTHER ASKES ABOUT
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE LABORYNTH. WE EXPLAIN AND, EXCITED AND CURIOUS, THEY
RUN OFF TO WALK IT ALL OVER AGAIN.

inaccessible blogger

I growl and curse and get a sighted friend to help. For some reason, blogger
has decided to make signing in even more interesting than usual. Not for
them the humble user name and email address -oh no, now you have to stare at
letters and numbers amongst a tumble of images or disentangle the mumblings
of a half asleep robot amongst the whining of weird animals. Well, to this
slightly mutton-blind blogger, that's not good enough. This is an email
posting to see if it is easier than by going on the web site.
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23 The tipping Point
Lamas - Monday August 1, 2011
“The heat of the sun swells the seed and ripens the grain.
Transformed by water, the amber fire warms my belly as the Corn Mother warms my heart.”
Dusk is slowly descending as my companion and I squeeze through the far western gate into Kenwood. We have the holly wood to ourselves. I salute a hollow beech tree in the time-honoured custom of clockwise circumnavigation followed by a thorough exploration of the tree’s contours. Soon my hands are smeared with the dusty sticky cobwebs and currented with their contents!
The path divides. The Holly trees reach out sharp fingers to stroke our bear arms and run their spikes teasingly through our already sweat-dampened hair. It is a very hot night.
The ground levels out and we walk across grass. Here is a birch tree, divided in two. We step through the doorway and prepare to settle down to make our circle and do our working.
The park ranger’s four-wheel drive shrieks to a stop and he leaps out, crossly admonishing us for still being here. I am confused as I thought we were on the heath, but clearly we are still within the Kenwood environs. We apologise and remove ourselves forthwith.
The gate clangs behind us and we find ourselves in a scattered grove of pleasant trees. Here is a columned beach, the earth around her roots scattered with beech masts, waiting for us to work with her. We settle down to make our circle.
Before long, she comes. Standing in the south, she is dark skinned but light haired, strong featured but roundly fat, a cottage loaf of a goddess with wheat ear fat gold plats framing her strong-featured face. I know she is the Corn Mother, related in some way to that Native American goddess and to a thousand goddesses across a hundred nations. Standing with her sisters ONE HOLDING the lamb and the OTHER HOLDING berries, she is a Celtic triple-goddess MOTHER.
Lamas, the time of the first harvest, where we reflect upon what we have sewed and are now reaping. I contemplate the impact of unintended consequences and the place that lies between purposefulness and accident. I unfold before her my struggle between enough and over-consumption, between allowing emotions and drowning in them, between control and loss of control, between having what is needed and hoarding.
As a self-confessed control freak, I don’t like not being in total control of what is going on involving me. When I am challenged, there are times when I will become hysterically agitated, like an inconsolable child, whipping herself up into frenzy, almost luxuriating in bad temper!
So what is the tipping point taking me from reasonable concern into hysteria? What is the tipping point between life sustaining consumption of food and that place of compulsive eating? What would it be like to give away the abundance of emotions, consumption or anything else harmful to me in the same way I give away a glut of apples from a richly fruiting tree? What could the Corn Mother do with such abundance?
A life-long insomniac, I remember someone telling me that others would love my wakefulness as I crave their ability to sleep. If only we could redistrict the behaviours we don’t need to those who do need them?
The beech mast, like a four pointed flower with a central spike, lies dry and light in the palm of my hand. I touch its contours; stroke its rough exterior and soft unblemished interior. I marvel at its gracefulness. I offer it to her, releasing my need of each excessive behaviour with another mast.
Unravelling the sweet apple and cinnamon swirls and biting into the succulent strawberries, I think of what I am harvesting instead. Let me learn to be conscious of the point between enough and too much, to find compassion for myself when I struggle with cravings and to forgive myself when I’m driven to excess.
I hear her laugh. It’s a great belly rumble of a laugh. Suddenly, I want to sing, so I do.
“We all come from the goddess, and to her we shall return,
like a drop of rain, flowing to the ocean.
Hoof and horn, hoof and horn, all that dies shall be reborn,
Corn and grain, corn and grain, all that falls shall rise again.”
New words come and between us, my companion and I find a way to celebrate her through the baking of bred.
“Pound and need, pound and kneed,
pull the goodness from the seed.
Kneed and pound, kneed and pound,
Make your bread both rich and round.”
