A Journey With Blackbirdowl

29 Just a simple candle

2011-12-22T05:51:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-19T13:26:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-19T13:20:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-11-19T13:15:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-19T13:10:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-19T13:03:00.001-08:00

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

2011-08-03T10:46:00.001-07:00

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.
Boo blogger, that's what I say!
A gbrumpy Blackbird Owl

2011-08-03T10:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-07-03T14:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-06-21T03:46:00.000-07:00

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.

test

2011-04-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

This is a test. I'm working out how to email my blog posts. ignore my lack
of originality but I refuse to write "testing"!

2011-04-11T14:03:00.001-07:00

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.

2011-04-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-27T12:55:00.001-07:00

19 Surrender to the horizontal
sunday March 27, 2011:

I’ve abandoned the fire quest or so it feels. Life in the form of my own ill health and that of a close friend’s steps in front of plans to work with forge fire. I dance with disappointment and failure, overcome with inertia, unable to do anything about the situation.
. So caged by winter, illness and injury, I champ at the bit to be free and roaming amongst the trees again. Blossom floats onto the pavement like pink snow. The air is softly perfumed. Everywhere buds are beginning to strain at their confining outer layers. Spring really is bursting out. .
This last three months, my mind has been occupied by the ebbing life flow of a friend with terminal cancer. These last weeks, when the sun has struggled through the clouds and the days have begun to glitter hopefully, she has been mortally ill. On a morning of dull low clouds, she lets go her hold on life.
Her estranged relative stands not two feet away from me and focuses her cold contempt upon the dead friend’s same sex partner. Shocked into stun silence, I feel something icy entering me.
March is a particularly busy time in my working life. I’ve no time to stop and check what it is I’m feeling. I have to put my head down and work.
I shiver, and then I’m intolerably and grumpily hot! I cry as easily as breathing especially when crossed by anything. I snarl at those who don’t deserve to be savaged in true cat kicking style
“I need trees”, I wail, like a small abandoned child. My plea is heard.
I’m overdressed, but I know the woods will be cool, especially when I’m sitting under the trees. The sun is warm on my face. My companion walks with me along the path between the trees. In the distance, a blackbird calls. Overhead a common woodpecker “boings” like an illicitly twanged ruler in a maths class.
A bunch of young people are clambering cheerfully in and out of the trees. Bouncy dogs hurtle through the holly bushes oblivious of their prickliness. My companion comments upon the unknown little white flowers lining the path, but neither of us can remember what they’re called.
The dank winter dampness is warmed with the slanting rays of the sun and rises as a sweeter perfume. I breathe in the smell of the trees and feel my heart beat slow down and my blood pressure settle.
In proper “how to greet a tree” style, I circle a number of likely trees, bowing to each as I return to the point I started from. I choose an oak tree, solidly mossy and free from importuning holly clustering about its knees.
I abandon myself to the horizontal. The feeling of relief is overwhelming. Lying on my back, my limbs flung out anyhow, I surrender to gravity.
The earth holds me still. I breathe deeply and slowly and sink down into its competence until I don’t know where I end and it begins. I don’t care. There’s nothing to do. Nothing, there is nothing. It’s such a relief not to have to do anything, not to have to feel anything, to think about anything except what it feels like to be held like this.
Who or what is holding me? I don’t know and I don’t care. I just lie there.
Young voices call to each other in the distance. I don’t even bother to speculate on who they are or what they are doing or saying. An unidentifiable bird is chip-chip-chipping somewhere not far away. I hear a magpie’s contemptuous rattle. Who cares what or who is singing in the woods? I don’t.
Above my head, the woodpecker boings loudly. He sounds close. I tune in to his call, momentarily dissecting it’s components before the effort becomes too much and I give up.
Someone is softly snoring. They sound so peaceful.
Hurtling feet, excited panting, leaves rustle precipitously. At the last minute I brace myself as a rough tongue begins to efficiently lick my face. I shake my head but the affectionate one persists with a great deal of promiscuous hairy nuzzling. I push it away and it curls up beside me, half lying on an arm, just to make sure I’m not going to go anywhere. As if i could ... I’m stuck to the earth here, held by her magnetism.
Squawking voices shatter the peace. I snarl under my breath and then let the irritation go. It’s nothing to do with me, I’m lying here on the ground under this tree and that’s all there is about it! I rearrange my limbs more comfortably.
My hands gently stroke the velvety moss. The tree has sort of buttresses and they are totally covered by the moss. I must be lying under the north side of the tree, so that explains where the sun is then. I move my legs. My bum has gone to sleep. The air has turned imperceptibly cooler.
Lazily I ask my companion about the dog.
“What dog”, she says, “there was no dog.”
I can’t be bothered to think about what that means and inelegantly grunting; I roll over and lie on my stomach. But it’s no good. I’m definitely present and aware that the ground upon which I lie is really quite hard. The magnetic force field thingy seems to have been turned off too. Slowly and with much grumbling, I get up.
I mention the snoring. My companion says she never heard me snore.
Who was snoring then, I think, noticing that I feel really quite refreshed and awake. I sneak a feel at my watch and am momentarily surprised at how far the afternoon has advanced.
Circumnavigating the tree anti clockwise I bow low in thanks for the deep rest it has given me in the lea of its still shelter.

2011-02-12T08:51:00.001-08:00

18 The Bridie Fire Spring
Sunday January 30, 2011:
The sun, lying low across the pavement, breathes warmly upon my legs, my face in shadow, is stinging from the bite of the February wind. We walk through the deep shade of the narrow streets to St Bride’s on Fleet Street.
Quickly, we make our way down to the warmth of the crip. In a small chapel, we sit on hard seats and listen to the building grumbling above our heads. Beyond the heating system, I am sure I can hear water running. It sounds very much to me as though there is a constant slow flow of water dropping into a deep pool below. Each droplet has its own voice. Each droplet is made big by the cavernous space surround the pool, by the stones and bricks that bind it, confining it to the darkness of the secret waterways of subterranean London.
Above me, somewhere in the main church, an organ is playing. I divide my hearing between the water flowing under cover of the rumbling boiler and the sweet sound of Handle.
Last time I was here, I danced by a springing a field. I wander where that is now.
My mind focuses on the unseen water and before me arises the mist of an energetic little spring, rising from between white shining rocks, held by dark green moss. I watch the progress of the water, the glittering droplets lit by the low spring sun until they glisten gold and red.
“No, that’s fire, not sunlight” I think to myself, watching the water arc amongst slowly rising yellow, gold and red flames. The water and fire begin to play with each other. Droplets leap high into the air, chased by teasing tongues of fire until the drops are beads, becoming mist and then steam and the fire is dampened, only to leap up again, stronger than ever.
I marvel at the phenomena of fire and water and the dance they are doing. Neither succeeds in resting dominance from the other but yet the dance is vigorous and earnest, and both elements definitely mean business. In the end, they dance together, harmonious in spray, mist and steam, in fire and heat. Fire snaps, and then hisses, pops and then puffs as water gets the better of it, only to leap up again.
Sharp businesslike footsteps upon the tiles break the spell. We’ve stayed too long. The church is closed. We must leave now. I nod at the water fire, the flaming spring and briefly speculate about the actions of opposites that have the potential to snuff out or evaporate the other.
“What can I learn from this easy coexistence?” I wonder to myself. There’s harmony in their dance. I like that.
“I know that my redeemer liveth”, sings a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice. Softly, the organ replies. , Together they dance, bowing politely to each other with every phrase and counter-phrase. I sing along quietly as I walk without haste from the church, out into the bitter February sunshine.

2011-02-12T08:47:00.001-08:00

17 Ewes milk dancing revolution
Saturday January 29, 2011:
It is the first stirrings of spring. New lambs have arrived. The first milk
of the ewe is special, rich and thick, it nurtures all who sup upon it. The long winter is over, or so we think … In the insistent beat of the tambourine, in the silver trembling of her voice, the Ewe goddess comes to show me how to dance.
Imbolc is also Bridget’s time. Brigit, bright one, queen of all the land,
goddess of poetry, smith craft, inspiration and fire comes to. My feet want to follow the rhythm of the Ewe goddess but my body wants to move with the fire of Brigit. So I do both.
Brigit and the Ewe goddess might be twin’s sisters. Their femaleness challenges the magical tradition of the twins. Until now, I have encountered the twin spirits as male or ungendered. Perhaps even, the Ewe Goddess (who’s other name I don’t know) and Brigit are one and the same, a multi-aspect goddess. She invites me to crawl out from the darkness of winter into the light of hope and spring. Surely now, the light is returning and winter has truly gone?
But no - it is still cold and the wild wind snaps. I hear the footfall of the great Bear of Winter as she paces firmly across the sleeping land. Here is the ferocious mother; with her great bear claws she rips at what is no longer serving us. She leaves behind sore and bloody wounds that only time will heal.
She stalks the bare hillside on heavy feet. I stand in stillness and go within to root out what I need to let go of. I use her Great Bear Claws to tear out my fear of death and give it to the salt water that might be my tears, the healing flow of the sea, or just salt and water sitting humbly in a bowl waiting to help me let go.
I walk in my garden and touch the cold cold earth. I feel the tender silky first leaves of the snowdrops rising from the frozen ground. Bravely the sweet little flower pushes her way out, even though the frost of the clear moonlit night lies in wait to bite at those first tender shoots. I lose myself in that vulnerable fragility. Beneath my harsh winter frosty crust, I find soft hope for the coming year, it hardly dares to stir and shift. But I know that nothing can hold back the dawn.
I light a candle and hold it cupped in my hands. I feast with my fingers upon its warmth. In my mind’s eye, I see the golden flames dancing at first tentatively and then more bravely in the shelter of the orange glow that is it’s reflection upon my cupped hands. I think about love and how the simplicity of loving without ego can best help me nurture myself so that I may support a friend who is taking her last painful and terrifying walk in this life.
Oh but what is that sound? I hear the infectious beat of the tambourine. My feet start a-skipping. I dance with light lambs feet, irrepresseively and joyfully, hopefully and courageously. In the face of love, fear is defeated. I dance with the Ewe Goddess, stamping out the fear and dancing love in. I dance for those resisting tyranny whether at home or abroad, I dance to awaken myself from the long winter sleep, dancing in hope for a bright future.
“Leap for joy like new-born lambs,
Chase the bitter wind away.
Together dance into the light.
We have the courage to resist!”
My body on fire, I dance on. The song spins from me as I twirl; insistent instinctive with the rising beat of the tambourine. AS one, the dances release the energy and we come to a ragged circle. I find the stillness within my breath and slowly allow it to calm me.
“Let this be the courage we all have to resist,” I think, remembering my fear and knowing that love is what will fuel the revolution within me, and the revolution outside in the world.
White chocolate melts in my warm mouth. I feel nourished and strong, ready to rise up and move forward as the sweetness fills me with the energy I need to face the coming months. And on the edge of my hearing, the sweetest of maternal bleats comes to me between the voices of my companions. Softly I bleat in answer and remember the feeling of lacing my fingers amongst the curling softness of the fleece on my sofa at home, and am comforted.

2011-02-12T08:40:00.000-08:00

My great bear bare claws
Monday January 17, 2011: It is the anniversary of my father's death. I am working with Black Mother today, which seems appropriate. I am also worried about a friend’s health; she has cancer but doesn’t seem to be getting the attention she needs from the health service about it. So I decide to journey to meet Black Mother; my purpose is to Gain wisdom from the death of my Father and to fight for the life of my friend.
Something thick is covering my face, Rough woollen material, it is almost suffocating me. There are so many layers to push through. It is really difficult. I need a knife. All I have is my hands. Making them into claws, I slash and rip, tear away and push my way through.
Beyond is a network of dark, dark tunnels, I walk along, scrutinising all the walls, I am looking for something, I’m not sure what. They are smooth like shiny coal, but darker and more mat black. Here is a place of dark damage. With my hands bent like claws, I jab with my fingernails and slash and cut it, ripping it out, tearing it away with my bare hands.
I fling it into a fire burning dimly in the tunnel centre and the fire burns suddenly a brilliant angry red. I am not sure if I’ve got it all, I feel around in the gloom for more. I continue to tear and fling into the fire until I feel that I have finished. .
I walk out of the tunnel onto a deserted hillside into the lonely night. At the top of the hill, I look down upon the black grey world under the moonless sky. I am utterly alone. I wait.
In the distance, something moves. A black shape, dark against the dark night landscape is moving slowly on all fours up the hill towards me. It gets closer and i see it is a great bear walking on all fours. AS she gets closer, I know that it is she, Black Mother.
She turns and I follow her. We move carefully back down the hill and into the tunnels. With a great roar, she rushes at the wall I had been attacking and begins to rip, slash, bite and seize great chunks of the wall. She flings it onto the low burning fire which dances up to the ceiling of the tunnel in a towering inferno of the most brilliant purple! I am dazzled. It is so hot and so bright. She continues to tear at the walls until I see the slightest star shape shimmering of the pre dawn dark from outside begin to glimmer. But she is not finished until there is a massive jagged gash in the rock side and the night air steps in dragging its dark moon light with it.
She moves further down the tunnel and finds other places to rip and tear at. Her progress can be charted by the pits and cavities, tears and gaps that she has left. All the time, the great purple fire roars its rage in a duet of vengeance and anger!
She stops beside a big black round amorphous shape. Growling and snarling she tears at it, again and again with her great claws until huge clumps detach and she runs back to fling it into the fire. The fire burns brilliantly purple lighting up the amorphous mass which begins again to swell and regenerate smoothly and cleanly right in front of us.
I’ve done nothing but watch her ripping the place to shreds. I am exhausted! I sit down by the fire and stare into it. I look down at my hands and see the bare bear claws, their murderously sharp nails smeared with the poison that the bear rips out. There are no mitigating circumstances for leaving any disease in its place. I must fill the gaps with love. My claws must show me no mercy.
She stands in front of me and growls. I growl back bending low in acknowledgement. We part, she to walk the dark hills and I to push my way through the rough veil, to take into this world the great Bear claws to be my tool for now .

2010-12-23T09:11:00.001-08:00

Snow tango for the goddess!
Snow slips with a swish as the shrouded shrub
scatters its icy Burdon silently upon the frozen ground.
All hail the sun’s return”
Carefully, I place each foot upon the snowy path as I move slowly through the garden. I arrive teetering at the rowan tree. Here, the snow is a treacherous undulating icy swirl, polished by my feet as I have stood twice daily in this spot since the snow first fell. I shift my feet to find a better grip.
On the main road half a mile away, early morning commuter traffic swooshes its way to work. In a tree ahead of me, a magpie clatters, from further along the gardens, another responds and then they syncopate a rival’s duet, punctuated by the chich-chich-chich-chich of a bad tempered robin.
Behind me, great wings flutter vigorously through the snow laden boughs. A rustle, a slipping sliding sound and something falls and is heard no more. All is quiet save the gentle drip-drip-drip of snow melting and falling from leaves rocked by a soft wind.
Wings beat purposefully against harder objects; small rustlings give way to another fall of iced powder. I get a sense that I am surrounded by the watchful silent birds. I wait.
Overhead, the sound of a muffled plane moves slowly as though with difficulty through viscous air. The metal bird connects place to far-flung place. I become aware that I am not alone. Like a necklace of watchers and listeners, others stand and wait. ON hills, in humble back gardens, overlooking the sea, amongst the trees, friends and strangers are waiting with me to welcome in the sun’s return. Our purpose connects us. We are a tribe.
I wait. Slowly, helplessly, another branch releases its icy Burdon. Softly the watching creatures shift as I do, my boots grating loudly on the icy ground. The air lightens and a sharp little wind begins to blow from the east.

“One planet turning,
Circling on her path around the sun,
Mother Earth is calling her children home.
Let’s keep it burning
let’s keep the flame of hope alive
Make safe our journey through the storm.
Light is returning
although it seems the darkest hour
No one can hold back the dawn.”
And behind the clouds hidden by the tall buildings and the trees, I feel the sun move its way into the new day.
There is something about “allowing” I think as I stand in the new day. As the earth turns and the sun rises and the days grow slowly and imperceptibly longer, what is it that I need to allow? Allowing is not submitting, it’s purposefully giving permission for something to change.
“”Aha”” I say, as this message connects with the sulky one who resists everything she has no control over. Slowly I walk through the snow back to the house. My feet sing out as I walk, the sound rising inexorably up the octave and the alphabet as the snow changes from iced powdery through to shining slush and all points in between. The snow sings:
“Prub-prub-preb-preb, dreb-dreb, drib-drib.
Crug-crog-gred-crig, shlop-hslop, shlip-shlip,
Sheeeee.”
Delighted by the song, I move back down the garden, finding the places where the sound changes so I can step and stamp my way through my own private dance
prub-dreb, prib-drib”, “crib-shlop, and “shlip-sheee!”. I am lost in my feet and the snow as I stamp out a tango for the goddess.
Oh but now my toes are frozen! It is time to stop, reluctantly I remember who and where I am. I execute some fancy steps, slip, swivel round and then right myself again. Was that a snort of mirth I heard, I wonder as I climb back into my kitchen to contemplate my personal ambrosia, porridge and peanut butter!

2010-12-23T09:07:00.000-08:00

15 Dancing for the Rough Hand Goddess
Quietly, the earth sleeps, surrendering to the long night, submitting to the stillness in rest and tranquility before her work begins again. The dark mother, older than the rough granite rocks, holds me in a capable embrace as I let go. Square, dry rough strong hands rub warmth into my chill limbs.
Wrapped in a soft wool blanket, I walk through the winter woods. Laced branches are stark against the dark night sky. Frozen clumps of snow, bend and bow the trees into distorted, aged beings. Ancient beyond centuries they hunch over the path. Carefully I stoop and squeeze lest I disturb their brittle gifts.
The path is long. I walk on. Hours pass. In time, the moon rises gleaming above the horizon. It spreads silver fingers through the woods, pattering the path with the weird silhouette of the bent trees.
A thick trunked yew tree stands before me, squat and rough. Impatiently, I search for the entrance amongst its shaggy roughness, and finding it, stoop and enter. In the pitch black I feel rather than know there are steps going down. Feeling with tentative toes, find the first step, touch the wall and carefully walk down.
Down in the belly of the earth, I thread my way through passages until the amber light dancing upon the walls warns me of a fire in the not too far distance. The passage opens out and I see a heavy browed mantle over a merrily dancing fire. Something moves from beside it. My old blind she wolf emerges into the light.
The darkness in the other corner shifts and I turn to see in the shadows an old, old woman.
I kneel at her feet. She lays a bony hand upon my head. I bow down in front of her. Her rough fingers touch my neck. Nothing is said.
She traces the line of my jaw and lifts my chin. I am aware of her acute scrutiny. I see nothing but the shadows. Behind me, the fire crackles and I remember my purpose this year is to be with the fire. I had forgotten this.
“Touch and be touched”, comes the thought unbidden into my mind. She releases me and, stiffly I rise and silently thank her for her wisdom.
“I have nothing for you,” I say contritely. She moves in her dark corner and I am suddenly seized by the desire to dance for her. I fling off the rough blanket. Slowly and shyly at first and then with more courage, I dance for her.
The fire warms my limbs as I turn. I move gracefully, slowly and then gathering speed until I am spinning dizzyingly in front of her. My dance brings me to pirouette, to leap and to bend and soon I am like the leaping fire, my limbs burnished by its heat. I know I am shining like a flame. I raise my hands to the ceiling and gradually slow down until I feel the stillness in my core as my hands are folded across my heart.

From the depth of the dark corner comes a sort of snort, or is it her gruff breathing? I think she’s laughing! She likes my dance! I feel a smile spread across my face and I execute a little caper, before bowing flamboyantly, swinging my blanket back onto my shoulders and turning to leave.

The corridor is dark and cold. I hurry along, wanting very much to be back out in the open, for I have things to do. I run up the stairs and push a way through the shaggy foliage at the entrance and emerge into the night.

The moon as sailed across the sky. On the east, the thinnest of golden threads begins to spread it’s warmth as the sun makes ready to rise.

2010-12-19T08:55:00.000-08:00

Submission
Saturday and Sunday December 18 and 19, 2010:
It just shows that humans aren’t in control” she says soothingly.
The urge to resist what is, must be hardwired into my Psyche I think, feeling a sense of objection rising. My friend is right of course. This heavy fall of snow is something I must just submit to, for no amount of railing against the injustice of it all will make a difference. After all, we live in a Northern European country and it *is* December.
As the earth rolls slowly towards the winter Solstice, for the second time in a month, we have had a significant fall of snow in London. But we’ve got off lightly down south, in Scotland; they are gripped by the icy hand of winter that rarely allows the temperature to rise above 0. I should appreciate my fortune instead of moaning about being imprisoned.
The taxi coming to take me to the London Reclaiming Yule ritual which I am supposed to be co priestessing is stuck behind an accident half a mile up the road on a hill. My street is covered with five inch deep snow. There’s no way I can possibly get to a bus stop. I am stuck!
I’m champing at the bit to get out. It doesn’t feel right now like there is in any way enough magic in my life. My fire exploration this year seems to have staggered to a halt. Because of the stupid snow, these circumstances beyond control, I’m stuck!
I glower at the Christmas tree, for want of another witness of my sulks.
“How old are you?” I ask myself as I begin to unpack my bag. I shove the festive food back in the fridge and slump down in an armchair discontentedly.
Outside, the world is peaceful. No traffic has passed along this road now for at least 4 hours. The skies are quiet except for the occasional crow, magpie or cross robin. Everyone has retreated behind their closed doors. Why can’t I be grateful for the tranquility?
Later, I walk under a clear dark sky just before going to bed. I tread carefully around the garden; feeling for solid ground under my feet, for the blanket of snow is so thick that I don’t know where the path is anymore.
The shrubs bend low under their burden of snow. I squeeze past them, doing a sort of sideways limbo to avoid brushing up against them. Slowly, almost flirtatiously, they slide their heavy offerings into any warm places their frozen leaves can reach. My warm neck shrinks from the icy droplets that have somehow made their way there. The heavy branches wipe their cold dampness against my thighs. Easily, they slip globules of ice inside my boots.
I range free in the space between the objects THAT FILL MY GARDEN. THE space has closed in and become different as the shrubs and trees stoop beneath the heavy iced snow. They create tunnels and new courtyards, novel spaces that demand to be explored.
Everything is covered with thick fluffy snow. It is beginning to crisp at the edges, hardening into a frosty rind as the temperature slides below 0. It crunches under my boots as I move cautiously around the garden. It squeaks protestingly as I tread carefully, mindful to step gently and respectfully lest the slippery surface now hardening into treachery snatches my feet from under neath me.
I stand with my steaming cup of tea in the still darkness. Far off in the distance I hear the hiss of tires upon icy slush. From behind warm glowing windows, music seeps out – someone is having a party. Nothing else moves.
At dawn I take my morning cuppa and walk again in the garden. I reach out and tentatively touch the loaded shrubs. Trembling beneath my light touch, they softly let go their icy burdens and I feel chill ice cool my legs.
The skies remain empty. The metal birds have been silenced by the cold. Absolutely nothing is moving today. Only a crow caws harshly. I imagine him, black against the graying dawn sky, stark and uncompromising as he circles searching for food.
I progress round the garden slowly. The dancing goat is caked in ice. Still he cavorts capriciously in front of the grumpy-looking Green Man. I reach down to examine the alter by the rowan tree. It is completely covered by a froth of snow. The snow crackles crisply as I walk carefully under the crouching snow-laden olive trees, beneath the frost glittering grape vine and back to the warmth of the house.
The gas fire hisses contentedly. I curl up on the sofa, sinking deeply into the sheepskins.
“There’s nothing to do but be.” I say to myself submissively.