In the silence that follows, I lean my back against the strong columned trunk of the beech tree. All is quiet, saving a quarrelsome robin high up in a tree nearby. Softly at first and then more distinctly, the “whoo-whoo” of an owl penetrates the stillness. A harbinger of the second half of the year, and the waning sun, he sings across the tree tops in the deep dusk that is almost night.
We thank the Corn Mother and the owl and all the creatures of the woods that have been chewing away at our varies pieces of exposed flesh. Gathering up our belongings, we set off across the heath.
My companion has not bought an A-Z. No matter, we follow well-trodden paths between richly wooded heath and more abundant glades. Our presence disturbs the men cruising in the woods below Jackstraw’s Castle. They fit into the open momentarily and then disappear into the shadows under the trees once more.
A different owl shrieks as she swoops upon some hapless small mammal she has glimpsed momentarily in the dark. We cross water and wind our way through more trees, until at last, the lights and then the cars of a nearby busy London road, intrude.
It is pleasant, (if a little hot) in the pub. I sip my whisky and allow it’s warmth to permeate my whole body. AS I roll its richness around my tongue, I fall to deciding that whisky is a Lamas drink. I order a second one in celebration of my own personal harvest and that of the Corn Mother.

Friday July 1, 2011:
THE laughing pebbles in the dancing sea
It's Vijayatara's 50th birthday! I've been connecting with her this morning during my opening circle. It's a beautiful fresh, sunny summer’s day. The world feels like it is smiling, but gently.
It's a new moon, a time for new beginnings. I feel sad because there are no more new beginnings for Vijayatara on this earth. Where ever she is on this 110th day since her death, I want to connect. I put out that simple intention and wait.
I am standing by the Compassion shrine. Recently, I have cleared the vicious rambling rose from in front of it. Now ivy climbs over it and in and out of that, another gentler rambling rose winds. Above me, I hear the call of a pigeon; it is coming from the other side of the arch of the shrine
Climbing through I find myself in a wooded glade, stretching bumpily downhill. Above me in the wooded canopy, a white wood pigeon coos. It scirs through the air between the trees in front of me. I follow its fluttering, whispering wing-song down.
The air has the quality of sweet clarity that makes my lungs want to open and breathe deeply, feasting on its freshness. We must be near the sea? I follow the fluttering through the woods, stepping carefully for the way is rough and now descending steeply.
The woods are thinning. The path now runs at the bottom of a deep gorge, its wooded sides rising high above me. Through the trees, I can hear the faint shush of waves on shingle. The sea must be close now.

The path is steep and treacherous. Beneath my feet, small stones shift, becoming more numerous as we descend. Now the trees fall away to low shrubs and on my right, I can hear the babbling of a stream, hastily tumbling over rocks. The sea wind catches my face as the path twists to the left, and there and below me lies a crescent-shaped rocky beach.
The waves sing out. They pounce purposefully upon the shingly beach, seizing, dragging the tumbling pebbles, into the sea, tossing them back onto the shore, creeping closer with each movement of the sea.
I stand on the beach. I am in a small deep cove cut into the land. High crumbling cliffs cup the land side. Behind me, the wood steps down almost to meet the water. The chattering stream, fans out to my right, merging with the oncoming sea in a scatter of rock-pools and shallow channels.
Out to sea, on the right, a western sun sinks low, the cliff casting shadows on the sea so that it is almost purple. I listen to the mesmeric rhythm of the waves meeting the shore and lose myself in its song. I wait as the sky darkens.
From time to time, the sea snatches bigger rocks. They rumble and roar as they roll about in the surf. It sounds like the sea is laughing and that sometimes; she gives a great belly laugh.
I think about Vijayatara and what she would have done with this day had she still been alive. What would she want for herself, for me, for her partner and her friends and family? She'd want us to be safe, comfortable, fed, and happy. Her practice was the lynch pin to her sanity, her comfort, and the fuel that drove her contribution to life.
The rocks laugh, rolling mirthfully at my feet as the water creeps closer. I don't move. Now that Vijayatara is gone, what can I learn from her not being here that will help me move forward, I think? I listen to the sea and notice the darkening sky, deepening as the sun sinks behind the cliff.
My future is uncertain. There are doors closing. It's up to me to open others. Sometimes, it's such an effort, but if I want to continue to make my mark, to contribute to the world, I have to keep searching, finding, opening and making good my interventions. I wander what will help?
On the horizon, the glimmer of a pale splinter pierces the dusk. A thin delicate moon rises shining and silver above the water. It’s a new moon!
I picture the compassion shrine, adorned with a new moon. I see below the dancing goat, a statue, a Buddha? Tara? I'm not sure, it's not clear and it's also partly hidden by a softly rambling rose and the ivy. There are some other flowers there too.
Then it comes to me! I shall continue to deepen my spiritual practice, that's what I'll do. I’ll use that spiritual practice to strengthen me for the leadership role I seek in London, the two are entirely compatible.
The sea tosses the round rocks; they roll, chuckling deeply at my feet. In the wind I hear Vijayatara laughing. In the pouncing waves I hear her roaring with mirth. In the quiet rolling pebbles I hear her satisfied sigh of sated pleasure.
I bow to the sea and to her, beautiful goddess of the sea, likeOshun, river goddess, ocean dweller or, Yemanya, mermaid, goddess of the sea dwelling in the oceans deep. In the sea’s voice, I hear a thousand goddesses of the water from Africa and elsewhere and they are calling out my name, in Vijayatara’s voice.
So now I know what to do, I'm anxious to get back to do it. I retrace my steps and turning at the point where the path veers sharply right, I look back at the cove. The new moon is rising higher in the sky. Across the curve of its c, a bird feather momentarily lies.
Back in the garden, the compassion shrine is shaded and cool. I touch the Green Man, rock the dancing goat willow statue, and shake the clocking clacking goat bells hanging down in the archway. I know where that crescent moon can be hung, when I source something suitable for the garden. There's a space or two for Tara and or the Buddha too. Yes, this beautiful compassion shrine, made from a much loved and cut down tree, dedicated by VIJAYATARA and myself the day of its felling, yes, this shrine, I will complete, in her honour. Let it motivate my spiritual practice so that I may become the good leader for London that I want to be.

22 The Snake’s embrace Parliament Hill
Tuesday June 21, 2011:
“Framed by oak and willow trees,
The City sits beneath the mist.
To the east, rain dark clouds
Veil the morning sun.”
“I love how we’re greeted at each street corner by a cheerfully singing blackbird!” I enthuse to my companion as her rather elderly car growls its noisy way through the quiet North London Streets. The air is thinning, indicating that it is growing lighter. Her windscreen wipers smack the wind born raindrops on the shield.
“Ah birdies!” I say infatilely as I emerge from the car. The sky is full of singing, yet the sun is still below the horizon. My companion mentions the hanging fat moon in the sky, emerging and disappearing behind clouds.
The Heath is empty! We walk along the path and then cut across the wet grass, gradually and then steeply ascending towards Parliament Hill. As I step, small insects rise from the wet greenness.
It’s nearly sunrise time and there’s a precipitous incline to get up. The way beneath our feet is rough and steep. We cross a slimy wooden bridge over a muddy ditch and toil on through the willows and oaks. Above us, birds call to each other and compete among themselves to be the noisiest. I climb onto a seat and flop down.
Parliament Hill offers spectacular views across London. The vista includes many archetypal and iconic London buildings. My companion has seen The Shard, and now that the light is growing, she spies the round dome of St Paul’s. The sun is nowhere to be seen however.
Fortunately, there is an abundance of benches; each has their occupants autonomously engaged in varying ways in marking the solstice. There’s a family having early cold breakfast, two couples stand or sit close and talk quietly to each other, a group of young people who apparently look as though they’ve been up all night, are lying rather foolhardily on the wet grass. I settle back to contemplate the turning of the year as it moves from waxing to waning, from increasing to diminishing.
“Ooh, there’s a kestrel of some kind circling above us” says my companion. Something soft lands on my head and scuttles away. This is a daddy long legged kind of creature. I sit still and it crawls off. Insects buffet against my bare hands but nothing bites; they seem intent on just being here right now. Behind me, unintelligible voices talk about who knows what ... its half past four in the morning for Goddess sake!
The undergrowth crackles and shrugs as though something really quite large is pushing its way through. I am aware of a presence – horned ... androgynous large but somehow insubstantially present. My mind focuses, hoping to connect; and as it does so, I become aware that the crushing undergrowth noises have become significantly louder. A large sandy coloured object, which turns out to be a snake, slithers through the undergrowth. It is heading towards me!