2010-11-08T13:57:00.000-08:00

14 the Ancestors Fire

Saturday November 6, 2010: Kit Hill, Cornwall

I am dancing with the stress of going away for a rest or staying and facing the music at my leisure. I decide to chance it. Grumpily, I charge out of the house and climb into the tardy taxi. The driver tells me to cool. I want to hit her.

As soon as I am on the train, I feel myself relax. I sit back and snooze over a book.

Emboldened by my solo train trip across Europe, I opt to take buses to get me closer to my final destination. I stand on the kern side with an "I'm-catching-a-bus" purposeful look on my face and hope that no one thinks I’m plying my trade. I also hope that the bus stops! It does.

We wind through the Devon and Cornwall countryside, autumnal sun slanting through the windows buffs my cheek warmly. I remember the tall banked hedgerows of this part of the world and imagine their darkness against the light sky, their outlines jagged and somehow primeaeval. I am feeling very happy and sit with an idiotic smile on my face.

Successfully I change buses and arrive at the rendezvous point. My companion and I walk boldly up the busy b road and climb the rough track to her house on the hill.

I am here to make ancestor fire. Over tea and cake, we agree on what we will do. The sun sinks low and casts a pink glow across the gorse and bracken shrouded hill outside. The weather is auspicious.

After dark, three of us gather at the little fire pit at the end of her garden. The fully sighted one (for my other companion who is the guardian of this land is also visually impaired) tells me the stars shine between the clouds. There is no moon for the new moon won't rise for at least another 24 hours.

Expertly (And I am rather proud of this, I lead the building of the fire. We cast a circle and as we do so, the rain begins to fall.

Undaunted, we wrap ourselves in blankets and set to lighting the fire. With songs of fire and general encouragement and a replacement of all the damp kindling, the fire catches and begins to snap and pop.

We settle down beside it, for it has stopped raining and the stars are out again. Wrapped in blankets against the coolness of the night, huddled and still like old crones, we are silent. I listen to the fire and the sound of the hill all around me.

A heavy footfall, something approaches and stops beyond the hawthorn. All is still. Another movement, slower and more hesitant, and I feel warm heaviness leaning against my knee. She wines in the back of her throat as she maneuvers herself under the blanket. The old lady wolf has come to join me. Together, we shelter against the wet night.

I sink into the stillness. Thoughts come and I bat them away. The fire crackles. The wind, firm and determined now puffs the fire into lively action. Gouts of smoke invade the shelter inside my blanket. The wolf and I sit still and enjoy its smell, allowing it to pervade our whole bodies, like being ritually cleansed.

The rain starts again and I draw my blanket close around us. Like two content and companionable old ladies, she and I sit, huddled by our dancing fire, our two companions similarly clad and sitting.

"Stormy weather, weather the storm" I think. “Now what does that mean?”, I wonder silently.

I think about hard times, like 1979, it feels like we are going back. It's time to resist, organizing and fighting back, I think. Oh but do I have the energy, I worry.

In the distance, something shifts in the undergrowth. The presence is benign and I feel easy with it. There will be time in the coming dark to rest and plan.

Is that metaphor of the dark for another reason too? Are we going into the dark politically, setting back the hands of time and marching back to a poorer, angrier place of class resentment and false jealousies?

We talk of what the fire has bought us and the ancestors who have come to share this space with us. Can I make a pyre of my fears and give them to the flames? I don’t know. I am scared for the future.

The wolf leans heavily into my thigh. I stroke her velvety head, feeling the bones beneath the skin and her fragility. At least this time, I’ve got magic. I am older and wiser and not without influence. I am settled in myself and confident. Surely I can find a way to use my skills to feed the opposition? Surely I can use my wits to find another way forward?

Whispering my thanks to the she-wolf, I pull back the blanket and the driving rain bares down coldly. Efficiently, we open the circle, pack up and leave the fire to fizz in the downpour. With some difficulty for the terrain is rough, we return to the warmth and shelter of the house.

Beyond the dark window, out on the hillside, the animals tread the hill. My old wolf walks amongst them, as spirit and earthly horses blow gently to each other in the dark night.

2010-11-08T13:55:00.001-08:00

13 The whispering ancestors walk – Hamstead heath

Sunday October 31, 2010:

“Hello, it's Tinkerbelle" says the well-modulated voice down the phone. "Ok," I think to myself, this must be one of the Euro Faeries, I was warned they'd be coming along.

"Hello Tinkerbelle" I say with commanding aplomb. We set to negotiating where to meet in the pub.

I never know who is going to turn up to the ancestor walk. I hold this space as a public ritual every Samhain and its pot luck who will appear. It's never a dull moment though.

We get to the pub and I remember the email from someone's Dad, a Quaker with pagan leanings and a witch daughter, who has said he is coming. For some reason known only to himself, he's chosen to reveal that he weighs 20 stone!

“We’re looking for a fat bloke called (name withheld)” I say to my companion.
"That's me." rumbles the bloke from the next table. We fall to talking over our mutually unhealthy meals.

ELLO" says a familiar light French accented voice. A slim form flutters down beside me in a cloud of silk, leather and elegance. Cool soft lips press against my cheek in greeting. I met this one at various London Queer Spirit Circles a few years ago. Our reunion is cheerful.

I'm just wondering who else is going to come when two young women move hesitantly towards our table.

"Is this the ancestor walk", one asks nervously. We welcome them to our cheerful gathered group and they ask anxiously if Tariq is here. My mind flits to secret assignations of a radical socialist bent and suddenly I feel rather grown up and sophisticated. However (laying waste to my fantasy revolutionary street cred,) I have to confess that I don't know who Tariq is. In one of those bizarre six degrees of separation moments which always fry my brain, my queer spirit friend appears to though. Apparently, amongst other things, Tariq is a Euro Faerie as well as being connected through art. The two young women are South Korean students at Central St Martin’s.

As we get up to go, Tinkerbelle marches firmly in and we set off up the leaf-slimed pavements to lose ourselves amongst the posh houses. In time, we find the heath and circle near the path to cast a protection spell and receive miniature rowan wands that I have prepared earlier for this very purpose.

With no difficulty, we locate the ash tree and cast our circle. A small alter with flickering candles is placed at its feet. The heath is relatively quiet under a cloudy sky.

We call to the ancestors and name some of those we will walk through the veil to meet. My companion and helper calls to the presence of our descendents yet to be born, so we can be connected by lines stretching into the past and the future at the same time.

"It's not just about blood" I explain, invoking ancestors of struggle who have died this year.

All is still under the tree. We are carefully and loosely connected with silk ribbon. My silk and leather companion of old takes the drum and leads us out of the shelter of the tree, through the veil hanging from one of its outstretched branches and onto the heath.

I place each foot slowly and carefully in the place left by the walker in front. The long grass cushions each footfall and I feel I am almost tip-toeing across a luxuriously thick piled carpet. We brush against thistles, bracken and assorted low growing Heathland plants as we weave our way across the heath.

Beside me, my dead comrades, my chosen ancestors move along on a kind of misty conveyor-belt. As I walk, I hear them say over and over again, tenderly, encouragingly and urgently,

"Go on, go on. There's still more to do."

I'm tired, I think. I don't want to go on, especially not without them. They were doing the things I couldn't do. I was doing the things they couldn't. Together we were a team, along with all the others we have lost along the way. How can I go on without my team?

"We are still here. We have not left you." they seem to answer my unspoken thoughts.

It begins to rain. The drops softly land upon my warm cheek. I breathe in the smell of the slowly dampening undergrowth. The gentle rain has cast a soft silent blanket over everything.

I walk on and they come with me. It is comforting to know they are there.

The rain slows and then stops. I feel the sky slide open to reveal the dome of the heavens, stars spread across its darkness. Can I hear their music? I wonder, stretching out my ears as though to reach for their song. The heath has grown quiet. A sense of ringing peace settles into my heart like the chime of the most beautiful singing bowl.

I feel my companion is looking around. I sense that he is connecting with something, observing reflecting and dialoguing. I feel the presence of a thin young man some way ahead. I nod to him knowing that this is my companion's recently dead 23 year old friend. Something changes in the something seems happier now, like there's been a shift. Silently, I thank the presence of the friend for I sense that my companion is a little more at ease with something.

We walk on. Slowly and lovingly, I lay the sole of each foot carefully upon the soft thick grass. It holds my foot safely as I shift my weight onto the other. I can walk like this for hours, I think as we turn. The air thickens. The misty presence of the comrades on the conveyor belt fades into the night.

The veil touches my face. I walk slowly through it, allowing it to trail across me tenderly like a soft caress.

We circle the tree and stand still in silence. One by one, we break the silence to say our own Names three times to confirm we have returned. We share our experiences and the stories shift my heart. I feel my own dead emerging back from the mist and sliding closer to the circle as though to listen too. I can hear the hiss of their wheels lightly crushing the grass, and their soft and even breathing and know that they are at rest.

I tie a red ribbon to the tree in honour of Socialist Dave Morris and a red bound rowan cross in honour of gentle Rowen Jade. We thank the spirits that walked with us and open the circle.

Coming out from under the tree, we return across the quiet heath. In the distance, the occasional shriek or laugh echoes across the dome of the sky. In the distance, Mallards quack madly to each other.

At the top of a hill on the other side of the woods that flank the path upon which we move, we pause to light a floating tissue lantern. I remember Rowen and the lanterns we launched at her funeral six weeks before. I hold its fluttering softness in my hands briefly and think of her frailty and how strong she was in energy, even when she could hardly breathe. I feel the heat of the flame begin to take; I remember her bright spirit and that I’ve got work I need to finish that she started. I let go and the lantern floats off glowing into the sky, taking my prayer for strength to continue the fight along with it.

Carefully I step down hill along the rain greesed pavement. A fragrant gust of warm air, it’s breath savory, meets me as I open the door. The pub is warm and welcoming.

The whisky heats me from within as we sit and talk. And yes, the mysterious Tariq has at last appeared! And so our night's work is complete and everyone is content.

2010-10-18T07:04:00.001-07:00

12 Fire in the stove

Wednesday September 22, 2010: - Isle of Erraid

All week I’ve been thinking about learning to light the wood burning stove. Just before lunch, I take the opportunity to ask a member of the community to show me how to light the wood stove in our sitting room.

The fire went out in the stove sometime in the middle of the night. The half burned wood and the layer of ash are soft and slightly warm to touch.

Pushing aside my fear of the fire, I ease the half burned log to one side of the stove and stack rolled and folded newsprint on the other. I wrap some lumps of wax in more newsprint and balance the kindling sticks across the top. It’s not so different lighting a fire in a stove than it is to light one on the ground, I muse. With the last match from the box, I light the paper and the fire catches.

It spits and hisses, hums and snaps and soon is burning merrily. I prod it with a poker to enliven it, and when it is burning merrily, lay another big log across it. It continues to make contented healthy fire noises, so I deem it safe to leave and go off to have lunch.

After lunch, I return to the fire, which is still singing. I prod it some more with the poker, which it appears to like. I make it roar as I feed it more wood. It blasts out heat and I hear its voice singing in the flu. I slip open the vent, and tongues of flame dart out teasingly. I snap shut the vent, and With some considerable satisfaction settle back contentedly to read, drink tea and knit and eat chocolate for the rest of the afternoon.

I’ve lit my first stove fire and it’s not gone out! I’ve not burned my hands or burnt the house down in the doing of it either. I’m feeling rather pleased with myself.

I’ve always been cautious about fire, coming late to an ease with it. Fire can so easily run away with itself. Within minutes it can destroy. I am also learning, as I tend the stove this afternoon that, more often it needs coaxing and persuading to burn.

I think about the capriciousness of fire as the afternoon moves on. Now I’ve conquered stove fires, what else is left that is hard about fire? A fire walk? Hmmm. Well that’s for another time, I think popping a piece of chocolate into my mouth.

2010-10-18T07:02:00.000-07:00

11 Rising

Monday September 20, 2010 - isle of Erraid

We are still in Baking fire and today I am making bread for the community. I am so excited! The symbol of bread-making is sacred. It is a loving thing to do, to make and share bread with another.

To be successful, a warm cozy kitchen and a hot oven are needed, along with a loving heart. Well I’ve got all those today.

My kitchen companion hands me the hugest bowl of dough I’ve ever felt. I flour up the table and plunge my hands in.

I love to feel the dough in my hands. I pull it and kneed it and it unfolds itself pliantly. I bang it down, drive it into long flat pieces with the heal of my hands, and it submits, curling around my fist as I push and pull it.

My mind wanders, drifting gently from topic to topic. I focus on what my hands are doing and feel all thoughts drift away into only the essentialness of making my hands do what they are doing. I sigh happily, knowing that all I have to do is make the bread.

I make fifteen loafs, the last, I mould and shape, reluctant to release it to the oven.

I'm a bit attached to this one," I say to my cooking companion, who laughs in understanding. I'm relieved not to be thought batty, for what the outside world might see as a piece of anthropomorphic whimsy, (if you can be anthropomorphic about a piece of dough!). The thing is, the bread does feel alive, growing under my hands and then expanding some more before it is put in the oven to bake.

There is something deeply grounding about the ritual of bread making. I feel warm and satisfied and happy as the first loaves emerge from the oven, their sweet-savory smell filling the kitchen. Later, we eat the bread. It is soft and moist in my mouth. I sigh happily for the pleasure of it and because, all around my, others are showering me with appreciation for the beautiful bread they are eating.

2010-10-18T06:59:00.001-07:00

10 Dragon-fire, Earth Spirit, Somerset

Thursday August 19, 2010:

I walk through the herb garden, brushing aromatic leaves with my legs as I pass. The air is filled with their gentle aromatic softness. I climb up to the ritual ground on top of a hill overlooking the rest of the land. On either side of the path, hawthorn bushes, their haws bright, gleam under the cloudy evening sky. The fire circle, ashen flaked is at my feet.

I’m here to light the community fire for our first ritual of this Feri retreat. I crouch down and place screwed up paper in the centre of the fire circle. I balance twigs, teepee like above them; gradually building up the structure till it is strong enough to take small branches, and then bigger ones.

I roll up a fat spill of paper and light it in one strike of a match and push it in amongst the little structure of twigs and branches. It emits a small satisfying hiss as it licks at the screwed up paper and small kindling laid at the base of the fire. For a moment, I hear nothing else until the first little crackle, jumps into the quiet evening air. Soon the fire is spitting vigorously. It is lit! My first proper camp fire!

The fire begins to whisper and sigh, growling and growing slowly louder as it begins to whoosh and snap.

Gout of smoke hits me squarely in the face. I cough and wipe my eyes, then bend towards the fire, inviting its smoky kiss.

I dredge up all my fire songs. And as I sing to the fire, it grows stronger and stronger. Soon it is ready for our working.

We gather around the fire, holding hands, connecting, as we cast the circle and invoke the gods. Our working this night is about beginnings and, whilst the rain begins gently at first and then more determinedly to fall, we dance a spiral, winding our community love into a cohesive connection with the land, each other and our work during this retreat.

Like a dragon, it snaps and crackles, puffing out its smoky breath. I lean to the flames, feasting with my body upon its warmth, breathing gratefully its Smokey perfume, turning in the smoke to cleanse and purify myself so that all parts of me are reached by the heat and smoke.

I sing

“And we can rise with the fire of freedom,
Truth is the fire that burns our chains
And we can stop the fire of destruction
Healing is the fire running through our veins.”
The rain falls steadily. The fire spits back defiantly. I sit by it; our working finished and waits as it begins to die down. I don’t want to leave it until it slumbers, but I am hungry and the rain is now soaking me to the skin.

2010-10-18T06:57:00.001-07:00

9 Fire of anger

Thursday August 12, 2010:

Amongst the soft hills of mid-west Wales, we camp together in a community of communities. We have many differences but we are united by our different pagan paths and our queer identity. Amongst us are many with great and varying knowledge. There are others here who are new to a pagan path and eager to know and learn. We teach each other for to walk with someone else upon a path, new to them is not only an honour but a place for the experienced one to learn and grow.

Some have met the folk of the place and found them to be a proud noble warrior people. I have danced with the cooing doves and met the tall people quietly and in silence. This land offers a delight of diversity in all who live here (whether human or otherwise) upon the gentle land.

There comes a day of anger and hurt. Messages to campers, who are in tune with the folk, are angry and insistent. We need to pay more attention to the folk, we are told.

The rain has stopped but the knee-high grass is filled with its remembrance. As I wade through it, it drips cold rain into my boots. I stand inside the ritual field and wait. The messengers are speaking fervently and powerfully of their experiences. We are invited to dance rage and anger with the folk.

The waiting circle erupts into activity. They dance and jump, roar and stamp. I wait, smelling the crushed grass and the soft wet rain drenched earth. Breathing deeply, I stand firmly on the land and allow it to speak to me.

It calls me to sit down, to be still and to connect with my hands and my body. I sit down amongst the soft wet cushion of long grass and begin to loop my fingers through its fronds.

I stroke a piece of grass from root to tip, trace the shape of the seeds where they join, softly, gently exploring the fullness of the structure of the grass. The roaring and shouting and stamping recedes beyond the still small quiet, I am in the moment with this one piece of grass.

Minutes pass or is it hours, days, weeks or years. I am lost in loving this one piece of grass. With my other hand, I reach out to meet and marvel at its many similar pieces bunched and gathered like a sea of softness all around me.

Nearby I hear the grass creak as though a soft and light foot falls purposeful yon it. Something stands close. I bow my head, folding my hands across my hart. I don’t know who or what this is, it doesn’t matter. I only know that I am being honoured by a visit from something.

“Take a shower in the rain that falls from storm soaked leaves”, a voice in my head says. “Luxuriate in how a cool drop of rain falls onto your warm skin and melts, melding its coolness with the warmth of your body heat. Worship that as a sign of being rudely and joyfully alive.”

I nod to myself and to the presence, I let go my one piece of grass and stretch out my hands to caress the billowing sea of them. My heart settles peacefully amongst the still shouting others in the field. I am no longer unsettled by their anger, like a flame in the dark; it offers light and shade with which to shape space.

Slowly, I climb to my feet and leave the rioting field. Tomorrow, I will come at early morning to bath in the rain as it falls from the leaves onto the warm naked skin beneath my clothes. I will be still with the quiet of early morning and rejoice even in the rain.

2010-08-05T13:15:00.001-07:00

8 Eating the sun

Saturday July 31, 2010:

The air is blue with “language” as I pick up the rocking mixing bowl as it comes to rest upside down at the back of the cooker top! The oil and water oozes determinedly from behind the cooker where it has been flung. Momentarily, I dab at it with inadequate cloths. Defeated, I sit on the kitchen floor and cry.

I’m baking. It’s a baking fire and I’m making bread for a Lamas ritual. Except that, I now have to modify the recipe as that was the last of the olive oil. Bugger!

I plunge the heels of my hands into the soft and compliant dough. I ram it onto the wooden board viciously, muttering darkly. Then I pause, and remember that putting dark thoughts into the dough is hardly the route to karmic balance, I don’t want to poison my fellow ritual participants! After all, what has the dough ever done to me?

With a conscious effort, I let go of my frustrations. Gently, I press the dough, pulling it out, folding it firmly and turning it. Under my fingers it lies back and relaxes. In turn, I feel my muscles release.

The dough is pushing up against the tea cloth on top of the bowl. Eyeless and smooth faced, it rises, silently, purposefully. Carefully, I tip it out onto the oiled baking tray and begin to divide it into equal golf ball sized lumps. I set it tenderly upon the bedside table in my warm and cozy bedroom to prove further.

The rolls have spread out and joined up. Gently I carry the baking tray, like a sleeping infant I fear to wake. Softly I slide it into the oven. I ease close the door and tiptoe away.

The house is filled with the sweet dry smell of baking bread. It is ready! Eagerly, I reach into the hot oven and withdraw the tray. I pick up a round roll easily from the tray and tap its bottom. Satisfyingly, it sounds hollow. The bread is done.

I balance a bread roll upon my palm. It is fiercely hot. I imagine the sun in my hand, its heat radiating through me. I pick up a knife and slice into the bread.

I breathe deeply, above the yeasty sourness, beyond the sweet dry heat of baked bread; the herbs I liberally tossed into the dough speak clearly. Aromatically spicy yet loudly singing of the hedgerow, they waft up towards me. I breathe in deeply, tasting parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. I begin to hum quietly to myself, as I separate out the rolls and arrange them in the basket to cool.

A warm wind puffs impertinently in my face as I stride across the heath. The path rises over the roundness of the land. Ahead of me, someone is setting a stiff pace, but despite my sweating forehead, I am exhilarated by the walk. I bend my steps determinedly up the hill in pursuit.

We turn from the path and step gingerly down a narrow trail between the trees. Immediately, the air cools and the greenness of crushed grass rises sweetly on the breeze. Panting, I breathe in and sigh with pleasure. There’s been hardly any rain for weeks, but still the heath is a riot of many soft perfumes.