Momentarily, I freeze, become still and wait. Heaviness on my feet brings me to awareness that the snake is crawling over them and making its way purposefully up my legs. Its touch is cool and slightly rough as it slithers across my shoulders, its head coming to rest nearer my ear – it’s really quite a big snake!
I hold my breath. It imperceptibly tightens itself around me. The sensation is like a heavy arm, not unpleasant, the quality of a disinterested presence.
Its head close to mine, I notice the smell of freshly crushed grass and something slightly floral. I allow myself to breathe slowly and deeply to calm my agitation and hopefully, the snake too, although actually it seems perfectly calm and contented where it is right now.
I listen to the birds and the other sounds. I feel the weight of the snake curled around me, I’m getting used to it so much so that, when it begins to slither off me, I feel a sense of regret.
”Watt was that about?” I say to myself. A crow stands before me cawing vigorously. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something and sit still, listening and marvelling at the rasping roughness of the crow’s song. I caw back, nodding my head gravely.
“Ah, I wondered why there were so many people on the heath” gasps a woman coming briskly through the trees towards us, “It’s the solstice isn’t it?” I wish her a happy solstice and she thanks me smilingly and strides away.
I’m feeling a bit cold. My bum is slightly wet. Perhaps the waterproof picnic blanket I am sitting on isn’t as waterresistantas I thought. It’s now fully light and the everyday sounds of the heath are beginning to make themselves heard.
We get up and take the easy route back. The path curves and moves between trees. I greet a large oak in the time honoured way, (circle clockwise and, hand on heart, bow respectfully). I’m beginning to get a bit peckish and the day, though young, is going to be filled full of busy things to do, so I’d better go home and do them.

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21 Willow Fever
Monday April 11, 2011:
I’m playing hooky. There has to be some advantages to my precarious freelance status. Taking the occasional afternoon off to wander around a London park on a sunny afternoon is one of them.
My companion and I walk across Ali Pali Park. Very soon we are beyond the range of people and traffic. From time to time, clumps of picnickers emerge from amongst the trees, it is the first sunny day of the Easter holidays which explains the relatively crowded state of the place. We ignore them and walk on.
I’m looking for a tree – a particular tree but I don’t know which.
My companion leads me from one favourite place to another, for she is a habitué of the park. We arrive in a grove of horse chestnuts to find them almost all diseased and dead or dying. Those still alive have great seeping wounds on their sides. It is a sad place. Reluctantly we leave.
We cross water, admire willows in a boggy place and then cross more water. A great three trunked willow sits hard by the sluggish stream. I walk round it and know that I have found the tree I want to work with.
I love climbing trees. Unfortunately my increasing stiffness and ebbing courage for climbing militates against me often getting up into a tree. This one offers a helpful trunk and, with a certain amount of slightly ungainly huffing and puffing, I sit myself down in the fork between two trunks.
*I need to turn grief into remembrance and creativity,” I say to my companion. Then I remember the willow song I wrote in the spring one year after a difficult winter.
“Weep willow weep, then I’ll no longer need to
Grieve willow weep, and I’ll let go of shame.
Weep willow weep, and I’ll let go of fear and
Guilt willow weep willow weep, hear my prayer.
I breathe with the spirit of the tree. I am dancing. The tree is dancing. Androgynous yet stiffly stately, it bows and steps with me and then scoops me upend rocks me in its great rough branches. The world swirls round and i hear it ramblingly creaking and rustling. Remembering other singing trees, I tune in and follow the sounds. From deep within the tree, I catch the strains of my own song. The tree is singing my song!
I’m so happy! I begin to sing along and for a time, we sway and sing together in a rocking contented sort of way. Thoughts bounce in and out of the song. I mull over turning grief into remembrance and into creativity. I think also of the promises I have not kept to myself. It’s been so hard to get out of bed in the morning for months now. If I could get out of bed and start my day purposefully, I could do so much more. I could then keep my promises to myself.
The tree has stopped singing. It grows still. I listen to its quietness. My mind whirls between grief, rememberence,creativity and goals and promises. I think about what stops me getting up in the morning. There is something about not having nice things to look forward to. I wonder how I CAN CHANGE THAT.
There’s a certain amount of rustling going on around the foot of the tree in which i am sitting. My companion who has got cold, is gathering up bits of willow. She proffers the bunch she has collected for me. I wave it about, listening to the swishing. I am sure that in amongst the rustling, I can hear the tree singing.
With a certain amount of trepidation, I extricate myself from the tree and with hand on heart bow low in thanks. We walk across the park. The sun, which has been hiding for the last hour, peaks out from behind a stand of trees as we cross to the bus stop.
Heavy soft drops smack my cheek. It rains but yet the sun shines. I get on the bus and go home. Just as i reach my gate, the heavens open. Hurrying now, I unlock my front door and rush out into the back garden. I skip about it singing the willow song, raising my face to the sky and allowing the heavy raindrops to wash my cheeks. Maybe I’ll try getting out of bed earlier tomorrow, I think to myself as I prance round the garden.

20 the comfort of big trees
Saturday April 2, 2011:
Sun streams through the windows of the North London Line train as it chugs westwards. It’s a longer way to get to Kew but feels entirely fitting somehow.
We walk through the suburban streets. Here, spring is genteelly importuning. My companion, a former homeopath and generally well-educated type, knows what all the flowers and shrubs are. I’m happily impressed.
Clearly, spring has at last spring. I breathe in deeply, calibrating the fragrences, identifying, appreciating and storing them in my memory. All of them gently lift my spirits. I purposefully allow a range of associations of contentment to attach themselves to each smell. I don’t have a care in the world today and I want to remember this day.
Bathed in warm spring sunshine, I sit beside a lakeette listening to ducks laughing.
“Oh and now there’s a lot of ducks bottoms,” informs my companion as she surveys the clump of rears exposed to the noonday sunshine. But we are here to seek the company of trees not ducks. We leave the entertaining waterfowl and their no doubt charming posteriors. .
There’s something uniquely comforting about large trees, I muse to myself as we wander amongst the majestic, hairy, rough trunked redwoods. Deep is their shelter, and grand, their stature. I find it natural to bow low in greeting as I complete my circumnavigation of each.
I’m searching for a particular tree with which to do some cleansing magic. I feel soiled with homophobia and I need to get rid of it so I can purely and open-heartedly grieve for my dead friend. We walk through the redwoods but none speaks to me. Finally, we return to the first tree we found,hardby the pond with thecommical waterfowl.
Gratefully , I enter the green shade of an English yew, its canopy shaggy and all-sheltering. This is the place. It is safe, cool and private. I lie down at the foot of the tree, my belly to the ground and let the world and all my woes, disappear.
I appear to be tangled up with the roots. As i wriggle through them, they brush my body as though to clean it.
In the shadows cast by the low fire, something sits waiting for me. Something else lies on the hearth. Silently, I tell my troubles to the shadows.
I am clean now, inside and out. I stand bare foot on the grass. Something harsh and prickly, heavy, damp and cool is being placed across my shoulders. Stiffly, it swings around me rasping against my naked body. I delicately touch the long narrow leaves of many yew branches woven together to make a living mantle.
“Something to keep the homophobia out” I hear myself say to no one in particular. I take an experimental step and the leafy mantle swishes and rustles as it swings against my body. A sweet piny perfume rises all around me. I breathe in and feel again clean both inside and outside.
Dreaming of shaggy green capes, I am startled awake by two small boys demanding to know what I am doing here and informing me that it’s out of bounds. I attempt a conversation but pretty soon give up. I get up and walk round the tree, ducking under her great jutting branches, silently thanking her for her gift.
”I need cake” I mutter to my companion. We climb out from our cool quiet sanctuary and begin to march purposefully in the direction of the cafe. I can feel that the whole world is glitteringly sunny. The air is alive with passing airplanes. I am definitely back in the here and now, but everything seems lighter and brighter.
We find a table under the trees. I’m very fond of pigeons and am happy to be sitting amongst their gentle cooing. Inevitably though, pigeons like to share the good things they have enjoyed and so of course it is my companion’s bag that they pooh on! In innocent revenge, she remarks that said pooh looks rather like the coffee cream on my cake. Momentarily I am revolted but this does not last long and soon the cake and I are united.
We walk slowly through the glowing gardens as the sun sinks behind the trees. My companion spies a rather tastefully coloured rabbit, all browns and beiges. She waxes enthusiastically about its pretty rabbit bottom as it bounces along the path in front of us. Wondering momentarily about the proclivities of my companion, I follow her out of the gardens and back through the suburban streets to the station.
London glows pinkly as we chug across it on the North London Line, according to my companion who waxes lyrically all the way home. I’m feeling warm and pleasantly tired. I think of the yew leaves mantle and feel safe.