Here is the perfect glade amongst the trees. Dissected by small desire lines, it is quiet and relatively untried by general walkers.

We’re here to mark the wake of Lugh. It is almost harvest time. We stand in the place of waiting just before we reap what we have sewn.

In amongst the sun striped trees, we dance a wake for Lugh.

“This is the wake of Lugh the sun king,
Who lost his life on Solstice day.
This is the wake of Lugh the sun king,
Who goes into the dark to show us the way.
Oh tell me why, Oh tell me why,
Tell me why must the clouds come to cover the sky?
Oh tell me why, oh tell me why,
Tell me why does the sun king have to die?”

The tall grass, bleached brittle by the sun’s heat, dances with us in the breeze. Small buzzing creatures float in a veil against our damp faces. We sit in circle and pour our grief like tears upon the ground with sprinkled water. Ears of grain are passed around. My fingers tees the seed heads and the husks crumble into dust in my lap. The solid wood, full of the sun is warm to the touch. I imagine flames slowly consuming it, radiating heat, like the comfort of a slow burning fire in winter.

The sun is in the grain, the grain is in the bread, the bread is in my mouth, I eat the sun so it might warm me through the coming dark. I break off pieces of home-made herb bread and allow its dry savouryness to fill my mouth. I can taste the sun with every mouthful. I taste the herbs, their dried leaves flavored with the remembrance of sunshine. Yum!

In the distance, a distorted voice amplified into reverberating obscurity bounces off the trees. In nearby Kenwood, the evening act is doing a sound check. I hear it mingle with the cooing pigeons and feel wings beating on leaves in the tree canopy above our heads.

We pass red juice around the circle. Sweet, yet sour, it coats my tongue. I imagine its deep vivid redness, dark, like the splash of blood against the fading grass.

There are not enough of us to do a spiral dance, so we each hop about on our own in an alfresco bop as we dance for a harvest for our community and a harvest for the world.

Debbie Harrie, (for it is she doing the sound check) bawls out
“River Deep mountain High, yeah, yeah, yeah,” and we sing:

“We all come from the goddess, unto 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.”

On either side of the narrow path, the brittle glittering dry grass waves in the evening breeze. A mackerel sky spreads across the southern horizon above a shining London. The sun low and warm is hot upon my cheek. We climb northward, leaving the rolling green and brown heath behind until the tumult that is a hot summer Saturday evening in London takes us firmly back to reality.

2010-07-28T02:22:00.001-07:00

7 The glittering arch

Monday July 26, 2010:

“Harrumph,” huffs my companion, clinking slowly towards me at Kentish town Station. She is burdened by two enormous shopping bags crammed full with jam jars, lanterns and the like.

Days earlier, we excitedly plan a circle of flames under an arch of fire, set amongst the dark trees of Hamstead heath. What we temporarily forget is the practical aspect of making that happen. Thirty glimmering candles means thirty heavy jam jars or similar wind proof containers. Thirty jam jars means two big heavy bags of the kind that are at this moment currently a-hanging and a-banging about my poor companion’s knees, not to mention the assorted fragile and breakable candle holding receptacles that I carry somewhat precariously upon my own back.

“Sometimes, I think the pagan lifestyle is incompatible to middle aged, slightly dilapidated pedestrians,” I mutter as I trail after Ms Grumpy.

“And it’s beginning to rain”, moans my companion, dragging me across several busy roads to the bus stop, “oh and we’ve just missed the bus!” she adds in exasperation.

But this is London and the bus service here is really quite good. Before long, another bus deposits us upon the path leading to the Heath behind William Ellis School.

We march forth. A stranger’s dog, hopeful that the bulging bags contain food, single-mindedly attempts to round us up in pursuit of dinner. Shaking him off, we turn up another path and begin to toil up hill.

We talk of where we want to work but both being vague of how the wooded opportunities of the heath connect, we wander on. After further discussion, we settle for a tree with a suitable branch for an arch, which we find just off the lower path somewhere in the Parliament Hill vicinity.

It is in fact a grove of three trees, stretching straight limbs out across a space of tufted grass and dried mud. We set to work to transform it into a glittering grotto in which to admire the ring fire I am bent on worshipping for this festival.

“Have you got a light?” a bloke says, straying into our circle and kicking over some jam jars. He comments on my visual impairment, suggests ways in which I, though being blind, might see more than he, who is “blind” for other reasons. Pollyannaish I don’t disabuse him of this notion and suggests that he might find it helpful to go hug a tree.

“I talk to the trees,” I say cheerfully, not caring if he thinks I’m barking –‘cause then we might be matched in the mad department. Anyway, I know that it is the best way to get him to go away, which he soon does.

Dusk has fallen upon the heath. That heavy thickness of night air leans its damp cheek coolly upon our exposed sweat-filmed arms.

“Nningggg”, whines a mosquito dive-bombing my companion. Flapping her hands irritably at the pesky beasts, she begins to set out a circle of jars and candle holders. Meanwhile, I tie lanterns to the obliging branch that is to frame our arch of fire.

“It’s going to take hours to light this lot,” declares ’She Who Must Be Mollified’. Sweetly I offer mitigation for the task and seize the second box of matches and set to work lighting the lanterns. The air soon grows thick with the smell of extinguished flames as the imperceptible wind puffs out our matches and the candles that do light lick our fingers seeringly. In the end, we agree to just do the arch and not bother with the candles on the ground.

“Ah,”says my companion with satisfaction in her voice, “it’s lovely!” She takes my hand and leads me under the branch and out beyond our grotto. It’s amazing how a few sparkling candles cheer the old girl up! We have to enter with purpose for the space between the trees feels very different from the rest of the heath.

Carefully, we duck under the arch of fire and enter into a still quiet and gentle world beyond the arch. I pull out a tin whistle and begin to play a merry tune. I hop about a bit before thinking better of this, not wanting to risk knocking out a tooth or two if I dance and play at the same time. Suddenly, the six year old, tootling on her recorder and skipping down the stairs is there before me, just at the point before she tumbles head down. I sit down safely on the ground and continue playing, remembering how proud the little girl was of her wonderful black eye (the result of her unplanned head-first ascent down the stairs, mid recorder serenade).

My now happy companion hands me a lit sparkler and I twirl it about my head, still playing the whistle with one hand. Merrily I make rings of fire as I continue to play.

Beyond our grotto, a child’s voice complains to another about something that I can’t hear. My companion tells me that nearby benches are occupied by mildly curious courting couples who break away from their own pursuits to peer at the two figures sitting on the ground beyond the glittering arch of swinging lanterns. The gospel Oak train chunters along in the distance behind the quiet hissing of the wind in the tree tops. Inside our space, all grows quiet.

I sit, legs stretched out, feeling the dry hard earth beneath me. My fingers trail amongst the long grass tufts. The gnats hum just within the edge of my hearing.

“How nice it would be to sleep under this arch,” I say, feeling myself relax. I twist the tin whistle in my fingers and raise it once more to my lips. I blow softly, gentling the notes out, allowing them to float upon the stillness and then stop, for the waiting silence behind the humming gnats, the rustling trees, the querulous child, the rattling train, calls me to go to another place. I sink into peaceful stillness, my eyes grow heavy, my head droops, and my breathing slows and deepens.

Time moves on. I feel the restfulness settle inside me. I want to stayhere for ever, sitting on the ground under our arch of lights, here in this safe place. The heath beyond our grotto does not exist, even as it is swallowed up in the darkness of nightfall. I drop into the soft stillness.

But we can’t stay here all night, much as I fantasise about doing so. I think about how I can do this again in a place where it is safe to be out all night. There will come another time, sooner or later, but right now, it’s time to go.

We take down our arch and say goodbye to the grotto and all who are within. The heath has emptied with the arrival of dark night.

That’s the kind of place you fall asleep in and wake up again a hundred years later,” I say as we clink and clatter our way down the path, heading for the bustle of Gospel Oak. My companion toils beside me silently and I think again how fortunate I am to have such an obliging soul as she to come on such daft adventures. She may moan, but always enters into the spirit of the Endeavour with a focused absorption which is a delight to experience. Not for the first time, I reflect upon my good fortune in knowing her.

2010-06-26T12:15:00.001-07:00

6 Solstice Faerie fire – Battle, East sussex

Sunday June 20 and Monday June 21, 2010

“A ring of hands connect
Enclose and hold the Solstice fire
From Dark to dawn
From light to dark and back again
They turn the wheel of life.”

The evening air is gently warm. My companion says that the sky above is partly covered in soft cloud and the half moon is beginning to sail between the trees. It will not rain tonight.

I totter precariously upon the jagged ruts carved by a heavy wheel into the soft earth of this field embraced by trees. Here amongst the folds of East Sussex, within sniffing distance of the sparkling sea, I join radical faeries to make a queer spirit circle to honour the sun.

The fire is already roaring. It’s the solstice fire I have dreamed of, burning merrily and fragrantly into the falling night. I sit down by it and get out my knitting!

Gathered together, we take each other’s hands, breathe as one and call the directions and the spirits of the land to be with us. Our intension is to take the dusk to meet the dawn with a fire to celebrate the sun and all it brings to us for now and for the coming dark.

I think about the sun dying at Solstice and the gift of energy to the growing world. Still the sun will shine for the rest of the year, though the days grow shorter. Its heat will nourish all growing things; feed them so that they may feed us in the winter months. Until the cold days of winter are upon us, we can still celebrate being outdoors under a kind sky with a cheerful fire to keep us company.

The faeries are jovially chatting away. I let my irritation leave on the evening breeze and allow the circle to be. Someone is drumming. A song starts. The first of our fire repertoire unabashedly misremembered unites us all.

“We will rise up from the flames,
Higher and Higher and Higher.
Fire’s strength we will reclaim,
Higher and higher and higher.
We are the witches, who will never be burned (never be burned again).
We are the witches
Who have learned how it is to be free!”

I struggle to remember the other ten verses and then let the anxiety go. This is not a choir rehearsal! It’s a celebration and it doesn’t matter if the songs are not perfect!

Into the soft drumming, I remember a fire chant. Taught by a friend as we coaxed an illicit fire on Hastings Naturist beach into being, under a fierce wind. It’s a short chant with a complex rhythm and everyone attempts to sing it, producing their own variations on the theme in a counterpoint of bold uncertainty which brings life to the chant.

“Fire
Make of my heart a burning fire, fire.
Light-burst,
As from the Sun, the moon, the stars,
Desire!”

I sit and knit. The fire sings. We sing. Around us the land is putting itself to bed. In the distance an animal cries, piercingly, plaintively, wildly. Is that a fox, I wonder, or a querulous dog? I stretch my ears beyond the singing chattering circle as the voice of the wild cries to the night.

I dredge another fire song from my memory and give it to the circle. Three dykes, all of us enthusiastic singers lead our fae brothers in the song.

“Fire, sacred fire, burning through the night
Come to me in the dreamtime, bring me visions of light.
Circle round, spiral down to these arms open wide
Healing light, burning bright, dry these tears that I cried.”

The night moves on. The drums fade into silence and then are enlivened again by another hand. Someone starts a song and the circle takes it up. In the distance, beyond the voices, I hear an owl hoot.

The fire crackles and spits. The soft ashy thud of a branch submitting to the flames blows a fragrance of resin sweetness to me. I breathe in deeply and see in my mind the wood uncurling, letting go of resistance and falling deeply into the energy of the fire.

We sit in silence. The fire sings to us. The owl calls beyond the tree. Something else shrieks, a game bird perhaps or a lost seagull confused by the lightness of the night sky?

Soft feet pad on the grass behind me and I know that the folk are present too. I incline my head, stretching out the edges of my closed eyes without turning to “look”. In the shadows, they move and I am sure I can see their eyes shining in the firelight.

What has fire to teach me, I ask myself, my fingers twisting and turning the wool as the shawl, blanket thingy I’ve been knitting for two years, slowly increases in size? Another log rolls over and gives itself to the fire. I imagine the flames licking hungrily at the wood, consuming, transforming, purifying all.

Putting my knitting down for a moment, I reach out to the fire and draw its heat towards me. I spend a lot of energy effecting change in the world. This is my Work, I know. But sometimes I struggle to transform that which cannot be transformed, wasting vital energy that could be used for something else. I am often engrossed by the stupidity of everyday inaccessibility and exclusion, so that I’ve no umph to fight the bigger fight. I give to the fire that sense of frustration and ask it to help me let go of the frustration of exclusion.

We sit on by the fire as the night sky begins to lighten. From time to time, a song breaks out, dances with the beat of a drum and then falters into silence. All around, quiet conversations move and shift gear. The air begins to thin.

An owl screeches. Another hoots. In the distance a golden arpeggio of song breaks into the coolness of the pre dawn air. A blackbird begins to sing.

I turn to hear him better and catch the owl hooting back. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the blackbird and the owl duetting! Inside my chest I feel the two parts of me unite and move together as though to dance a little silent jig of delight and discovery. I feel my face split into the most enormous happy smile.

“Listen,” I say to the assembled company, “I can hear the blackbird and the owl singing together!”No one takes any notice, but I don’t care. I am whole and perfect and content. I’ve brought the dusk to meet the dawn and the sun is about to rise.

Later, on the 05:31 train to London from battle I sit amongst silent strangers. Half asleep commuters shield themselves with their newspapers from the reality of another day and the rest of humanity. I breathe deeply, and behind that warm alkaline smell of newsprint, I catch the softer smokier perfume of the fire.

“Blessed be the fire of our desire.
Blessed be her courage, blessed be our love.”

Ah, I’ve remembered that chant that has been on the edge of my memory all night. I hum it quietly to myself as I settle back in the train seat to snooze until London.

2010-06-13T09:26:00.001-07:00

The Pigeon's Gift

Tuesday June 8, 2010:
Andalusia

I settle in the shade upon a rough stone wall encircling an old olive tree. The stone is scratchy against my thinly protected thighs. I’ve been sun worshipping all morning and now it is a relief to be in the shade. I breathe and still my mind.

A brisk breeze dances through the orchard. It rattles the dry leaves of the olive trees. From time to time, they scatter narrow pointed leaves upon me as I sit. On the other side of the garden, a blackbird cheerfully sings. I tune into his song, a merry salute to the sun and the day. On the wind, the town clock comes dancing, chiming the hour.

Sunlight shines through the tall window and gleams upon the polished wood of the coffin. The floor is mat grey beneath it. Parallel Rows of pews, filled with still people, are ruled across the square space as though by a precise and neat hand, wielding a great ruler. . I see the dark heads of the chief mourners, bowed and still.

Organ music swells, the congregation rise and the big space is filled with their singing. High above them, I join in unseen and unheard by any of them. My soft dove’s voice is lost amongst the swelling song

A child, now adult stands and speaks of her mother. She speaks of shared moments, of how she is changed because of that mother's gifts to her. She is talking of love.

My fingers explore beneath the dried layer of leaves. They find hard ridged olives, gritty, impenetrable and tough. I can’t imagine these stone like fruits bursting forth with salty power in the mouth as they yield softly to an exploring tongue. But these little bullets when prepared and marinade in an ageless recipe do become moist and succulent. After a struggle to eat them, I have learned to love and enjoy them.

I dabble my bare feet in the cool grass. The wind teases the bottom of my kaftan. The air is sweet with the smell of newly cut grass.

Churches, even the most low church-like of the average c of e London church, have a certain smell about them. A slight whiff of dusty book pages, something floral perhaps and something else, hard to name. I flit across the ceiling, watching the congregation stand and sing, sit and listen. I watch the sunlight play on the polished wood of the still coffin, while a mother's children, grandchildren of blood and by partnership, rise, speak of her and then sit again. I look down on them, now orfanned though they be middle-aged, still, sad, waiting.

A delicate grey-white feather, born on a hidden draft spins, spirals and settles down upon the polished coffin. It lies gently trembling in the shimmering patch of sunlight.

The bells drift to me from the other side of the valley. The hour is up. In London, the coffin is bourn away by willing bearers. I watch the feather as it trembles, begins to lift and then is snatched up and tossed into the air, as the coffin slides into the hearse.

Farewell. Thank you for being a mother." I sing in my pigeon's voice. I circle above the figures gathered together on the pavement.

I shift on my uncomfortable wall. The blackbird has stopped singing. I strain my ears to hear his voice amongst the constant twittering of the sparrows, but he is silent. I pat the tree and getting up, begin to move towards the stairs. And as I ascend the stairs, I hear the gentle, mournful coo of a collar dove.

"Droo-droo-droo", it sings sadly. "Droo-droo-droo", I sing back.

2010-06-13T09:23:00.001-07:00

5 Sun worshipping

Monday June 7, 2010:

I lie in the sun. Stark naked and smeared with sun tan cream, I allow my limbs to relax and stay where I leave them.

Softened by a scratchy old blanket, the earth beneath me holds me unconditionally. The bumpy thick leafy grass cushions me. The sun burns down, heating my skin. I am beginning to glow. I feel my bones sigh with thanks.

The gusty wind here is gentler, close to the ground. Yet it is still determined to make its presence felt. The mountains shape this valley and offer a bowl in which the wild wind can dance. It dances round and round. Days go by before it finds its way out, changes direction or gives up.

In the meantime, the wind tempers the heat of the sun. It plays with the fine hairs on my legs and arms. They tremble softly against my warm skin. I roll over to toast another part of me.

No, I can’t move! The sun has pinned me down to the earth. It demands that I lie back and think of nothing but how warm it is. Hotly, it breathes upon my willing limbs.

I imagine the sun, wildly flaming in the bluest of clear blue skies, so bright that it is unsafe to look. Now that I am blind, I am no longer tortured by the brilliance of the sun. All my young life, its glare sought to dazzle me, to cloud my poor sight with its brilliance.

For a time during the place between final diagnosis and the departure of my sight, I dreaded the sunshine. If the sun shone, and it was a gloriously yellow and green spring that year, I could see nothing. I would stumble slowly down the streets, moving from shadow to shadow, eyes streaming from the pain of the light. Dusk or the low cloud of a rainy day brought relief and temporarily I could move again with freedom until the sun next chose to come out.

And now I choose to lie in the fierceness of the rays, to willingly soak them into my skin. I stretch out in a gesture of submission to the sun. I feel its hot breath recharge my tired energy, warm me, loosen the stiffness of muscles. I roll over, luxuriating in the heat of the Andalusia afternoon. Nothing to do but to be here, still and quiet. This is the life!

2010-06-13T09:18:00.000-07:00

4 My First Fire?

Monday May 31, 2010:

I am a bit scared of fire. It is unpredictable, and when at too close a proximity, harmful and dangerous. It is a singularly difficult element for someone like me who is blind, or so I believe.

I don't know how to make a fire." I say to all and sundry. I ask for fire teachers. On a dull Whit bank holiday Monday therefore, a fire companion and I meet in my shady quiet North London garden so that I may learn how to make fire.

When first I walked the pagan path, I had contemplated making a fire pit in my garden. Deciding that I was unlikely to make use of it by myself, I abandoned my plan and bought an aluminum cauldron instead. I thought I would make fires safely in this vessel. But such was my disconnect with fire, this only happened once, and only when someone more expert was there to make the fire.

So it is with some diffidence that I pick up the cauldron from its accustomed place at the foot of an apple tree, beneath a swinging witch lantern and take it to the path by the slate bench and my main garden alter.

My fire companion has bought kindling of various kinds. I have gathered twigs and bark from the garden, and bought out my store of twigs and wands of wood, gathered in my journeys over the years. I also fetch out the shredding file.

Waving a rolled up letter from the bank I cast a cheerful circle. I then set to folding old bills and confidential documents into "jacks", an intricate way of folding paper to lie at the base of a fire that I learned from my father. And as I do this, I suddenly realize that I do know something about how to light a fire!

I picture him, crouched down beside the coal fire in our plain square post-war council house. He carefully lays the jacks, places coals on top, lights the tail of one of the jacks with a spill he has made out of newspaper. He blows the tiny glimmer of light into being. It reddens, glows and begins to expand until little red, yellow and blue curling tongues of fire, lick at the coals, begin to nibble and then seize and possess first one shiny fissured black coal and then another and another until the whole bank of them upon their writhing, rapidly disappearing paper jacks are aglow.

My twin and I prance in front of the big French window, made into a mirror by the black night beyond. We watch ourselves dance, wrapped only in red and green towels, our backdrop, the crouching man who holds something to the fire, something in a spoon that he is warming. I see through my myopia, his shape, monochrome, black, white and grey against the red and grey fire surrounded by the neat grey tiled sureness of the plain and austere fifties mantelpiece.

My fire companion instructs me in the laying of a good fire. I place the jacks and some loosely screwed up bits of paper at the bottom of the caldron. I lean thin twigs and then bigger sticks across it tee-pee style. We work slowly, purposefully, carefully arranging the most inflammable nearest the heart of the fire, leaving spaces for air corridors to feed the flames, building a structure by which the fire below will warm and ready the bigger twigs for their turn to succumb to the fire. Our finishing touch is three solid branches, as thick as my wrists.

Fires like to be sung to, I remember, thinking about a huge fire made for a long dance and how we night dancers sung to it as it slowly gained strength. With each rise of the energetic refrain, it seemed to me that the fire gathered pace and grew warmer. Before long it was hissing and crackling merrily and it was time to dance.

It is time to light this fire. On instruction, I strike a match and plunge it into the centre of the pyre. A thin trail of smoke immediately catches my nostrils; I breathe in and ask anxiously if the fire has caught. It has, I am gratified to learn.

We fan the flames with master card bump. I blow into the heat and begin to hear the first crackle as the small twigs catch. We sing to the fire.

"Blessed be the fire of our desire.
Blessed be her courage, blessed be our love."

The fire hisses and hums. I sit close, my hands in the heat above the flames, I conduct the fire, and I shape its heat, my dancing hands hot but safely out of reach of the leaping tongues of fire.

And in its heart, I see a small dragon, red and yellow, glowing brightly. Here at the heart of the fire sits the dragon at the heart of the molten earth. That place in the centre which is the red hot core. The dragon breathes, it's fire breath seats the weak points in the earth's crust and breaks through. Hot rocks spill out and roll down, consuming, destroying all in their path. Great gouts of ash burst into the sky and are taken by wayward winds to lie above the land.

The spring skies are empty for six days as aircraft are grounded. The fine ash, so insubstantial, so light it is tossed on the gentlest of breezes has this power. We stand beneath silent skies, rejoicing about the peace and worrying about how this will affect the way we are.

The fire spits and snaps as though to say "Pah, that'll teach you!" Under instruction, I gently stir the twigs and the fire bursts into a frenzied roar.

I shift my stool back slightly. I am hot. I take off a layer of clothing.

But the warmth of the fire is wonderful. I love its heat on my face. I breathe in deeply the resinous smell of burning wood. I toss a handful of incense into the flames. The fire rears up. My companion tells me that the flames burn more intensely orange as the incense is scattered amongst the merrily burning twigs.

The flames leap exuberantly above the top of the caldron. The perfume of the forest floor swirls through the smoke, which my companion describes as light and almost see-through. In the rising aroma, something spicy and something flowery wrestles with the green mossiness that is the base-note of the incense.

We begin to tell each other stories inspired by the fire. We speak of a strange forest of fossilized trees, shaped into fantastic beasts, some composites, and some known creatures. I meet a horse with a bird's head and have a conversation with it. I find a great bear of a tree and feel comforted by it. The fossilized forest, my companion and I walk to the edge of the cliff and greet the prancing sea, the waves dancing a galliard for our delight. We dance too, my companion, the stiff fossilized tree creatures and I.

The fire is subsiding now. We feed it and it climbs greedily out of the caldron. We sing to it some more and it hums and hisses back as though it is happy with the state of things right now.

"Circle round the fire.
Raise the cone of power.
Get what you desire.
So mote it be.
Weave the magic round the firelight,
Dance in circle all night long
Weave the magic round the firelight,
Dance and sing the witch’s song."

There isn't room to dance round the caldron, so I imagine myself doing it. I remember other fires and other dances, other voices singing along beside the fire in a dark field of tents. I hear the drums, skipping pulsating and joyful. I briefly contemplate fetching out my drum. But we're in a North London Garden at dusk on Whit Bank Holiday Monday and I don't think the neighbors would be too pleased. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I'd like to share that part of me with them anyway.

The fire is low and quiet. My companion describes how the embers glow. It is safe to leave. We say our farewells, and go.

Later, I sneak back into the garden and stand by the rowan tree with a cup of tea. The fire smokes quietly. I prod it with a stick and then drop some small pieces of dried bark in. The fire roars and rises up, the heat fierce. I step back anxiously, for there is no one to ask if the fire is ok. I step forward and begin to sing to it softly.

Fire,
Make of my heart a burning fire, fire.
Light burst
As from the sun, the moon the stars
Desire."

The fire hisses softly, gradually becoming quieter until I have to bend low to hear it at all.

"Goodnight." I whisper into the still warm caldron.

2010-05-15T14:07:00.001-07:00

3 The hooves and the fire

Saturday May 1, 2010:

The sun is out! The world is washed clean. Everything shines. It’s a lovely spring morning.

We walk under the acid green canopy of new oak leaves through the trees. Dark holly stands amongst them. Our feet step lightly upon the soft forest floor.

We cast and call, invoke and invite. We are here to acknowledge the sweet desire that dances with wild delight and at the greening time to dance the dance of life.

Aphrodite steps softly upon the forest floor. In her footsteps, flowers spring up. The birds in the trees sing, their silver song arching above our heads. Our hearts are filled with the love that nurtures and respects all.

In the beat of the drum, Herne stalks through the trees and all the animals of the forest creep from their hiding place to follow him. Gently, he surveys the green wood with satisfaction.

“First I speak for those of us come to this feast damaged by what has been done to trample Aphrodite’s gifts into the sand, behind the mask of sexual passion, hides abusive power, and disrespect for life. I name some of that pain. I banish it now!", says my sister priestess.

She continues: When the powerful and the priests still fail to hear the tears of the children torn apart in their name:”
Together she and I say: “Aphrodite rages, Herne stamps his mighty foot, Ardhanarishwara the androgynous blazes, the spirits of the land and the wild ones howl.”

“In lands locked in war and violence, when women’s and children’s bodies are treated as things to be claimed and torn:
Aphrodite rages, Herne stamps his mighty foot, Ardhanarishwara the androgynous blazes, the spirits of the land and the wild ones howl.

Wherever bodies are for sale in unsafe or disease-ridden places, because there is no other way for women or children to survive, or because they were trapped or live in fear of violence:
Aphrodite rages, Herne stamps his mighty foot, Ardhanarishwara the androgynous blazes, the spirits of the land and the wild ones howl.

At all the exchanges, too many to name here, that use so-called sexuality to dishonour human bodies, and the bodies of other living things, in some of our own histories and the lives we see around us:

Aphrodite rages, Herne stamps his mighty foot, Ardhanarishwara the androgynous blazes, the spirits of the land and the wild ones howl.

In the name of life, love and honour, I claim their sacred anger, and I banish the pain and destruction of these things.” (Words by PB)

I hold a piece of paper to the flame. The heat snaps at my fingers. I drop it into the greedy fire in the banishing cauldron, and let go of the empty place and the reason why it was created and with it, my rage.

The air is filled with the acrid smell of burning paper. The smoke wafts away on the wind, along with all that we no longer want.

Hoofs pound the earth in the voice of the drum. And I say as I beat the skin

“I call to the white horse that runs throughout the country, the white horse that is half woman half horse, seen out of the corner of an eye in the shadows under the trees and then gone again. Hear her hooves beating upon the green sword. Hear her neigh of joy as she canters forth. See her, head held high, her main or is it her hair flowing in the wind as she gallops across the country. Hear her now, "Epona, Epona, Epona, let me ride with thee!"

And I run with her. I dance with her, we stream out from under the dappled coolness of the woods into open country, our manes flying in the wind. I dance my desires into life, my dreams into fruition. I cook my
wishes with the heat of my sweat as I run with her under the Beltane sun. I resolve to fill the gap left by what I banished.!

One by one, we jump the Beltane fire. It smoulders smokily. Beside it, our decoy fire, (tea lights in a shiny silver bowl) sits innocently.

We sing and dance, moving in and out of our circle with our May ribbons, weaving an intricate plat of hopes and desires, for ourselves, our community and the world.

And just as we are finishing, from out of the wood comes striding three fire fighters! They amble up to us curiously, come to see what all the smoke is about. We stop dancing and smile foolishly at them.

My companion’s point to our “fire” the innocent bowl of tea lights and the harmless gently puffing little fat bellied cauldron.

“It’s a £400 fine for lighting a fire in the wood”, says one of them.

“What fire?” we say, wide eyed an innocent. The fire-fighters laugh and wish us an enjoyable rest of ritual. They remark that it is a nice day for a walk in the woods and stroll back through the trees from whence they came.

The day is still warm. Though the sun has now gone in, the air is fresh and green. We drink sweetly fragrant berry juice and pass round delicious biscuits, fruit and truffles as we feast in thanks giving for the growing greenness of the land and the cooking of our desires.

Above our heads the birds sing on, as they gaze westwards to the glow that is where the sun hides. And I swear I hear a gentle crunching of twigs under hoof and the soft whinny of a horse just outside the grove of oak and holly in which we stand.

2010-05-15T14:04:00.001-07:00

2 Singing in the rain!

Saturday May 1, 2010:

“Gorse shines flame bright, bluebells pooled at her feet.
Rainwashed green leaves are tightly beaded with May”

The sweet promise of spring has gone. For three weeks now, the sun has been shining; the air balmy; the plants have reached out cold limbs and burst forth. In the time between the last cold wind and today, my rowan tree has gone from thin bare branches shivering in the bitter wind, to leafy opulence in feathery greenness. She is fully clothed and spring indeed has come!

But that was until the day before yesterday. It has been raining almost nonstop for 48 hours now. Fond ideas of traipsing through the warm dry heath land are forgotten as I put on my walking boots and pack my American Army cagoule! I put an extra layer under my green jingly jesters outfit and leave the house.

It is an hour or more away from dawn and yet the street corner blackbirds sing as though to say,”Merry May! “As the cab turns every corner. I open the window and stick my ear out, so eager am I to hear their glorious song.

By the bridge between the houses, a particularly loud blackbird is singing. I fold my hands, bow to him and blow him a kiss. I trumpet in response to his singing and call out “Morning Mr Blackbird!”

The sky lies low overhead. It’s not actually raining. All around us the grass, bushes and trees drip. Despite this, a bubbling chorus of birds are singing already and the east is not yet light.

I place a chaplet of exotic flowers upon my head and secure them with my hat. I jingle fragrantly and gently off up the Parliament Hill.

High up on Parliament Hill, the air is damply cool. London lies sleeping below us. Canary Warf is tinged with a pink expectancy although sunrise is an hour away still.

As is our way, we have a bit of a sing and dance. The ‘Obby ‘Oss skips about. We move on up to the circle of pines and dance in and out of them for some unknown reason singing “the Sky boat Song!” Ah the mysteries of public pagan rites on hamstead heath at dawn. Everyone very much enjoys the sing, as we all know the words and it is a jolly good tune!

The bench and the fence minus its nasty spikes doesn’t seem so daunting this morning as I easily slip over into Boadicea’s Mount. I stand under a prickly gorse bush, flaming with flower in the gloom of the dawn, my feet in a pool of English bluebells.

On top of the mount, we make our wishes, share chocolate and sing a welcome to the sun, rising now behind the clouds beyond the tall buildings of the city far below us. The air thins and I know that the sun is somewhere, imagine its warmth, bow low in salute.

Under the dove grey sky, soft as a pigeon’s chest, we dance across the heath. Stepping over the rivulets, treading carefully across the moist mud, we sing as we go. Everything is green as green can be. The may is mostly not out, except in warm sun catching pockets where it is frothed with the first opening of the flowers. Gorse shines fierily and little bluebells dance in the wind. The birds accompany us along our path, silvering the air with their song as we move across the soft yielding earth.

The heath is deserted. Aside from it being a Saturday, the heavy rain of the night before and the threatening morning skies keep all but the hardiest of dog walkers away. Rhined with rain, the new leaves of the oak woods shine acidly. Our path winds on between the trees, across the green, until we turn into a clearing where the Kenwood Well sits neatly in its marble setting.

We dance around the well and sing. We drink the waters, make blessings to each other and the earth, we sing some more and the birds sing too.

But it is time for breakfast. We leave the well and walk back across the heath. AS we walk, the sky lowers and it begins to rain. Our party-coloured apparel is soon shrouded in sensible rainwear as we walk beneath the glittering morning song of the birds.

2010-05-15T09:46:00.001-07:00

Playing with Fire!

This year, I pledge to play with fire! As a blind person, playing with fire might prove to be a little more dangerous than to a sighted person. When I feel fire, I am close to it. Physically I can’t actually hold it for any time or it will burn me. I don’t know where it is exactly until I touch it.

That having been said, I feel a stubborn determination rise within me, like a fire snaking through my core. I say “Ok, so it’s going to be a wee bit more challenging – but when have I ever let that stop me?”

So here’s the beginning of my personal mythology about fire. Here’s what I’m going to try to do.

A fire for all seasons

Here, I invent my own mythology of the wheel of the year of fire. Like trees and birds, I reach out and take fire, shaping it to my own purpose as it allows me, following it around the wheel, starting at Beltane (of course).

But it’s Beltane now and why haven’t I started? This slowness, twinned with the slow greening of the earth this year is not, I learn with relief, me failing to get round to thinking of my quest (though of course it is true that I haven’t finished the preparation yet!).

A queer pagan colleague commented to me on Beltane Eve, that it didn’t feel like Beltane because the May was not out. The calendar says Beltane but the earth has not finished what she needs to do to prepare for the glory of the greening. AS I stand in the rain or shiver in the cold north wind in my garden, I know, it’s not time yet.

Now I don’t feel so bad about not having got started. The May in my garden is still not out 2weeks after Beltane. Well I can’t wait for ever so need to get down to it.

Beltane
Beltane is the fire of desire, the fire of the growing summer sun. It’s traditional to jump the Beltane fire to grow those desires. As I begin, it’s also the time to learn to make fires.

Summer Solstice
The sun is at its hottest, lie in it! Create an arch or ring of fire which symbolizes the perfect “o” of the hot sun. Do night ritual from dusk to dawn using candles or even working with a fire all night bridging the darkness between sundown and sunrise. Light a beacon on a hill or make a fire on a beach.

Lamas
The sun is in the grain, the grain goes to the bread to feed our bodies. Create bread baking fires. Build a hay box or clay oven and make bread. Ceremoniously make bread in my own oven. Visit a bakery where bread is made and learn to make the bread.

Autumn Equinox
The nights draw in. the fire in the woods is warming. That smoky sweetness of autumnal wood fires invites stories around the fire. Find a place where they still do charcoal burning. Work with the ancestral resonance about the charcoal fire in the woods and my father’s line which I only feel but don’t actually know.

Samhain
Make and work with the fire of the ancestors. Go to bonfires like at Lewis – fires as funeral pyres, fires that burned those that society did not approve of.

Yule
Sleep beside the hearth fire on the longest night. Sit beside the fire and tell stories and sing songs to while away the long nights. An evening of stories and song by my humble gas fire!

Imbolc
The forge fire, perhaps visiting a blacksmith's forge. Work with metal and heat – perhaps spend some time with a silversmith? This is the festival of the crown of candles, make one and wear it in ceremony.

Ostara
The earth begins to warm as the leaves and flowers unfurl and lift their heads to welcome the growing warmth of the sun. Construct a spiral or labyrinth of candles and dance or walk it just before dawn in ceremony.

Fire Craft

I suspect I’m frightened of fire, like I suspect that I’m frightened of passion and the extremes of emotions. In this year where I explore those dangerous places, I shall learn to make fires of different kinds.

Fire takes four magical forms - coal, flame, arc and star. My magical colleague Rash writes about them as follows:

“Ember or Coal – Our basic survival level of energy, we are born with this. It is more sustainable in comparison to the flame, arc or star, but not forever – it must be fed in order to become the flame.

Flame – represents our work, our intentions, food, sex, physical activities, and all things that need to be fed by a strong bed of coals. Flame and ember need each other to keep a steady, strong and sustainable flow.
Arc – the flash of inspiration and powerful insights, the strong energy of creative thought and action. This fire is also connected to the welder’s torch – it can connect two disparate things but cannot create or form the things itself.

Star – ecstasy, spiritual connection, and the ecstatic point reached in intense prayer and/or meditation, great sex, or wild dancing or running. Valuable insights and an extreme sense of connection to the point of feeling consumed by it, but are not sustainable. We cannot remain in star fire for long, but we can feed our human lives with it, raising the level of the basic fires of ember and flame. We can work to bring into our everyday lives, inspiration and creativity. Life force feeds life force.”

What will a year be like exploring these four fires? I sit with the thought and wait for illumination, which I know will surely come.

Fire walks are used in personal development work. They are marks of a rite of passage. We cross the burning coals from one place to another. The thought of doing a fire walk scares me (somehow I think that’s a good thing!!).

Can I really learn to play with fire? There are fire juggling courses. Chucking burning torches about might be a bit risky (ah-ah resist the desire to say, “ok so I’ll do it! ‘cause sometimes knowing what is fool-hardy and not doing it is good!) But I could wave a fire pole around though couldn’t I? So I need to go and ask clowning and fooling friends to help me identify a course.

There are many other ceremonies to do with different kinds of fire. My magical colleague Leaf told me about this one.

“Fire scrying is a method of divination sometimes used by Witches to see events of the past, present and future. The practice can be performed by burning driftwood by the seashore after the sun has set. (It may be performed in other locations as well by burning other types of wood.) After the wood is well burned, and begins to die, place a cedar log, a juniper log, and three good handfuls of sandalwood chips. Let the fire burn well. Then as the fire dies down again gaze deep into the dying embers. In the embers one can see scenes of the past, present and future. Sometimes they are actual scenes, but more often they are symbolic scenes needing interpreting. The fire use in this divinatory method is frequently called the "Fire of Azrael" as described by Dion Fortune in The Sea Priestess.

There is also an incense recipe if fire is not possible. Use equal parts juniper, sandalwood and cedar.”

Now as a blind person, I have an interesting relationship to scrying. Gazing into anything can’t be done for I physically see nothing. Sitting with fire and letting my inner sight free to wander is the way I usually do it. It’s the same for the gazing into a candle flame thang that is often done. I often use the proximity of touch to help me connect with that inner sight and perhaps, I can scry with my ears as the fire snaps and cracks.

My magical colleague Anne-Marie advises that “a great smokeless fire recipe is as follows; iron cauldron of any size (though the bigger it is the more fuel you need) and it is very effective in small form. Fill the bottom with Epsom salts or they may be called mineral salts here. Pour rubbing alcohol or maybe its mineral spirits here until you have a nice thin to thick layer above the salts. This fire burns very blue and lasts a long time.”

She also told me about the Druid Need Fire. “The Druids used a combination of 9 woods for a need fire. On the eve of Beltane the Celts build two large fires, created from the nine sacred woods, in honour of summer. The tribal herds were ritually driven between them, so as to purify and protect them in the upcoming year. The fires celebrate the return of life and fruitfulness to the earth. Celebration included frolicking throughout the countryside, dancing the Maypole, leaping over fires, and "going a maying". It was customary for young lovers to spend the night in the forest.'

The woods are;
Birch
Rowan
Ash
Alder
Willow
Hawthorn
Oak
Holly
Hazel”

And then there are the fire deities. Who are they and what could I do with each of them? Maybe I’ll find one for each festival and connect in that way?

…

2010-03-21T11:23:00.001-07:00

40 Adieu sweet birds

Sunday march 21, 2010:

Come spinning wind
Blown on a soft flurry of wings,
Scirring in an arch of ascent
Your cool breath on sleep-warmed skin,
Welcome.

Come dancing bright one,
Fingers of golden sunlight
Reaching through the latticework of branches
Warm my face with your touch,
Welcome.

Come moist droplets,
The rain damped leaf,
Washed by the night’s drizzle,
Lie coolly against my bare neck.
Welcome.

Come soft quiet earth,
Winter softened wood,
Frost cracked stones
Lie life stirring beneath me.
Welcome.

And the birds spiral
Between earth and sky
Above and below,
Touching, connecting all
Welcome all.

A year is up. For eight festivals now I have walked this earth with the birds. I call them all to me now as I sit amongst the wet leaves of the castor oil plant at dawn on the morning after the Equinox.

“Come ducks and geese”, I say. The wind brings me their call upon the breeze from nearby Finsbury Park.

Come sweet silent swan, I breathe as she swims silently and elegantly into my mind.

Come pigeon, bowing and strutting, cooing sweetly in the warming air. A “Betty” lifts her voice in a seductive “droo-droo-droo, droo-droo”, and I smile to hear her.

I think about the ugly game birds, tottering on inadequate legs, rising with a flurry into the branches with piercing shrieks of alarm and much wing fluttering. Here they are, wobbling ungainly but purposefully, come to join the circle.

Are those swallows I can hear? I remember how they flew high above me in the autumn sky. If I stretch my ears, can I hear them now as then with their “chitter-chitter-chitter cheek” chattering as they migrate?

Many a dark dawn has the owl called to me in this place. And now, as I sit, the crows caw to each other. Come all the birds of Samhain, come harbingers of death and rebirth.

The air is alive with the chirruping of the robins. I listen carefully, sure that amongst them I hear the longer, faster tremolo of a wren. Welcome oak and holly kings, storm and sun gods, twins everywhere.

But the skies are silent of the blackbird. How typical! I smile to myself knowing that he’s off singing at the other end of his territory and will be back. I listen to the sweet songs of the morning, picking out each songbird and promising once more to listen to that RSPB CD again so I will know them all .

In the distance, a church clock strikes seven times. Great arms bare me up out of the castor oil plant. I am transported through the cool morning air and settled down against the rough trunk of a tall tree. I lean against it, safe and happy.

I see the earth brown and green beneath me, the signs of spring showing in the bright splashes of white, yellow and purple against new green. From this position, I can see the trees are truly budding.

Behind the light covering of cloud, I feel rather than see the golden glow of the morning sun. I get to my feet, spread my wings out and throw back my head. A golden mellifluous cascade of notes glitters upon the cool morning air. I sing and sing and sing for the hell of it. I sing for the presence of the day and the joy of being alive. I Singh to the hidden sun and the nearly born leaves. I sing to the dancing nodding crocuses and snowdrops in the gardens below me. And I admire the bright eggs swinging from braches on the trees in the garden, placed there by a human who greeted and stroked each tree as she did so, walking at dawn in her garden.

Cutting through the air like a golden arc , here comes the blackbird’s song. He must be standing on top of a roof in the next road,where I passed him last evening. He is singing the boundaries of his territory. Later, he will sit in the ash tree on the side of the fence and sing there too. I lean back into the cool strong tangle of the castor oil plant and smile. I’ve heard the blackbird; all is right with the world.

The morning chorus continues. I listen, focussing, trying to disentangle one song from another. Under them all, I hear a gentle gurgling trill, soft like the pigeon, tremulous like the wren. What bird is that? I wonder as I hear the fence creak as the cat sneaks silently along it.

Below, the earth creaks, small creatures scurry. A bird beats fast moving wings against bare branches, he scirs, skimming across the garden. A plain hums softly overhead.

My year with the birds has ended. This is the last time I will sit and purposefully be with them. I know though that they will always be with me and when the time is right, will sometimes claim my full attention.

Behind the high cloud, I know the sun is shining. In May, I will begin my journey with fire. Until then, I am at peace, listening to the birds, the gentle, gentle birds.

“Aah,” I sigh, and climb stiffly to my feet, for I have been sitting for a long time. I walk round the temple of the birds that is my garden. I am ready for my day. Spring is here. Thank goddess that the winter is finally over

2010-03-21T11:19:00.000-07:00

39 Tall Trees – Queen’s Wood, Highgate

Saturday march 20, 2010:

A light drizzle patters softly upon my face. I duck under a low branch and enter the circle. All around tall oak trees stand, bent bear arms reaching out. Beside them, the squatter darker prickly holly frowns as though in concentration. Above in the latticed canopy, birds sing out to each other. In the spaces between the trees, our voices echo as the winter wood tosses sound around.

The earth beneath my feet is soft with rain. Leaf mould and twigs texture its surface. I scoop them up, feeling the gritty mud cake my fingers.

A tall tree calls me, a straight oak standing by itself on the edge of a circle of oaks. I walk round it, saying my own “hello”, bowing low in greeting and reverence.

I lean against it, feeling its rough bark chaffing at my cheek. I lay my hand flat on its trunk and breathe in the moist green smell of the wood. I have nothing to do but to be. I sigh, feeling the pent up caged feeling of a long winter shift and think about leaving.

All is still. In the distance, children’s voices call wordlessly to each other. My ears pick up a movement between the trees. A presence treads quietly over the soft leafy earth, their footfall no more than the pat of a leaf falling. I wait.

“Where the f*** have you been?” a growling voice rasps. I nuzzle the tree in apology and surrender my mind to whatever has spoken, waiting for more. But nothing comes.

I am not disappointed. I wait and *am*.Here in the damp wood, I lean against a tall tree, my cheek laid gently against the rough bark. The tree allows me and I am grateful.

The words of a song, comes swaying into my mind and I begin to sing quietly, as I stroke the tree.

“Lay your head against the bark of a tall tree.
Free your mind and find your heart so easily.
The leaves are breathing and the branches sway.
As you see them dancing you can hear them say.
Lay your head against the bark of a tall tree …”
A damp drum thumps prosaically into my reverie. The presence moves quietly back beneath the trees. I nod in its direction and let go of my tree and walk back to the circle to join a Counsel of all beings.

As I sit in circle, I touch my face to feel the bark’s texture, but my cheek is smooth and cool. Still I know that inside I can trace the feel of the tree. I sigh and am content.

I Assemble leaf and twigs upon card. With my fingers, I promise to come back to the trees. I give my offering back to the earth. I sing and dance with my companions, lifting my voice in loud and lusty song as we cautiously spiral dance our way around the stump strewn circle.

Beneath the trees, the gentle drizzle is hardly noticed. Their bare curving arms give less shelter than they would when fully dressed, but it is sufficient. We open our circle. The earth touches the equinox, that place of absolute balance. The next time I feel that point of rocking balance, it’ll be heralding the winter.

I think of the days stretching before me, growing longer and warmer. From this moment in time, I have no anxiety that the year is running away with itself, for it is still so young yet and we have the gently unfolding spring to enjoy.

2010-02-21T13:18:00.001-08:00

38 The blackbird and the hind

Sunday February 21, 2010:

All week I’ve been aware of the blackbird singing early in the morning. Every day I stumble out on sleepy legs and drink up the liquid loveliness before rushing out to work.

It’s Sunday and I’ve declared a pajama day. I am wandering about doing nothing in particular. From the garden comes the pure fluid song of the blackbird sitting high in the ash tree.

It’s been sunny if cold these last few days and I imagine him, lit by the setting sun, head thrown back, beak open, belting it out like nobody’s business. I’m still a bit frail and wobbly after a nasty cold, so I open the back door and stand there listening.

The blackbird sings his head off. Each phrase is unique, dynamic and joyful. I smile, I can’t help it. Surely everyone who hears him must feel uplifted?

The crows and magpies caw and cackle, The pigeons “droo-droo”, the tits “pip-pip” and the robins trill cheerfully. The garden is a riot of singing. I hop up and down like a delighted child. But the loudest, clearest most exciting and beautiful song is that of the blackbird - *my bird. I feel ridiculously proud of him, beating all the other birds at their song.

Softly, I sing back. I can’t help it, it just happens. I copy his phrases, whistle under my breath. Soon I am lost in a mesmerizing circle of call and response as we duet together cheerfully.

Two tall trees frame a gateway beyond which a grassy hill slopes down to a wood. The blackbird beckons with his song. I have to follow.

My feet lead me along a path and into the woods. The low winter sun slants through the trees. I walk on as dusk falls and the shadows lengthen until I am walking in the twilight. The blackbird stops beside a dark opening between two trees.

I bend and climb into a hollow carved out of a bank surrounded by thorn trees. It is dry and sheltered. I settle down to wait on the soft dry loamy earth.

Night falls. Above me, the winter trees are etched blackly against the dark moonless sky. I sit and wait. All is silent.

Slowly a half moon rises behind the trees, casting shadows across the small clearing in front of me. Bats fly darkly across the moon’s shining face. In the distant, owls call to each other.

Something glimmers in a darker space in the centre of the clearing. Faintly, I hear the murmuring of water. I wait and watch the moonshine shimmering on what must be a small pool.

Softly, the trees shake their bare branches, their twigs rustling together in the breeze. Faintly, I hear the sound of bells tinkling.

Lit by the bright moon, a small white hind treads silently into the center of the clearing. I hold my breath, for she looks timid and gentle. She moves delicately across the grass to the pool in the centre. Bending her graceful neck, she stoops to drink; the softest of lapping sounds dances with the gentle murmur of what must be a spring feeding the little pool. I sigh softly, sitting absolutely still lest she hear me and be frightened off.

She raises her head and seems to look straight at me. Slowly I fold my hands across my heart and bow my head in reverence. She waits standing absolutely still then turns her head away and moves quietly back into the trees.

I sit still and wait. Time moves on. The moon sails across the sky. In the east, the faintest of silver can be seen. The owls hoot their last before the piercing song of the blackbird penetrates the velvety silence, triumphantly heralding the dawn.

My heart melts. I am full of joy! Day is come. The blackbird pierces the still air, his liquid silver washing over me. There can be no sadness when the blackbird sings.

The sky lightens and shows me the small pool at the centre of the clearing. I get up and walk over to it, kneel down and dip my fingers into its clear coolness. It is cold but crystal clear. Its surface eddies slightly as the spring feeds it. I see it has carved a small channel in the rock on the other side and is trickling away amongst the trees. I cup my hands and bend my head and drink.

Coolly, the water moves through me, refreshing me, energizing me. Pure, sweet yet clear, it tastes of nothing and of everything. I drink more till I feel full of liquid morning joy. If the blackbird’s song was a drink, this is how it would taste, I think.

The blackbird hops from tree to tree, still singing. I get up and follow him as he leads me from the wood and back to the tall trees that are the gateway to this world.

I lean against the door jam and listen to his lovely singing. Every phrase different, every phrase energetically joyful, as though he is singing “life is good”.

“Life is good”, I think, glad I have found the time to listen to the blackbird singing at sunset on a late winter day. I fold my hands over my heart and bow to him, blow him a kiss and whisper half to myself,

“I love you, I love you, and I love you.”

High up on the Parkland walk, a dog walker scolds his disobedient hound. Neighbours meet and greet each other. A plane whines high up in the evening sky. The blackbird sings his evensong, for he won’t stop while there is still some sun left.

Spring will come soon, I know it will, I think. I retire indoors. Now it is time to take down the winter alter and mark the return of the maiden with soft, soft feathers.

2010-02-14T13:18:00.000-08:00

37 Listening out for blackbirds

Sunday January 31, 2010:

Late in the evening, I stand in the garden shivering, despite the thick duffle coat. I picture Uncle Derek, lying thin and frail in his hospital bed, his skin as white as the sheets and as white as his shock of snowy hair.

From beyond the hills, I hear the barking of dogs. A pounding of paws, heralds their appearance. Two Labradors burst onto the scene, tongues a-lolling and tails furiously wagging, their paws clatter on the vinyl hospital floor. They skid under Derek’s bed and, with much tail thumping and general turning around and around, settle down to wait.

“Not long now,” I say to Derek and turn to go indoors again.

Monday February 1, 2010:

The telephone peels insistently. Sleepily, I reach out and pick it up. My mother’s voice chirrups from the receiver earpiece. I put on my “I’ve been a wake for hours” voice and answer.

She tells me that Derek died in the night. We exchange brief condolences and ring off.

I climb from my bed and stump out into the garden. I call him into my circle. The dogs are under his bed. On a chair beside it, a figure sits quietly. My cousin (his daughter) watches. A dog emerges from the bed and leans up to rest his head on her knee. It is such a sweet simple gesture of silent comfort.

It’s Imbolc eve. I’m feeling frazzled. My mind reels with all the things I have to do. I’m jittery because I’ve not really had a weekend and I had to miss the two Imbolc rituals I had been intending to go to.

My family is a fractured one. The newly dead Uncle, husband of my father’s sister, is not well known to me. Way back in the mists of time, soon after my cousin was born, there was a great bust up. Brother and sister never spoke to each other again until her death.

I think about that generation, the war generation, living through terrible privations. This is the generation that built the welfare state, public sector pensions and a society that tried to be fairer to all. I’m grateful for what they built. I appreciate now how I am able to live my life in comparative comfort because of them.

I remember the two old men standing by my father’s grave; their broken-voiced grizzling somehow heartrending, yet embarrassing. Another one is gone. Death makes so lonely the ones left behind.

So on this Imbolc eve, I must do something. I’ve some time now. So I make a Bridie Bed.

I fetch the oval cotton lined basket and lay fake fur in the bottom. I construct a little bed from silk and fur, turn back the covers to invite someone or something to climb into it and set it down beside the merrily burning gas fire. Next to it, on a small furry rug, I place a toy woolly lamb and a round toy dove complete with soft silky feather tail. On a little stool beside this, I make an alter. I set down offerings of water, seeds and oatcakes. Around them, I place beautiful metal objects, like the feather paper knife and the silver goddess chalice. They sit beside a small iron cauldron filled to overflowing with semi-precious moonstones. I light a candle and kneel down just to be still for a while.

Nothing happens, but I am glad of the peace. I find something else to put the candle in, a pot within a pot, the outer one filled with water. When I am sure it will be safe, I turn off the gas fire and retire to bed.

Tuesday February 2, 2010:

“Silently, softly, a feather drifts down
And lies fluttering in the morning breeze.”

Everything feels like it is conspiring to prevent me from spending time marking Imbolc. Before dawn therefore, I creep out into the cold frosty garden to make my morning prayers.

My breath makes the circle. I am enclosed by its warmth touching the ice cold air to make a mist of opacity unseen, yet felt by me. Birds scir, feathers fluttering in the pre dawn chill, their “thwo-thwo-thwo-thwo-thwo-thwo” caresses the silence between the songs of their morning joy as they criss-cross the garden.

I turn and turn, acknowledging the elements, arranging my loved ones in a circle around me as each are called in. I turn to the south and know the dogs are still sitting under Derek’s bed; still reaching out velvety muzzles to rest against his daughter’s knee.

The birds are singing. I listen to their song and pick them out one by one. Surely amongst the robins, I hear a wren? High in the sky, a crow caws, another answers. Two gardens along, a magpie grumpily rattles a warning. I listen to the thrice repeated piping of a song thrush.

I listen and wait. Close by, cutting through the cheerful arpeggios of the garden birds I hear the soulful hoot of an owl. Amazed, I tune my ears to pick it out from the frothy chorus. It’s mournful solemnity cool, serious and detached. It hoots its farewell to the night once more and disappears into the cheerful cacophony.

I smile to myself, marveling at the tapestry of song, the robins, the crows, the magpies and now the owl. I stand still, my hand on my rowan tree and listen to the sound of the city carefully and slowly getting up.

Suddenly, like a golden light cutting through mist, I hear the distinct call of a blackbird. I turn my head to the east, listen harder, holding my breath. There it is again, joyful, ebullient, and purposeful.

I silently beg it to come closer, be louder, and come near to me. Tantalizingly, the song weaves amongst the chattering quarrelling robins and is lost. And then I hear it again; loud and effortless, cutting smoothly through the fizzing dawn chorus, arching through the air, clean and precise. I imagine him, sitting high up in the ash tree; his head raised, golden orange beak wide open, singing fit to burst. I stand, mesmorised, despite the cold, wrapped in the joy of the song’s magic.

“Ping”, goes the clock in the kitchen. It is seven O’clock and I have to get going. I bow to the singing birds and leave the garden.

I kneel by the unlit gas fire and touch the silky softness of the Bridie bed. My fingers carefully examine every fold. I’m sure something has been moved, there’s a little dent where the silk was smoothly spread before. The candle is still alight, warmly burning. I reach down and cup the flame in my hands, dance it with my fingers, feel it grow then subside.

“Thank you for bringing me the blackbird” I say, cupping the flame as I lean and blow it out. I breathe deeply that bitter snuffed scent rising to fill the room and think of a winter fire outside with smoke rising through the frosty air.
It is blackbird time. The last bird in my avian calendar and perhaps the easiest one to spend time with, so ubiquitous is it in the London garden. I must guard against the ubiquity making me lazy though and remember to give him time.

In my shower, I begin to sing, getting the tune wrong and tangling the words for it’s a bugger of a song to sing. It doesn’t matter, I’m sure Paul McCartney won’t mind, I sing on, marveling at the oddly appropriate words.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”

2010-01-17T12:21:00.001-08:00

36 In my father’s line

Sunday January 17, 2010:

Three years ago today, my father died. At 10:30am, the time of his passing, I light a candle and set up sacred space. Here I sit all day and write. Words flow, crafted sweet words, not over frilly but just right. I revel in my enjoyment of my word craft.

Night falls. I go out into the garden and sit down where I always sit when I want to connect or to journey. In the road, the occasional car hisses by. High up on the Parkland Walk, a small child converses with an adult as she walks along. A plain grumbles overhead and is gone.

Last night at this time, I heard an owl. I am half hoping to hear one again. I wait but the skies are empty of birds right now. Perhaps it is too early. Perhaps the owl has something better to do. Perhaps I don’t need him right now.

Here on the anniversary of my father’s death I sit and remember. I ask to know what wisdom my father’s line might bring me. I ask to know something of benefit to me, something of healing to me perhaps, something that will help settle my connection with my father and the male line of the family in some way.

Only the little egg rattle’s swishing can be heard, dancing with the sound of the tiny frosty wind touching my cheek. I breathe and smell the odour of damp old clothes, something musty, slightly unpleasant yet familiar. I rattle on, listening to the soft voice of the egg in the quiet garden.

I walk briskly uphill through the woods. The terrain is rough and I am surprised that I am really quite sure footed. The dog rubs her soft honey coloured flank warmly against me as I move. Together we place foot and paw on the uncertain path.

We reach the crest of the hill and stand amongst the trees looking down. The wood continues and we descend. For a moment, I fear I will fall but the dog places herself in such a way to best guide my feet. I allow her to lead me down.

We walk through the woods. I see a fire dancing between the trees and stand on the edge of a clearing. I see a group of figures sitting around a fire. I recognise them, but this is not my destination. I walk on.

The woods stretch on for a long way. In time, we emerge and are on a frosty snowy cliff top. The black cliff falls sheer to the wild fermenting sea. It dashes and tosses itself frenziedly on the jagged dark rocks below. Beyond, the water is grey and tormented as far as the eye can see.

There is a small boat. We climb aboard and are Bourne away on the frantic sea. The land behind us disappears. The ocean spreads out on all sides. The dog and I huddle in the boat. In time, hours, days, weeks later, the horizon becomes dark with land.

We float through the open mouth of a wide river, through a sprawling settlement and out the other side. The river snakes through the plain and begins to rise as it grows smaller. In time, we can no longer use the boat. We get out and begin to climb along beside the small stream.

We climb through mountains. Down in the valley bottom spreads wide green pastures, with another river winding through it. We follow the water until it is lost as a spring amongst the rocks of other mountains.

Beyond, in a great flat plain lies a huge circle of stones. Inside is another and as we approach, inside that, a cairn or burial chamber.

The dog leads me forward and I follow her, scrambling on my hands and knees into the burial chamber. Inside it is warm and dark. The floor is covered with thick skins. I lie down with the dog and we sleep.

I dream. I dream I spin and weave tales. I sing songs, tell stories, use words to persuade and encourage. My tongue is silver with the beauty of my words.

I walk through the ages and I am a story teller, a minstrel, a singer, a convincer, a spinner and weaver of words. And it is so easy. It is my birth right, the gift from my father’s line. I talk, I sing, I persuade and in time I write.

The soft warm touch of a low golden beam of light wakes me as sunshine pierces the dark chamber. A memory stirs and I know that it is the winter solstice and this is the sun’s return come to wake the year.

We climb from the burial chamber out onto a winter scene. Virginal snow lies on the ground; Snow covers the tops of all the dark standing stones. Snow crowns the mountains and bows the trees on their foothills.

But we must go home. The journey is long. Still, we walk on through the mountains, the green pastures and then more mountains. We follow a dribble of a spring as it widens and becomes the great river making its way to the sea. We float through the sprawling settlement and out of the river’s wide mouth. The great grey sea rears and falls eagerly but bears us safely back to the jagged dark rocks below the lowering black cliff. Our path through the woods feels easier. We pass the fathers gathered by their fire. We strike through the trees and before it seems possible, arrive back in the garden beyond the fence.

I am sitting amongst the castor oil plant. My hands are cold. The dog is gone. Momentarily I feel bereft then remember I don’t have need of a dog in this part of my life. Still, I blow a kiss towards the trees and bow to them. Is that the sound of a vigorously wagging tail whacking undergrowth I can hear amongst the trees or is it the hum of the Sunday city?

“Woof-woof”, I bark playfully, getting up to go indoors.

2010-01-17T12:17:00.001-08:00

35 Snow song and the snow Robin
Wednesday January 13, 2010:

For a month now, a Siberian wind Marauds across the land. From time to time, it loses interest and sends a wet westerly instead. Rain falls as snow blanketing the city. With every new fall, the world is shrouded again in silence. Each settles on the half melted fall before. As night comes, it freezes into a lethal glacial icing, defiantly loosening the step of even the steadiest gait.

I lurk indoors, snarling and growling. The local Council has more or less cleared the bus routes, but there is no way to get to the bus stop, so thick and treacherous has the ice become. I am imprisoned. Twice, hope rises along with the temperature and a fall of snow-obliterating rain, only to be dashed again as the silent softness once more descends.

I am grateful therefore for my garden. Each day, I listen to the silence. Snow clogged roads mean that there are very few cars. People stay indoors, unless forced to go out to work, to get supplies or occasionally to play.

I walk carefully around the garden, meeting the snow cautiously with my boots. As I walk, I listen to its various voices as it speaks beneath my feet.

“Hah” sighs the newly fallen snow, breathing softly as it submits to my weight. Here is the loving snow flake fallen to earth to become a gentle carpet.

“Err-eek”, squeaks the frost rhinded snow as I move. At first it is unyielding and I think for a moment it might even hold my weight until protestingly, it subsides like the shell of a meringue, crunching dryly as it caves in.

“Crick-crack” snaps the ice-shaded globules of frozen hard snow, chattering beneath me as I step cautiously. I hear it splinter and imagine bright rainbow shards scattering before me.

“Slurp-squelch” sucks the slush greedily. It slides away guiltily, pushing out from under my feet to leave my footprints smeared, blurred and distended as though the abominable snowman himself has passed this way.

But silent is the black ice as it whips my feet from under me. Frantically, I wave my arms in a semaphore of falling as the treacherous smoothness topples me.

The snow is cradled by the shrubs. They bend under their Burdon. It lies frothily across the leaves of the evergreens. Starkly it outlines the twigs and branches like white knobby bones. The paths are obstructed by the stooping hunched bushes. I squeeze past, and as I move, the plants gratefully give up their Burdon as though it were a gift and I, their carefully chosen recipient.

Surreptitiously they drop gobbets of snow into my pockets. Tenderly, they let fall soft cold icy kisses of snow down the back of my neck. They even bend and reach for the warm inside of my boots and dribble their offerings coolly down into my socks. In silence they proffer and deliver their gifts and I feel winter against my warm skin. I shiver but am also glad to be reminded of the season for a cosy gas fire is only moments away.

The birds cluster about the squirrel-proof feeder and chatter. Above in the snow-filled sky, crows caw and their cousins the magpies rattle. High in the ash tree, the robin sings out his merry song. I imagine him, red-breasted against the white snow incrusted branches; beak opened every bid like the image on the traditional Christmas card. He sings out in the quiet winter air and I know he knows he is beautiful.

I turn towards him, wrapped in the song. Confined to barracks I might be, but at least I have the garden and the birds and especially that lovely cheerful singing robin. It is a week past Twelfth night. Yet I cannot bear to take down my Christmas tree. Somehow, until the snow goes, it doesn’t feel right.

Other snow watchers tell me that the snow reveals who has been in the garden. I imagine the snow is scattered with bird prints, dark against the pale like a carefully printed fabric. Amongst them the larger paws of the cat, squirrel and even perhaps the fox may be seen. As delicate as a pen and ink drawing, the black on white is over washed in blue, green, purple, rosy pink and warm orange under the icy white as the changing light of the day effects it.

I reach down to touch my garden alter. It is domed in soft snow, shielded and shelled by ice. I plunge warm fingers in and feel the snow submit then slide away as my body temperature melts it. Hiding underneath, the things on my alter are stuck fast to the log with the fierce grip of the ice.

I bow to the singing robin, stroke a snow edged branch of the rowan tree and make my way carefully indoors. I long for the snow to go so I may be free. yet, this confinement, and this standstill just as the year has turned, this contemplation of the possibility that the light is returning, has allowed me to go within myself, a place I’m still not quite ready to emerge from.

“Thank you Holder, snow queen of the white days,” I whisper as I close the garden door.

2010-01-01T08:54:00.000-08:00

34 The Temple of the birds - Finsbury Park

Thursday December 31, 2009:

Just before midnight, I sneak out into the garden. I lower myself carefully into my sitting place amongst the castor oil plant. From here, I feel invisible.

The sky is already crashing and crackling with anticipatory fireworks. They are far enough away not to be bothersome.

“Dad, it’s nearly time!” wheedles a young boy from a few houses down. Soon his father is in the garden, issuing instructions. My heart sinks.

Effervescently, the air fizzes and hisses. Shortly followed by a series of seemingly random bangs, growing ever louder, the relative peace of the neighborhood is rocked.

“Harrumph!” I mutter darkly as I get up and stump in doors. “Next year,” I say, slamming it rather petulantly, “I’m going to go somewhere out of town where bloody jollity can’t find me!”

Friday January 1, 2010:

Morning comes. I take a cupper into the garden to greet the day. The dew has frozen on the leaves. They are stiff with frost rind. My warm curious finger dislodges a thin sheet, which melts in my palm. Icy shards crackle underfoot as I walk.

Peace reins. I sit down in my usual place and am still. The houses slumber behind their closed curtains, like a sleeper with eyes tight shut determinedly denying the dawn. I have the world to myself!

The robin sings in the apple tree. Beyond the fence, the pigeon coos comfortingly. A magpie rattles irritably and a crow caws high up in the sky. I hear blue tits chattering and behind them, the almost soundless tread of a creeping cat.

The undergrowth hisses and rasps softly as something pushes its way through. I can almost hear the tinkle of breaking ice, falling from the shaken leaves and disturbed bare twigs.

All around beings stand and watch or move quietly. I am surrounded and I sit and enjoy the feeling of being observed. I nod my head at them and listen to how a larger shadow shifts, approaches and then is still.

“Tic-purr, Tic-purr, Tic-purr” sings an unknown bird from near the tall hawthorn.

“What on earth is that?” I wonder, listening hard to the strangeness of the song. Behind it, the wind brings the sound of the geese in the park. They are hooting and babbling, quarrelsome as usual.

“What is it that I will do when I grow up?” I ask of no one in particular. It being a new year, it seems right to reflect right now on that question, especially given the uncertainties that a General Election will bring to my career.

The eagle offers his broad wings. I climb upon him and we soar above the earth, see ourselves reflected most beautifully in great sheets of water. Here, I find a world described in words, my words, carved beautifully in multi-dimensions, painted lovingly in colors that sing gladly in the heart, told cheerfully in songs that everyone knows the chorus of.

The dove dances in the fire. Her tail fanned out, her breast succulently plump. But she is not harmed. It is almost as though she and the fire belong together. Passion and love combine, I think as the flames dance about her. That fits. And this year too, I will journey with fire, I remember.

Bobbing up and down on the water, the duck quacks comically and I laugh and join in. There is really nothing else to do but stick ones bottom up and hunt for food. Amongst the rocks, a tall gaunt crane stands watching. The sun sets behind him. His shadow is austere and the warm glow. So there will be joy and contradictions. I hope I will learn from them.

The owl is silent on his tree stump. Serene and still, he looks harmless but his beak and talons are efficient at catching and dispatching his prey. In the dark of the night I can rest. In stillness, I can be with me, gladly. Doing nothing purposefully is as good as unfocussed frenzied busyness. I am not afraid of the dark for “When the owl hoots, expect a bright ‘morrow”

Wings beat vigorously against the bare branches. Softly, the “thwo-thwo-thwo-thwo-thwo-thwo” of their wings soothes and comforts me.

High up on the Parkland Walk, a large dog barks. Peremptorily, his owner calls him to heal. In the house next door, the washing machine begins to whine.

I commence the rest of my morning circle. As I stand in the mountain pose at the beginning of the “Ha Prayer”, the sun gently touches my cheek. And I think about the dragon from the blue moon eclipse working last night.

“This year,” I say to no one, “like the dragon in the blue moon, I will lick out fear and loathing and breath in love. That’s what I’ll do when I grow up!”I walk back round the temple of the birds and place my hand on each in thanks and farewell. “And this year too,” I say to the birds, “I will dedicate this space to you.”

2010-01-01T08:49:00.000-08:00

33 The dragon in the blue moon – Finsbury Park

Thursday December31, 2009:

I’m feeling frustrated. My arrangements for New Year’s Eve have been sabotaged by adverse weather conditions in the West. My plan to be amongst trees as the calendar year rolls into 2010 is no more. I feel caged and confined. I long to stride the hills, to step carefully through the woods, to dance along the cliff tops, to be anywhere but here, confined by walls, fences and people. But the weather has decided that I’m not going to be set free this night now and I’m growling!

But it is a blue moon! My companion and I sit drinking tea and discussing what we will do to work with it. Even more significantly, it is also a partial Luna eclipse; a moment in time when the earth gets in the way of the sun as the moon passes and thus is obscured. On this occasion the earth’s shadow will fall across its most southerly edge

In the past, people have feared eclipses; in ancient Mesopotamia they used to think the great dragon Tiamat was eating the moon. We talk of how we can use this to do a working to challenge homophobia across the world. We think about the places where homosexuality is punishable by death. We think also of the internalized homophobia that blights LGBT people’s lives too.

Homophobia is often fuelled by fundamentalist interpretations of religions. When partnered with fear of difference, the other, the strange, it is often lethal.

We think about what we could do to change this. We need to lead people from fear and loathing, to compassion and tolerance and eventually to acceptance, respect and honoring. We decide to work from the place of anger into the place of noticing and getting used to difference and other, as represented by the partial Luna eclipse.

It is surprisingly quiet out in the garden. It’s not as cold as my companion feared. She tells me that the moon is partially obscured by thin cloud but that the cloud is moving and from time to time the moon beams down upon us from the east above the trees.

We enter the temple part of my garden, the area guarded by the eagle of the East, the dove of the South, the duck of the West and the owl of the North. All are invited to join our working. We settle to begin our work.

Post menopausal women are great growlers. My companion who has a deep rich chocolaty contralto voice growls most marvelously. I am encouraged by her excellent example to connect with the trapped frustration I feel and to begin to growl too. My throat shakes and I grumble deep in my chest. I snarl and scowl, snap my lips and grind my teeth. I grimace hideously, feeling my skin stretching across the fine bones of my face. It feels good so I do it some more.

I prance from foot to foot, like prowling on the spot. I stamp my feet. My hands claw-like, pawing the air malevolently as I begin to enjoy the truly nasty noises I am making.

My great wings spread out over the spinning land below. I wheel across the land as it spins beneath me. I can see my shadow darkening the earth for the moon is shining brightly behind me. I know I look scary and I like that!

Their eyes are white with fear. I swoop down and land upon their chests, one by one. I drink from their hearts. I drink up all their fear and loathing. I feast until I am filled by their fear and loathing. I roar with anger and my roar shakes the earth.

And as I suck out all their hatred from their hearts, I breathe my hot breath into the space left behind. I warm their hearts, Breathing and breathing until I am breathless and can roar no more.

When I am done, I spread my great wings and fly up towards the silver disk that is the moon sailing through the dark sky above me. I fly with the moon as she moves, my great dark body shadowing part of her southern face. We sail together towards the west.

Down below, the people stair up. They see the moon looking different and because their hearts are empty of fear and loathing, they love her because of her difference. Now, they realise is the time to celebrate her when she has an unusual face.

I lie with the moon like a lover. I am sated. My great body relaxes and I sleep, my heavy head resting on the roundness of her.

I know what I have done and I am satisfied. In breathing the hot fiery breath into their hearts, I have breathed in love to replace the fear and loathing that I licked out. So if they accept and learn to love the moon with this unusual face, can they come to accept those who live amongst them who are different, are strange, and are other?

My companion begins to sing to the moon. I join in. We croon along gently, like singing a lullaby. Soon we find words of comfort to sing, words of endurance, of gathering strength and of celebration.

The moon shines down, her lower right side shadowed slightly at the edge. I imagine her imperfect face and I love her for that difference. I think about the other moon gazers, watching her from across Europe and Africa and hope they are loving her beauty in her difference too.

Our work is done. We bow to the moon and thank the northern owl, the Western duck, the southern dove and eastern eagle. We thank too, the great dragon sleeping on the breast of the moon. Soon she will slip away into the dark night again to continue her work of feasting on fear and loathing and leaving behind love.

2009-12-26T13:38:00.001-08:00

32 the Robin and the Wren

Saturday December 26, 2009:

It is St Stephen’s Day. The frenzy of Christmas is over. We humbuggers breathe a sigh of relief and can go about our business alone and openly again , no longer prey to the sentimental compassion of others who think that to be alone at Christmas means you are a sad loser!

I have spent an autonomously happy day with myself. I am quietly contented. At this quiet time between Yule and the new calendar year, I have time to think and be, to reflect and to work. I write, I dream, I journey and I SING.

With the turning of the year and the return of the light, Robin and Wren are the birds of the season. For me, they are the sacred twins, the holly and the oak and the storm and the sun. As a twin, I feel deeply connected to both.

All hail, wren the king of birds. All hail robin, the prince of the garden, I say as my companion and I create our circle and call in both birds with recordings of their glorious songs. On the alter are holly and oak, a gold and a red candle, and images of wren and robin.

Rolling up our circle and taking it with us, we walk up onto the Parkland Walk and make for a clearing to one side of the path. Here From time to time walkers pass, but they ignore the two middle-aged women sitting by a young tree beyond naked shrubs.

Our Intension today is to connect with the wren and the robin. We know the history of these birds and we want to apologise for how humans have treated them. We want to know how we personally can atone for what our people have done in the past. We want to know what we can do to honour and celebrate their lives and contribution to our diverse and rich ecology.

I play a recording of the robin. A robin in a nearby tree begins to sing back as though to say, “Call that beautiful singing, well hear this!”

I play the recording of the wren and the robin sings louder. I listen to the birds and wonder if I can hear amongst the trilling and whistling, the vibrant pulsing rapid shrillingly loud song of the wren. Beyond them, wood pigeons coo noisily, and far off, a crow caws.

My companion reads the following two poems in honour of our sacred avian twins.

The Wren

The wren, the wren the king of all birds
On St Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze,
Up with the kettles and down with the pans
And give us a penny to bury the wren.
The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
St Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze
Although he is little his family’s great,
Put yer hand in yer pocket and give us a trate.
Sing holly, sing ivy – sing ivy, sing holly,
A drop just to drink it would drown melancholy
And if you draw it of the best,
I hope in heaven yer soul will rest,
But if you draw it of the small
It won’t agree wid de wren boys at all.

Who killed Cock Robin?

I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."
"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."
"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."
"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."
"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."
"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."
"Who'll be the clerk?" "I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."
"Who'll carry the link?" "I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."
"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."
"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."
"Who'll bear the pall?”We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."
"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush,
"As she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm."
"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.

My heart feels heavy. I hang my head and lean against the tree.

“Sorry,” I say once more.

I enter a clearing in the wood. The sun is slanting low between the trees. It is the end of the day. I sit down and make a fire to warm myself with. I sit tending it and waiting.

Suddenly the peace is pierced by tremulous staccato, loud and clear. Again and again the song fills the air. Its characteristic trilling flows tells me that wren is here. I look towards the sound and see the small brown bird sitting on a bush ahead and to the left. I bow low and he sings on.

The woods are full of singing this afternoon. In the distance, I hear pigeons, crows and an assortment of other unidentifiable songbirds. Amongst them, hard by me on the right from the depths of another bush, comes the silver whistling song of robin. I squint towards the bush which sits in shadow with the last of the sun’s rays behind it. I screw up my eyes and can just make out a cheerful robin sitting singing his heart out.
It is clear they know each other is there, the two birds duet together. Their songs intertwine, call and response, sometimes in tandem, together they sing in the warmth of the setting sun in the lively woods.

I sit listening, silently apologizing for the treatment of their ancestors. I think about what I can do to make amends and then it comes to me. I should do a ritual of atonement and to honour the wren and the robin each year on St Stephen’s Day.

“It would be my honour to do that,” I say to the singing birds, bowing my head.

I wonder if there is anything else they would like me to do. I wish I could find the words to put in a song. Perhaps I’ll work on that?

I sit and listen. Their singing is so beautiful and I feel so peaceful. Perhaps I should also take time to be in places to stop and to appreciate their singing.

“This too I will be honoured to do,” I say to the birds, bowing again.

The tiny birds sing in their bushes as the sun grows lower and the shadows darken the clearing. My fire burns down to glowing ashes. It’s getting a bit cold. I shiver.

The wren flies off. I hear him singing as he moves. Then he flies back still singing and darts off again. I get up and follow him, for I am sure he means me to.

We move through the darkening wood. He takes me to another clearing. A dead tree lies decaying, covered in fungus, gradually and slowly returning to the earth. Many creatures live upon it, feasting on the nutritious matter that is the decaying wood.

“All things must die to transform and be reborn again as something else. Death is life.” I think. I bow again in acknowledgement of a thought that I am sure was his and which he has given to me. With a crescendo of trilling, the wren flies off.

I hear him singing as I move back through the woods. I hear also the robin singing. I FOLLOW THE SOUND OF THE WRENT TAKING ME TO THE ROBIN.

The robin leaves his bush and I follow him through the woods. I walk into a glade that is still sunny with the last rays of the sun. The robin flies into a low green bush on a green bank. There in the beam of the sun’s last rays, a ragged bright red flower shivers in the evening breeze.

I kneel down and touch its silky softness. I gaze hard at its brightness and I feel my heart lift. It’s the kind of red to make you laugh out loud with joy. I throw back my head and roar with mirth. My voice bounces off the trees, ringing in the woods canopy. The birds sing back their joy in the final chorus of the evening woods. And as I listen I know that there’s always brightness. There’s always life and it is filled with joy. I bow to the little robin and to the raggedy red flower.

I begin to sing to the birds up in the bare winter canopy. They sing back. My companion and I drink tea out of wren and robin mugs (mine is the robin’s one). We eat vegan marzipan chocolate and share our experiences.

I tell her why the image of the robin has played an important part in my life. It symbolizes cheerfulness in the depths of winter and courage in the face of adversity. It was the first picture I drew when I returned to drawing after going blind. It led me to get to art school and changed my life.

The air is cooling. I’m thinking about dinner. We thank the birds again and pack up. Carefully we edge our way down the slippery bank back onto the main path and head for home and the warmth.

2009-12-21T13:54:00.000-08:00

31 Calling Owls

Monday December 21, 2009:

Its 12:45 am. It’s the middle of the night for this early bird. Yet the city is still singing. I stand in my garden, wrapped up against the bitter northern wind, teetering on the glass smooth ice. A shift of balance and I’ll be over! I allow my knees to be loose as I carefully balance.

I’m seeking the owl. Twice I’ve heard him at dawn, several times in the middle of the night. His aloof hoot sometimes hard to hear and once early in the morning before the day had woken, shockingly loud and very very close. Tonight, it’s police cars, fire engines and ambulances that are howling against the darkness of the winter’s night.

Only the northerly wind shakes the twigs crossly as it skims across the frosty garden. I retract into the warmth of my thick duffle coat and stretch out my ears to hear behind the city scope, to the voice of the wild beyond.

In the lull before the next bright burst of wailing, the trees shake in the wind. The ice crackles as though someone stealthily steps along the path. Beyond the boundries of my hearing, something wails; is it a baby crying, a dog whining or a cat yowling … or is it something altogether more primeval, raw, and wild?

I quietly hoot under my breath. Only the wind whispers back, hissing like a breath, indrawn in protest because of the bitter cold.

The frost is sharply sweet, like damp earth translucently diluted by ice. Is that the smoky waft of a cigarette spinning across the garden next door? I breathe in deeply and the cold sears my nostrils achingly. The sweet green odor of ivy softens the acridity of petrol fumes wafting along the street beyond the house.

I imagine the silent owl; high in the ash tree beyond the fence. His hearing sifts the spaces between the yowling, howling city to the quiet crunch that might be dinner, stealthily creeping its way between the stiff leaves of the shrubs behind me. The breeze touches them and they clatter thinly.

I reach out to touch. An ice-hard teardrop of snow shivers on the leaf before it slides into my warm bare hand, there to melt away. The foliage is brittle, starched and bitter-feeling.

I imagine the owl, his wings stretched out, swooping down from the tree, down into the undergrowth to pounce on something small and scurrying, warm and alive and soon to be his supper. I hoot quietly again and stretch out my ears to hearer an anseringcall; but none comes.

A mile away, the crouch End clock tower chimes once. The wind lifts the sound and delivers it to me as though to say,
“Not an owl but a bell, will that do?”

I reach down and touch the concrete owl sitting squatly on his tree trunk. He is glassed with ice and frozen into stillness. Carefully, I trace his eyes, ears and beak, gently wiping away the frost rind.

The owl will not sing for me this night, it seems. So be it. I bow to the owl and carefully crunch my way down the garden path to the backdoor.

2009-12-20T16:05:00.000-08:00

30 Old crow woman – Highgate

Saturday December 19, 2009:

“In the dark, dark hart of the night, when all is still, when all is quiet, the earth sleeps. , Silently, she surrenders to the night, submits to the stillness that brings her deep rest that helps her recoup her energy for the time when the light will return.” I say as the company settle down to rest, all around me.

I sit in stillness. The drumbeat, a muffled heart-beat rocks me. The circle is quiet. Slowly, their breath unites to dance with the drum and the gentle rumbling snoring of someone who is too tired to dream

I call to dark mother to watch over us, to great mama bear to cradle us on her soft round belly, to fierce old crow woman to protect us from harm.

The earth holds me. I am still; in that place before it is time to grow. Conserving and preserving, I rest and wait.
“Deep in the earth,
Deep in her womb.
Cradled in the dark,
Resting in the tomb.”

I am in a dark cave. Far in the distance, a light flickers. Gold dances on the coal black walls, cracked and fissured in fine lines, like feathers.

I walk towards the light which dances beyond a great jagged black shadow. She stands before the fire, silhouetted against its leaping golden flames, her great beak cruelly sharp, and her black eye shining. .

I kneel before her, head bent. Silently, I make my request, the wish I can hardly name, so ashamed am I for having to admit it. But by voicing it, I make it real and my desire to change, with it.

“Trust”, she caws deeply and her voice bounces off the walls and comes back to me a thousand times.

“Trust … trust … trust … trust … trust” say the walls.

She stands aside and beckons me to the fire. I hold my hands out and dance with the flames. They move and grow as I shape the heat. As I weave the flames I resolve to let go of what I no longer need if I have trust. Brilliant blue flame leaps as though to snatch something from the air. The fire burns fiercely, consuming, transforming all.

The great dark figure turns from the fire and walks into the shadows beyond. I am drawn to follow her. The blackness swallows her up and I am left alone. Only my soft breathing tells me I am alive.

The softest of golden rays hits the shining wall to my right. It ripples with iridescent sparkling currents. I walk towards its inviting light.

“Light is returning,
Although it seems the darkest hour.
Nothing can hold back the dawn.”

“It is an act of will, an act of courage, in the darkest times, to affirm that light will return …” says the other priestess.

“… We call upon the brightness that will heal the earth that will whisper to seeds that it is time to put out green shoots that will warm the dead places in our hearts that will make newness, life, joy and laughter both possible and right. Because we have rested with the dead, we who believe in life must always be ready for the next rebirth. Because the times are difficult, we who believe in life must sing and dance to call the new light into being, knowing that it cannot be held back.” She continues.

I pick up the drum and begin to beat steadily. Throwing back my head, my heart filled with hope, I sing:

“Celebrate the birth of the sun,
Light the way O Lucina.
Dance around on Sabbath night.
Blessed be the great mother!”

I feel my body begin to move as the circle bounces into life. Voices rise in joy; we dance a spiral dance for the love of life. Smiling dances pass each other as they circle me and I am bathed in the warmth of the ecstasy of their dance. The sun is born. We are alive as the world is alive!

The song soars. Hands reach out and capture the energy and direct it down into the earth. She who has been betrayed by the farce of Copenhagen is given our love in hopes that it will help to heel her.

Laughing, we pass the sack of bounty. Together we feast an drink, blessing each other as hand to hand, we share sustenance.

And in the back of my mind, I see the old crow woman. I taste pomigrannit on my tongue sweet and rich. I savor the juicy fruit of the mince pie and I thank her silently for her wisdom. At the back of my throat, I feel air moving through my vocal chords and, Under cover of a raucus laugh; a quiet caw escapes in honour of her. I fold my hands across my breast and slightly bow my head, before reaching out and liberating a piece ofchristmas cake from a passing platter.

2009-12-20T16:03:00.001-08:00

29 Crow’s feet – Finsbury Park

Saturday December 19, 2009:

“The crow she is the Cailleach’s bird,
She brings magic to the world.
The bravest man is he who shows
No fear to talk with big black crows.

The crow she brings you news of death
Where‘re a baby draws its breath.
And as he grows, where’re he goes,
He’ll be followed by big black crows.

There is a man amongst the grain
Through the summer he shall rein.
His father sent him many foes.
His enemies are big black crows.

There is a woman by the hill.
If she’s not dead she lives there still.
The henbane all around her grows.
Her only friends are big black crows.

The biggest crow I ever did see,
Was taller than the tall oak tree.
We shot him with arrows and with bows,
And we feasted for days on big black crow.

Fly away big black crow.
Crow don’t go where ploughman go.
Where the seed grows, the good seed grows.
Without the help of big black crow.

(Words adapted by LH from an original song by someone else … thanks, unknown songstress!)

The garden is stiff with frost. It crunches beneath our feet as we step carefully along the slippery path. The shrubs hiss grittily as we brush past them, their twigs frozen in stillness against the sharp northern wind.

“There are bird prints in the snow”, says my companion, carefully placing her model of a crow down amongst them on the grey slate bench. Theconcreate owl perched on his log hard-by sits silently watching as we make ready to connect with the spirit of the crow.

It is so cold that we determine to move about, even hopping perhaps as the crow does. I stand on one leg and tentatively bounce. Nothing happens. I don’t seem to be able to get lift off. I flap my arms as though they are wings and try again. My knee groans in protest and I desist, placing both feet firmly on the ground, I shuffle a bit and then grow still.

Across the curved breast of the snow blanketed hillside, large bird prints March darkly into the distance. I put my feet down carefully so as not to obliterate their sharp three-pronged beauty and follow them. At the top of the hill, I see the tracks ascend into an Oakwood, dark twisted arms, tangle stark against the white sky. I step carefully down into the vale.

Beyond the trees, I see something dark flickering against the white snow. I speed up but it seems to be moving away faster than I can walk. Through the trees now, the path rises and then dips down into another valley. More bare leaved trees stretch, climbing the steep sides of the hill. I trudge on, sure I can see something dark and moving against the silver sky.

My boots crunch sharply on the frost rind snow. My labored breathing meets the beat of my feet with every step I take. Still the bird prints lead me on, up and over another hill, through rocks and boulders, their deep black showing only in the parts where the snow has not settled...

“takka-takka-takka-takka!” rattles a magpie three gardens away …

Down amongst oaks and birches, guarded by dark, dark sharp holly, with berries deeply red like shiny beads of blood, stands the blackest of squat, gnarled hollow oaks. The bird prints lead right up to it. Beyond is mystery, but I am determined to follow. Bending low under the prickly protective arms of the holly, I stoop and enter the low wide gash in the side of the tree.

Black against the black she stands, her feathery clothing trembling in the chill of the dark chamber. Her face, the great beak, severe and cruelly sharp, the black eye shining as she observes me. I hold my breath and wait.

“Death is silence and stillness” she caws. Stillness is patience, patience, patience.”

I bow my head in submission and caw …

High up in the sky, circling over the ash tree beyond the fence crow caws three times...

Bidding crow farewell, I bow and back out, turning I climb stiffly under the overhanging holly. I look to see my footsteps following the crow’s, but I see only two pairs of crow’s feet, one smaller than the other., Casting my eyes down to my own feet I see a pair of crow’s feet, half submerged into the snow, their curved black talons pointing in three directions.

I raise my head and caw. The hills throw me back my own call and we duet competitively for a while.

The slate crunches beneath me as I bounce up and down on one leg. But this is very hard work and I soon give it up. Cawing to each other, my companion and I stump back to the house and the warm.

2009-12-03T13:12:00.001-08:00

What the Raven said – Tower of London

Friday November 27, 2009:

We’ve come to the tower of London, my raven appreciating friend and I. It’s a lovely November day. Behind the snapping wind, the winter sun warms our faces. We move through the courts in search of ravens.

We’ve timed it just right. The Raven Master, a beefeater who rears and handles the birds is about to feed them. We are amazed to learn that the ravens think he is one of them!

Three ravens are in the aviary. One (Gwillum) is elderly, another (Elizzie) almost blind and a third (Merlin) is recovering from some illness or injury. I want to go to meet the blind one, but the aviary is on the other side of the lawn.

I stand by the fence and sing deeply in my throat. “Guarg-guarg” I caw.

“Oh” says my companion excitedly, “Here comes one!” She describes his hopping gate as he bounces across the grass. I begin to hop and flap, but find it too much hard work and stop.

I speculate on how we could fashion a raven dance which imitates (respectfully of course) their gait. They hop one foot raised delicately off the ground. They bounce, clipped wings flapping. They masterfully stalk, head held high and proud.

But we’re here to do ceremony, I remember at last. Outcome our raven masks and we begin our call to them with our attempts to do the raven dance. Sure that we look silly, and attracting a certain amount of attention from both ravens and tourists, we subside into seats and allow ourselves to connect more decorously.

It is windy on this crag, but the sky is blue and clear above me. I sit and wait.

“Guarg”, says the big black bird standing before me. I sit still and gaze at him, dark as the dark rock on which he sits, his head held still as he eyeballs me.

In a moment he is closer. He leans his head against my knees. WE are silent as I force myself to keep still. It is a huge effort of control to stop myself reaching out and touching.

He turns and offers me his back, his great wings outspread. I see this for the invitation it is. Carefully I climb upon his back. It seems hardly possible that he can take my weight. We soar suddenly into the sky.

The black rocks spin beneath us. We climb high into the pale blue sky, and the land takes shape beneath me. The rocks are edged with a pale glistening sea sparkling in the sunlight.

We fly across a dark cliff and into a deep cave. Out of the wind, if feels warm, if not dry - I can hear dripping water somewhere.

In front of me, a deeper darkness moves. I hold my breath as my eyes become adjusted to the gloom. There before me stands an enormous raven.

“Guarg-guarg” he says.

I bow my head. My beak touches the rock before me; my neck is stretched out in supplication. Something touches my head. The heavy beak gently strokes the feathers. I feel soothed and gentled.

“Mine, mine, you are mind” says the raven.

I am still. He is still. Time moves on.

I am alone. Behind me I hear the scratching of claws on the rock. The raven who brought me has returned to take me away.

“guarg-guarg” bubbles a rasping voice behind my still companion. “Guarg-guarg” I say out loud. My companion responds, for this is our signal that our journeys are ended.

We talk of our experiences. I am clear that the raven has asked me to pay more attention to him in my spiritual work. I rfeflectwith some trepidation how that will turn out.

My companion tells of her encounter and the work she will do to honour the Corvus family including helping others to find their particular crow family totem. We discuss devising and demonstrating the raven dance as a way of connecting and other work we might do in their honour.

I stand by the fence and sing low in the back of my throat. A raven caws; I like to think it is in response to me.

The sun is low behind the buildings now. The air has definitely cooled. I shiver.

The Raven Master appears; it’s time for the ravens to go to bed! He begins to call them each by name, whistling to them, tapping the top of the aviary, walking about the grass toshepperd them safely to their night boxes. One by one, they come, some eagerly, some grumblingly, hopping, bouncing and stalking, cheerfully, dignifiedly, reluctantly.

All birds gathered in, we stand for a moment in front of their boxes. We call to them in thanks. Our work done this day, we turn into the warmth of a nearby souvenir shop for a bit of post ritual retail therapy. Every good ritual should end with a bit of shopping, I think. It’s almost as grounding as chocolate!

2009-12-03T13:08:00.000-08:00

Crow circles – Highgate Cemetery

Tuesday November 3, 2009:

The sky softly arches overhead as we walk through the park. Beside the lake, ducks quarrel amongst themselves. Overhead, crows caw in the turbulent air.

In the deserted cemetery, we move silently amongst the graves, laid out in rows all around us. Not far past Marx’s tomb, a riot of wreaths is piled high on a newly covered grave. A large hammer and sickle tells us, we are at the right place.

We’re here now because I couldn’t be at the funeral. We’re also here because it’s the full moon and we’ve been working with the issues of illness and death these past two moons.

According to my personal bird calendar, we’ve now entered the time of crow, raven and owl. The earth has turned and, in that time past Samhain, where we move into ourselves, to reflect, rest and be still, it is a kind of annual dying. It is for me certainly a time to die to what no longer serves me.

A comrade has died unexpectedly. His influence has shaped a lot of my public work this last eight years. His life focus on socialism and justice reminds me that my work is not yet done, although his is.

My companion and I circle the grave, casting the circle and calling up the directions. We walk round and round, singing revolutionary songs in his honour.

The trees shake in the wind. The moving air brushes my cheek. A crow circles above and caws roughly. A young woman appears from somewhere and stands silently for a moment before moving on. I don’t know who she is. I stand still and wait in the quiet.

And I am a crow flying above the graveyard. I see the mounds spreading out, row upon row across the hillside. I see the figures by the flower clustered grave. They are very small.

So many dead. All gone. Nothing remains but the plot of land in which they lie. Amongst the well-known dead, this cemetery is the resting place of a number of comrades from my life. I think about my neighbor who died of AIDS. I remember a colleague who had a brain tumor. I remember another whose voice in the words she wrote expressed so much. All have affected me, changed me because they were in my life, deeply, daily, occasionally.

I stand by the grave and breathe in the sweetness of the flowers, and the richness of the recently turned earth. “Thank you”, I say to the comrade who is no more. Our work done. We open the circle and I bow to the grave and we move away.

Walking amongst the graves, we come across George Elliot’s. My companion reads her stone and the inscriptions on the graves around her.

It is late. If we’re not careful, we’ll get locked in as the cemetery is about to close. Hurrying now, we make our way to the gates. , a crow caws as he circles high in the sky above the silent cemetery.

2009-11-01T13:46:00.001-08:00

26 The fallen warriors

Saturday October 31, 2009:

“Veiled by clouds, the moon shines down.
Across the undulating belly of the earth,
A snake of silent people move.
Connect, remember, honour
Our fallen warriors; our dear beloved dead.”

“It’s an ash tree not a lime”, Declares one of my companions as we stride across the tussocky heath. The sky fizzes with fireworks. The moon peeps out from behind hazy clouds.

We circle the tree, make sacred space and call our ancestors.
We light candles and place them at the bottom of the tree. The smell of the wax reminds me of the smell of the air of Trafalgar Square last night and the hundreds of candles burning at the foot of an impromptu stage. Another gay man has been murdered. The community gathers to say “no more, enough is enough!”

I call the spirits of our fallen warriors, my brothers and sisters in struggle from all communities. AS we stand in circle around the tree, I feel them walking across the heath towards us, streaming in from all directions, from all communities.

The snake of silent walkers swings round the tree, moves through the veil (a piece of blackpaterned net swinging from a branch of the tree. Foot in front of foot, we move, connected with silvery ribbons, we move as one behind the drummer.

The grass hisses on either side of me. I feel the presence of many feet. Without speech, connected heart to heart, they tell me their stories. I learn of their lives and how they were ended.

At first they tell me, it was the names, solo initially and then a hail of hate. Of course it was never to end there. A blow, a blade, , a brick, a boot, a blaze of searing light; shit covered nails, arching through the air, smashing into flesh. In the moment before oblivion, the inconsequential thought and then the heart-stopping spasm of fear. Disbelief turns into certainty back into disbelief again.

My flesh shrinks as though it receives the blows; I feel my anger rise and the tears come. “Why” I say to myself, “how can we be so hated?”

“It’s because we are different”, the dead ones whisper. “It’s our very existence which challenges the status quo, the acceptance of normality”, they say. And of course I know this and know too that it has been so since the beginning of time.

”Say no to hate crimes” I hear the dead whisper. And I know that this is what I must do. I must use words to fight the hatred, to change it, stop it.

The walkers swing round and through the veil, circle the tree, hold hands and connect. Behind its sheltering branches, the dead of my community stand and wait until it is time to go.

Silently, we bid farewell to our dear beloved dead. I turn and bow towards my brothers and sisters in struggle, still standing silently watching, beyond the tree’s shelter. They turn and move away, walking in all directions. Long grass swishes beneath their feat as they move back into the night.

2009-11-01T13:44:00.000-08:00

25 … And the feathery nest …

Tuesday October 27, 2009:

On top of one Tree Hill, we stand and face the curving river. The sky is mackerel, according to my companion, who with nerves of steel has just made it up the deeply cambered steep path in her electric wheel chair. But One Tree Hill is not the place for us we decide.

With relief I lie down on the grass on top of a burial mound on the other side of the park. I raise my face to the sun. The sky is now a clear blue. Only the caw of the crows can be heard on top of the whispering trees in front of the deeper hum of the traffic beyond.

“Goodness!” I say to no one in particular, as something seizes my feet and swings me up in the air. Above me, the down draft of huge beating wings ruffles my hair. Grasped in sharp curving claws. I see her dark wings against the pale sky as she soars towards the sun.

It seems like I am drifting. Gently, I am laid down on a bed of the softest, silkiest feathers. I sigh, sinking deep into them and am content. Time moves on.

“Oh” I gasp as I am swung up into the air again. The claws, the great dark body, the same pale sky rotates as we rise. She lies me down again on the curving bank of a meadow and I relax back until once more I am swung into the air.

Now I lie under the sheltering branches of a stout chestnut tree. All is quiet. The tree leans over me as though watching. The sky changes. I am returned to the bed of soft feathers until removed once more to the grassy bank.

The trees lose their leaves, become skeletal and then begin to bud. The sky thins and whitens until with the sharp winds of winter’s end, I hear the blackbird sing. All winter I sit still in nature or lie cocooned in feathers.

Last week, I remember as I become conscious of the burial mound upon which I am lying, I was encouraged to dance in nature to get me through the winter. Now the birds invite me to sit in solitude and stillness in silence. Perhaps I’ll do both, I think, rolling over, preparatory to getting up.

“I’m going to buy a duvet”, I say as I get slowly to my feet. I stretch and yawn, raise my face to the warm sun. “This is the life”, I think, bowing to the birds and the sky and the undulating land.

2009-10-24T13:32:00.000-07:00

24 Swallow Dance

Saturday October 24, 2009:

Invisible wind, cool and moist
Dance the trees, Sing the leaves.
Dapple my cheek with soft wet kisses
Lift me,
Exquisite wind
Fly me hhome.

“Ah” I sigh, the sound catches in my throat and I feel a movement in my chest. The drizzle is gentle, tapping lightly at exposed skin. It is the wind that draws that sigh of heartfelt contentment, southerly, soft but firm. Cooling rather than biting, it arrives, says “hello” and hangs around to be appreciated.

Today’s companion is full of knowledge about Alexander Palace Park, in North London. We walk from tree to tree, appreciating, respecting, and saluting them one by one. I never knew the park held such lovely spaces, places where those who love the land have worked for years, small groves, curving hillocks, curious trees whose spirits, watch, welcome and allow. I am filled with gratitude for her, this place and the day.

We’re here because I want to find a high hill on which to dance with the swallows. At this time of migrating birds, I want to discover and then bring forward for appreciation what it is that will sustain me through the winter. It seems appropriate therefore to do this with the birds that are now flying south to the place that will sustain them for their winter too. The swallows are flying across Europe to Africa. The turns are arriving from the north to overwinter in these more gentle lands. Everywhere, the land makes preparation for the winter.

We climb to the highest part of the hill. Facing south, the Thames valley spreads out below us. Through trees, the buildings set themselves out in their accustomed places under the grey sky. St Paul’s, Canary Warf, the Dome and beyond them, Crystal Palace and the hills of the North Downs are revealed to me through my companion’s description. , my city lies before me, my home.

“Come feathered ones, dance on the breeze,
Wings beat the rhythm of the turning world,
Come!
Come dancing ones, soar to the sun
Gilded bright upon your outreached wings,
Come!
Come gliding ones, turn and eddy on the wind
Circle, spin and flow,
Come!
Come powerful ones, muscles strong and flexed
Cleave through the eddying air
Come!”

I let the wind move me as I stand, feet apart, strong and grounded on the curve of the earth. My arms curved like the wings of the swallow, I rock.

“What is it that will see me through the winter?” I ask myself.

Oh how the earth spins. Below, the trees, buildings, grey snaking roads and grey glistening rivers whirl giddily. I feel the power in my shoulders and pound the air as I soar up towards the pale golden glimmer beyond the opaque clouds.
The land below parts and allows the glimmering grey green sea to spread itself widely. I see in its reflection a thousand curving dark shapes surrounding the curve that is me. We are all swooping and soaring. I am flying with the swallows!

We fly in a great flock, wings beating pattering vigorously as they chitter-chitter-chitter-chitter-chitter-chee-eek!” cheerfully to each other.

I laugh, throwing back my head and reaching out my arms and am precipitated into a roll as I “chitter-chitter-chee-eek” back to them in sheer delight. My stomach drops and I gasp, rolling again, just because I can.

Down on the earth, I begin to dance. I dance with the wind, turning, bending reaching out my arms. Bending my back. I am elegant, joyful and flowing. I dance, moving my feet, turning with the wind and the toggles of my rain jacket swing wildly as I move. I gather up the air and waltz it around, tenderly embracing it, then letting it fall; I dance my heartbeat, my breath, the wind and the soft gentle rain.

“Wearing my bright winged feathers as I fly,
Wearing my bright winged feathers as I fly,
I circle around,
I circle around,
The boundaries of the earth.”

I sing and I dance and I know that this is what will get me through the winter. I will dance on the land to the song of my body. This will be my life dance and my gift to the day.
A second voice joins with mine. My companion steps into the circle. Together we dance the space of our casting, laughing and singing, our voices weaving in and out of each others as we weave in and out of the space.

In time, we are still. And the dancing birds are thanked and we move off to find lunch.

Later, we stand on the edge of a lake whilst the turns, newly arrived from the north, shriek and fight over tossed bits of bread. My companion marvels at how they don’t get their tails wet, at their round buoyancy and their determined snatching of food from under the beaks of the swans. I shriek, honk and quack at the cheerfully importuning waterfowl at our feet and am happy.

Later still, I hold a slim birch tree in my hands as she sways with the wind. Shifting and moving oh so gently against my tender fingers, I am moved by the simplicity of her dance.

“Beautiful wind, aid the migrants as they fly home. May they arrive safely and return to dance in our skies once more when the sun is reborn.

“Ah” I sigh stroking the elegant birch. Thank you for the dance, Lady of the Woods,” I say, and turning, follow my companion through the cops and back to the road.

2009-09-27T09:56:00.001-07:00

A mother’s harvest

Saturday September 19, 2009:

“Above the rustling russet trees,
Starlings ride the autumn breeze.
Curve-winged against the pale fall sky,
They turn, circle and southward fly.
At summer’s end, the nights draw in.
Our harvest’s safely gathered in.”

The gentle warmth of the golden sun slants low between the trees, nuzzling my cheek as I walk with others down the steep incline to our ritual place.

“I love this time of year”, we say to each other.

My companions feast their eyes upon the turning leaves, the soft yellows, russets and reds against the still dark green of the holly and the softening browns of tree trunks. I breathe in deeply through my nose; savor the smoky, damp, mushroom richness of nature full and sweet with summer sun. In the deep shadows, in the cool hollows I can smell her as she allows herself to begin to break down and fold silently into the waiting welcoming earth, ready to sleep till the sun is born again at Yule.

And as I walk, I think about what Starhawk writes of this time of year and how it relates to my own life. She says:
“This is the time of harvest, of thanksgiving and joy, of leave-taking and sorrow. Now day and night are equal, in perfect balance, and we give thought to the balance and flow within our own lives. The Sun King has become the Lord of Shadows, sailing west: we follow Him into the dark. Life declines; the season of barrenness is on us, yet we give thanks for that which we have reaped and gathered. We meet to turn the Wheel and weave the cord of life that will sustain us through the dark."

We gather amongst the trees and lay out our alter. In circle, we give up what no longer serves us, weave our web of community, and walk the spiral to bring balance in to our lives. That done, we dance and sing our thanksgiving.

AS we work, I listen to the woods. They rustle and crackle around us, like a lazy autumn fire. Beyond the shrieks of children playing nearby and the joyful barking dogs pounding through the undergrowth, I listen for the birds.

Gone are the hurtling ones, those who dodge through the undergrowth, across the gorse covered heath, who perch high up in the leafy trees calling to the sun as the red legged partridge calls across the flatlands of East Anglia. Sacrificed to an incomprehensible blood lust, they have been hunted down across the heath lands and woodlands of these isles. My heart heavy, I know that this festival is their wake and wish I’d incorporated this into what we are doing.

I think about my summer’s harvest and am sad. Somehow, amongst the green hils of Wales and the sunny glades of Spain, I lost something. Summer slipped between my fingers, like a moving sunbeam and before I knew it, my dreams of relishing the long warm days had gone. I never went to meet the game birds and now it is too late.

“Hold this moment of sorrow”, I tell myself. It is time to take leave of summer and all her trappings, of the sunshine, the warm breeze and of those shrieking, dancing ungainly game birds. They are a symbol of the earth folding in upon herself and allowing the decay, for from death comes life and the circle turns.

And as I think this, a picture of my old Mum comes into my head.

“I’m going to outlive the lot of you!” she declares stoutly as she battles with infirmity after infirmity. Grinning widely, like a frog, her eyes magnified behind her glasses, she does her exercises with diligence, takes her medication and makes plans for the future. In the autumn of her years, she shines like the sun on a late September day, surprisingly warm, heart-warming and uplifting.

“Let go of regrets”, I say to myself, “the past is gone. Live for today, for now, for this moment.” I breathe and smell again the sweetness of autumn and am comforted for I am here now and it is beautiful.

I take a feather; it is black, white and grey, surely a magpie’s, I think. I wave it gently to and thro and hear the quiet swishing, the gentlest of wing beats. In my mind, I see a blue autumnal sky filled with turning circling forked tailed starlings, heading south, riding the brisk breezes of September, and searching for the constant sun.

I think about my mother’s life. Since my earliest days I’ve wanted her to have a better deal. Wanted her to have a husband that appreciated and respected her, a careering which she felt truly fulfilled, for her immense talents to be recognized and for her children to be a credit to her.

The clearing looks as it did before we came. Only a brightly colored woolen spider’s web swings from the branches of a tree, flapping gently in the early evening breeze.

The circle opened, we move in different directions through the woods. I take a handful of smooth acorns. They are warm against my palm. I imagine them filled with the sun. Now they are still, resting, waiting for its return, waiting to burst forth, a new life, a new tree.

And I think as I walk through the trees, surely too I am part of my mother’s harvest? I know she is proud of me. I am who I am partly because of her example of strength and independence. Her life goes on through me. Though she falters, may I walk with her along this next part of her life’s journey. May I lighten her load by lifting her spirits so that we may dance in cheerful optimism, no matter what comes next. For all we have is this day, this hour, this moment.

Blessings to the mothers.

2009-08-17T12:50:00.000-07:00

22 Sylven Dove

Friday August 14, 2009:

Soundlessly and carefully we walk across the damp grass to the central fire. The rest of the camp sleeps beyond their tent walls. Stiff from lack of sleep and damp camping, I am tottering, rocking from side to side as I put one foot in front of another. Finally, I stand by the crackling and snapping fire, a centre of comforting heat against the chill morning air.

We’ve gathered to meet the folk of the land and in particular to communicate with beings who have revealed themselves to one of our party. More naturally a lark, I am happy to be up at this hour, even if my body protest. I am eager to know more of the spirits of the land.

WE walk into the other field, it is empty of tents bar a shrine and the workshop yurt. It feels damp and cool, solitary and a little bit unwelcoming. WE stand in a circle as one of our party speaks of his experience and invites us to call to the folk he has met.

His folk are an ungentle people, fierce and earthy. They are noble too. Tall and horned, through him they dance and stamp, growl and snarl, and we do the same.

The circle we have made breaks as others rush off in all directions. I stand still, beating a tattoo with my feet on the ground, growling a welcome and an invitation to these folk to come to me.

A presence stands before me. He or maybe it is a she, is tall, very tall, perhaps about twelve foot high. I crane up and see the face, lit by the grey morning sky, pale and thin. Wild hair or a main frames it, horns poke through from amongst the hair. We gaze silently at each other and I am transfixed. I stop growling and hold my breath.

Suddenly the being strides off across the field and scales the fence. He disappears into the woods beyond. I wait, for I don’t know what else to do.
I can hear a wood pigeon cooing. Another answers and then a wren trills in the hedgerow to my left. From the woods I hear the caw of a crow and in the distance the insistent cocadoodledoo of a nearby cock.

I stand on the earth, soft yet unyielding, the tuffety grass rough and hummocky under my feet. The green freshness of crushed leaves wafts softly on the cool morning air and I breathe gratefully their sweet perfume.

From under my tongue I begin to coo, piping and round, soft and tremulous. High up in a tree an answering coo comes. We duet for a time as I stand waiting for I know not what.

The grass whispers, the presence stands before me. The cooing is close, I stop and hold my breath. I focus on the sound and see ,held in long gentle hands, a quivering soft grey pigeon. She sings softly and I sing back.

Did the being stride up to her in a tree and just pluck her out? I imagine him selecting his bird like picking an apple from a tree. I wonder if the bird had any say in coming along.

The hands come closer to me as the presence leans over and offers me the bird. I reach out cupped hands and receive the soft warmth. I bow my head in thanks as I bring the pigeon to my heart.

The pale face with its matt of hair and shiny horns watches me. My heart is warm as the pigeon nestles against me and seems to melt into my heart. I am overwhelmed with a sense of love. I sigh deeply for my heart is full. I hold my hands over my breast and rocking gently, begin to coo.

“Droo-droo-droo-droo-droo” I coo. I rock gently and the being watches me silently.

“Sylven Dove” something says in my ear. “Sylven dove”, I say to myself, “Sylven dove, welcome,” I whisper softly.

I raise my eyes to the level of the beings face, but he is gone. I have a new name! I know not yet for what purpose, I know not if it replaces any other name I have, I roll it around my mouth repeatedly, as though savouring a tasty morsel of delicious food.

Sylven dove, tree dove, wood pigeon perhaps? I speculate upon its meaning as I repeat it over and over again. I smile. It’s beautiful, it’s loving, it’s gentle, I like it!

The circle reconnects and we link hands and stand quietly, holding our experiences and dreams as we give silent thanks. The field is quiet and still. The wind rustles the trees and only the occasional call of a wood pigeon breaks the tranquillity.

2009-08-01T13:31:00.001-07:00

21 Dancing Game birds – Hampstead Heath

Saturday August 1, 2009:

In defiance of the lowering sky, we gather on the heath to mark Lamas. We stride across the wide heath land and into a copse to find a circle amongst the trees.

“this is the wake of Lugh the sun King,” says the ritual leader, and I think of the sun gone into the grain, the first harvest, the blackberries and plums that are ripe and round an ready to eat. I think too of the game birds, plump with their feasting, ready to be harvested too.

“Eeyon, Eeyon, Eeyon” I peon as I call the hurtling ones, those who dodge through the undergrowth, across the gorse covered heath , who perch high up in the leafy trees calling to the sun as the red legged partridge calls across the flatlands of East Anglia. I hear the heavy beat of wings, feel their presence as they stalk around the circle we have made. I call them to honour them, they who will soon be chased and hunted down by toffs and their cronies across the heath lands and woodlands of these isles. Lugh has given his life as the sun has gone into the grain and the game bird will lose his life for a greedier harvest.

We dance and sing, solemnly and quietly, striding carefully on the uneven ground. Behind me I feel the birds dance a solemn dance too. I imagine them plumply stepping, stamping and bowing to each other, serious and purposeful.

We give our grief’s to the water, sprinkle it on the ground like tears. Our tears feed the earth for water is life giving too. We pass the Lamas bread and offer up our gifts and the trees watch us and the birds watch us, standing amongst the trees.

The year has turned, the days are growing shorter. The sharp west wind with rain on its breath is also cold. We are moving towards the dark, the dying.

“Bang!” the birds outside our circle shriek and rise, fluttering into the treetops with alarm. But this is a starter pistol not the first salvo of the guns. Someone is having some kind of athletics competition and some energetic souls are pelting round the running track below.

I pick up a drum and begin to sing and play. The circle of witches join in and we sing with great gusto:

“hoof and horn, hoof and horn”
all that dies shall be reborn.
Corn and grain, corn and grain,
All that falls shall rise again!”

Around us, the birds strut and bow, encircling purposefully outside the circle of trees.
“Eeyon, Eeyon, Eeyon” A bird flies across the open heath land beyond our copse. I bow to it as it passes and hope it gets to a place of safety as it seems to be in a bit of a hurry. We open our circle. I nod to the birds watching from amongst the trees as we settle down to feast, but they are gone.

2009-08-01T13:30:00.001-07:00

20 the slumbering Pigeons

Tuesday July 28, 2009:

I am so tired. It’s been a hard day. I’ve chaired a heavy meeting about domestic and sexual violence as experienced by older and disabled people and it’s really done my head in. I’ve chaired a another tough meeting and have then staggered around endless badly maintained South London streets, trying to find a tube station. Every hump and bump in the pavement, every change of surface and every veering around crap dumped on the path has torn shrieking aching pain from my poor knees. Now, when I really want to saunter along a beautiful nature reserve and enjoy the waning of the day, I can hardly walk.

I stagger along beside my patient companion as we move along the Parkland Walk. We’re going to find pigeons to commune with. It’s late, almost dusk. The hedgerows are ominously quiet as we stump past them.

Still it smells like summer, all green and sweet. And it’s not actually raining for once, although the sky lies low over our heads in a rather threatening manner. Blackberries are ripening on the hedges. WE pause and my companion feeds me a ripe one, small, sweet and tart all at once and intensely blackberryish.

Finsbury Park is populated with groups or individuals occupied variously in marshal arts, football, jogging, screaming at the ducks and trying to push each other into the pond (that latter group, a gaggle of teenage girls!). I grumble as I walk slowly along, wishing I’d not had this idea for one more commune with the birds but gone straight to bed. My mind is full of examples of abuse and I can feel tears not far away. I don’t know if they are for me, my knees or those who have experienced such abuse. I can also feel a seething anger bubbling somewhere inside me. I breathe and we walk on.

I have to sit down. We find a bench and sink down on to it and cast a circle.

“Come feathers on the wind, fluttering and scirring, circling and descending, gentle, soft in the dawn light, grey like you are, come fluttering ones, come!

Come gilded winged ones as you soar into the noon day sun, dark against its brightness, your wings aflame with its rays, come glittering ones come.

Come swooping and curving, fly low over the water and watch yourself shining there as you fly, cooing your liquid song. Come flowing ones come!

Come, you who walk the earth, feet firmly on the ground, strutting, bobbing and bowing, pecking curiously at anything edible. Come strutting ones come!

And you who circle and spiral, in the wind, under the sun, over water and on the earth, spiral an circle and connect. Come spiralling ones, come!”

We scatter seeds and crumble fairy cakes and sit back and wait. The shouts of the footballers pierce the air. A panting runner pelts by. The traffic on Green Lanes hums as the wind dances in the tree tops.

Nothing. Not a chirrup, a coo or a flutter. Only, so my companion tells me, the silent cautious approach of two crows, come to check out what’s on offer and to stand guard so no other bird gets it.

“go to the trees”, comes the message. We get up and walk towards trees. And then I hear a gentle cooing. My companion tells me quietly that we are near a tree upon which three pigeons sit and that there are others high up in the trees here.

We stand beneath them and scatter more seeds and cake. And we wait. The wind shakes the trees. The footballers are now charging around the running track. A dog is barking and an owner barks back a command witch is ignored. I breathe and tune into the quiet energy of the birds above me.

Slowly I relax. Slowly, I feel the pain in my heart slip away. I close my eyes and I can feel the soft fluttering wings touching, stroking me, soothing and gentling me. Softly, in my ear they coo as though to say “there-there, there-there” and I feel comforted. And I say silently to the birds:

“Stroke me with your wings,
Tender as the breeze
Feathery caress
Gentle me to sleep”

The dove is associated with love, peace and gentleness. In my bird oracle it is also associated with forgiveness. I can’t bring myself to forgive those who perpetrate such terrible acts against others made vulnerable by their situation, but I can soften my heart towards myself, forgive myself for being so hard on myself, because I too have been so hurt. I coo softly to the silent birds, now settling down to sleep.

And out of the sky, from high up in another tree, a final, triumphant deep brurring coo, “droo-droo-droo, droo-droo” comes. I bob my head, pigeon-like, and make my farewells. How fitting, at the end of pigeon time, to meet them at their bedtime, I think, as we leave the park.

2009-07-25T14:02:00.000-07:00

19 gentle Pigeons – Regent’s Park

Friday July 24, 2009

I have asked the weather gods to let us have a dry evening. The sun has retreated behind the clouds but at least it is not actually raining.

July is a glorious month for municipal flowers. In June the roses abound, but in July, all manner of flower turns its face optimistically towards the sun. tonight, the flowers of Regent’s Park are doing their very best.

My companion has a way with words. She paints a feast of colours and textures as we walk through the park.

The Victorians knew a bit about floridness. We pass beds of dramatic deep velvety reds, as rich and robust as a plush curtain. They stand against black purple leaves, dramatic and stark.

A great bowl, borne on the backs of griffins burgeons nay even riots with blooms. It is dark purple and pale yellow, stark and startling.

Head high thistles make us feel like the little people. I reach up and explore their shaggy heads with my long cane.

A fountain splashes noisily. Pigeons flutter on the ground, soft white and cream, navy, grey and black, ringed, barred and plain.

We head for a bench under a tree. I dance around it scattering bird seed, casting a circle in a very literal sense. We sit down and along come the birds.

My companion waxes poetically about their beauty. A huge one with light grey wings and a purple brown chest with a white collar and turquoise blue shot silk head struts magnificently and then flies off. Three hungry pigeons variously grey with rainbow collars, peck industriously at the trail of seeds. The sky lowers and it begins to rain heavily.

I pull out two umbrellas, for my companion dresses for elegance rather than protection. I spread plastic over our knees.

“oh, there’s one with pink feet” she exclaims. We’re not sure if that isn’t perhaps a curious an interloping duck, happily paddling in the little lake which is gathering at our feet as the sky lets go its Burdon of rain.

“so much for the weather gods,” I say, getting up and preparing to move to somewhere more sheltered, “I can’t have made myself clear!”. We pack up and soggily walk off in search of shelter. As we leave the circle of munching pigeons, the rain stops and the sun pushes the clouds away.

We stand in its warmth, faces turned to drink in its energy and I cast another circle for the birds. A scirring of wings, a gentle fluttering, and down they come, encircling us, feasting, bobbing and bowing as they eat as though in thanksgiving for the bounty of the seed.

Cold and hunger has overtaken us and we walk on in search of hot food. From amongst the trees, a pigeon coos. I feel myself relax and smile to hear its soft gentleness. I coo back feeling suddenly very happy.

Before we know it, we are in the rose garden. The air is sweet with their gentle perfume. We stand in a shaft of sunlight and I cast another seed circle. Pigeons flutter from out of nowhere and begin to feast.

I feel something scratching at my left ankle, something heavy an furry. A huge great fat squirrel, bold and greedy is attempting to scale my left leg. I shake him off and he scampers round me and assaults my other leg. I dip my hands in the seed bag and toss them to him, as he grumpily tries to see off the pigeons. My trousers, the seed and my dignity is saved by the appearance of a small boy, determined to stroke the little creature. We walk on.

My companion’s hip hurts. My knees aren’t feeling too great ether. We’re both damp. We sit down on a bench and I scatter more seeds and sit to wait whilst she answers her phone.
Down come the fluttering ones. Scirring and whirring, they fill the air with their soft wings. Behind me, one coos and flutters, another alights to my right with a “thwo-thwo-thwo” of beating wings.

“ah” I say to myself as I feel my heart warm. Aphrodite’s doves circle us in love on the edge of the rose garden.

I sit in circled, enfolded by winged ones as they bob and peck, bow and dance about me. I hear their fluttering wings, their sweet cooing, I feel their energy, peacefully content.

“Beautiful rock doves” I whisper to them, for that is what they are, “thank you for being here, for being all over London, for being the symbol of London.” And I fall to thinking of how the pigeon comes to me, the messenger between the worlds, the symbol of peace and forgiveness and love, and I am happy.

My companion has finished her rather difficult phone call. She tells me of the black swan that I can hear noisily bathing in the nearby lake. Ducks quack and the pigeons continue to feast and coo and bob and bow.

We are both cold. I coo at the pigeons in farewell, toss them more seeds and walk off in search of hot soup.

2009-07-12T08:52:00.001-07:00

Riding the dove

Tuesday July 7, 2009:

At about09:20 on 7th July 2005, the last of four bombs went off in London. Today, four years on, the moon is full at that time on this day.

I sit down amongst the caster oil plant in my usual place and prepare to mark the moment.

I am kneeling on something soft yet muscular. It is silky and it moves under me.

I reach down and stroke it. It is the great soft feathers of a huge dove.

We rise slowly into the sky, high into the silver-blue of a fine July morning. Below, the green trees turn and as the earth falls away, the patchwork of green, grey and brown becomes indistinct.

The sky darkens around us as we soar high into the emptiness beyond it. Below us, the earth spins, glittering against the black. Flashpoints of brightness, points of conflict burst in red, yellow and gold from it’s surface.

Down there, people are fighting, hand to hand, with explosives and with weapons of mass destruction. I despair to see it. I vainly search for something which will tell me what to do, but I don't know where to turn.

Astride my dove, we circle and circle. I'm looking for a green light, but I don't know what that means. We ride on around the earth. I am filled with a huge sadness.

The anti-war chant by Goddesses Against Armed Aggression suddenly pops into my head and, clinging to my dove, I begin to sing:

“War is not the answer.
The answer is to change.
We stand in her power and call out her name.
Gaia, Gaia.”

We are soaring high up in the blue sky above land. I feel the power of the muscles beneath me. My head spins. I cling on with my knees and hands.

Land is hurtling towards me. I hold my breath as we alight with a flutter of scirring wings safely onto the ground.

I am still. It is cold. I feel the loss of the warm soft feathery heat of the great dove.

In the quiet, a cat walks heavily along the fence. It climbs down amongst the apple tree and stalks, velvet paws step carefully amongst the flowers. They shake with its passing.

Something else climbs over the fence and stands by the shed. It is tall and still, standing to my right. It just watches, stands and watches.

Somewhere to my left along the Parkland Walk, a wood pigeon coos softly, gently, comfortingly. I listen and feel again the soft silky feathers and the strength of the muscles beneath. I imagine what it might be like to shelter underneath the great wings.

With a burst of mellifluous sweetness, a wren begins to sing. She sits in a tree just on the other side of the fence. I feel she is singing for me and to me. I allow the silver shining arpeggio of sound to wash over me, touching my cheek with its coolness, like a tender breeze.

In stillness I wait, the presence to my right still standing, still watching, unconditionally witnessing me.

Like a shaft of sudden sunshine, the blackbird begins to sing. His song, a deeper more resonant bell tolls the day as it spirals and pirouettes in the quiet morning air.

Behind the blue sky, the moon moves to its height. The blackbird stops. The pigeon takes over. The wren follows on. The trees shiver in the gentle breeze as the air clears.

Back and forth across the garden, the caressing tender scirring of the birds gives shape to the spaces between the trees and plants. I imagine them drawing silver threads across the garden, shaping the space with gracefully moving wings as they brush against the leaves shaken by the prowling cat. What shape do their silver threads make? What is their message?

In the corner of the garden, the presence stands and witnesses. I breathe with the winged ones, with the breeze and with the stalking cat.

The day makes itself felt. I hear a car purring along the road on the other side of the house. My neighbour starts to sing to her little boy. The moon is rising invisibly in the sky.

Slowly I get to my feet, turn and bow low to the presence and blow a kiss in its direction. I turn to wave at the birds before padding as slowly and as quietly as the cat, back to the house.

2009-07-05T13:54:00.000-07:00

La Alpujarra dawn chorus

Thursday June 25, 2009:

The dogs have been at their own canine chorus all night. Tuning them out, I listen to the silence as I lie in my bed. Is that a cock in the distance? Who is cheeping so insistently in the middle of the night?

Pulling my pink kaftan over my still sleep warm body, I tiptoe out of my room and into the quiet garden. I climb the stairs to the roof and lean against the rails to listen to the morning.

The cock down the road has been singing for some time. Up here, I hear another answer him. A lone sparrow has been cheeping all by itself, now I hear its companions begin to join it.

A solitary blackbird on the other side of the main house sings a florid suite of notes. I tune my ears into him hungrily. I feast on his song, picking its sweetness from amongst the tapestry of sounds, like isolating the progress of a piece of gold thread highlighting a green leaf in a busy picture.

And between blackbird and the sparrow, inserting itself into the space left beyond the crowing of the cock, I hear another song, a deeper rich tone, two clear notes, sometimes a minor fifth, sometimes a perfect fourth. Like a tuneful, lazy wolf-whistle, it pierces the air. I listen, and then begin to sing back.

Golden arcs of sound glitter from the golden oriole herself, liquid circles of beauty fill the air. For a while we duet contentedly as the sun rises over the mountains.

Beyond the blackbird, beyond the oriole, another song rises up. Robin or Wren, I wonder. Of course it is neither of these, but it trills so beautifully in the cool morning air. A Black Cap perhaps, I speculate, beginning to feel a little bit excited.

I tune my ears and listen on as I trace each songbird’s part in the gentle morning soundscape. No doves yet, I note, wondering when they are going to get out of bed, for I know they are about the place somewhere.

From amongst the general twittering of house sparrows in the old lady olive tree, I hear the gentle scirring of wings fluttering as a bird flies away. The sound is almost a Burr, a loose lipped blowing of the most tender and playful kind. I burr back and softness settles in my heart. I imagine silky wings beating against fragile leaves which shake in the morning breeze and sigh contentedly.

I climb down the stairs and stand amongst the sparrows on the lawn and allow myself to be washed in their cheerful chirping. In the distance the golden oriole calls and beyond, the blackbird sings his more complex song.

“morning," I say to the birds, the trees and the quiet courtyard and make my way towards the pool and my early morning dip.

2009-07-05T13:53:00.002-07:00

A Bird’s Eye

Sunday June 21 2009:

The gentle drumbeat thumps through the sleeping mountain air. I call air, fire, water, earth. Here is the dawn of the longest day. I dedicate my morning ceremony to fruition, to celebrating the peaks of achievement.

I journey up the mountain, moving between high rocky walls, the valley bottom and the tall crags. I am a bird skimming across the beautiful body of the goddess, stroking and caressing her with my wings as I fly.

High across the mountains I soar, to the blue sea fringed edge of the land into the sun and the clear blue air beyond. The earth spreads out under the noonday sun. It reveals its glories with abundant pride. Celebrate success I feel it shout!

I fly up to a cliff top; the tower on its summit reaches a tall stark finger into the clear blue sky. I settle down on top, wings furled, a-roosting and survey my life.

I see myself at all ages, each incident like a necklace stretched out on the land dark and light, bright and dull. I survey myself and see my struggles. I feel great compassion. I also feel pride mixed with sorrow, for I know it has been hard but it has also been triumphant.

I bow to myself in all my ages and return to that trusting young self, she who is at the place before violation, the one that trusted her to be loved. Like wings stretched out to catch the eddying winds of the afternoon, I open myself up to that trust. I trust that everything will be alright, that I will be safe, That I am wanted and appreciated. Let my good intentions be known and honoured. Let me trust that others have good intention towards me. I return to the roof.

I begin to sing
"I am the rising sun,
I am the change
I am the one I am waiting for
And I am dawning."

It is done, so mote it be!

2009-07-05T13:53:00.001-07:00

Torimolinos dove

SATURDAY June 20, 2009:

I lie sprawled on my back in the Toremolinos hotel Garden. The tufted grass is rough against my thinly clad thighs. Stretching out under the cool shade of the straw awning, I allow my body to relax.

Normally, at this stage of my journey to La Alpujarra, I am fraught and exhausted. Something weird happens to people in airports! They access the most un-resourceful and selfish of states. It soon becomes very clear that they seem me as a problem!

This time, I decide that I would go in hopefulness and trust and see what happens. I make an effort not to engage with anxiety.

"When did I lose my sense of trust and adventure?” I muse to myself, my inquiring fingers teasing out the thick blades of grass. Between the ages of 19 and 22, I had no qualms in going off all over Europe each summer. I had all I need on my back; I knew where I was meant to be going and how I would get there. I didn’t engage with problems, I simply trusted that it would be fine – and in general it usually was.

Sure, there were times when I landed up somewhere and whoever was meant to meet me had not turned up. Kind older men would offer me dinner which I would accept and a night in a comfortable hotel, which I would not. Even being taken into protective custody by the local police somewhere in the far east of Holland only slightly dented my equilibrium. In the end, everything always turned out fine.

Sometime in my early twenties I lost the art of travelling solo. I had a partner, or friends, or PAS instead. Always, there was someone to take care of everything for me. I just had to be and do and arrive.

In June 2000, I decided to go on holiday by myself to a place I’d never been, to be with people I did not know. It was unfortunate that the day I chose to do this, the air traffic control computers failed! Cutting a long story short, I arrived alone at 1 am in the morning in a strange airport, with only a faint idea of where I was meant to be going. A glimmer of that old trust was back, I allowed myself to go with the flow and everything was fine, just fine.

I listen to the buzzing of flies. One is gently caressing my bare arm. I flick it away lazily. My companions are chatting about this and that, the "who are you?" of humans newly met. Behind their well-modulated politeness, children shriek as they cast themselves with a certain amount of splashing abandon into the nearby pool.

And then I hear it. the gentle, serious, "Droo-droo-droo" of a collar dove. I allow its soft song to stroke me gently as I relax further. And then I remember, today is the first day of pigeon, according to the Almanac of Blackbird Owl!

“My feet hurt" I murmur under my breath, reminding myself of just how to tell what kind of dove is behind the cooing.

"Ah, the sound of summer” I murmur to myself and listen in my mind to the thwack of leather on willow, the distant chugging of an old fashioned train,
the humming of bees and the feel of grass against naked arms, its sweet green smell wafting through the air under the cool shade of the wide branched tree. ubiquitous, definitely imitable and singable; from the gentle dove to his more rambunctious feral neighbour the London pigeon, I welcome to my life these dear birds. hail pigeon, hail.

2009-06-15T14:49:00.000-07:00

14 In the swan’s Nest - Cookham

Sunday June 14, 2009:

It’s such a gorgeous weekend that I can’t help but saunter out in search of more swans today. My companion and I huff and puff our way sweatily to Cookham which we are lead to believe is much nicer than skanky old Maidenhead with its down at heel shopping centres and hardly any way to get down to the river. Unfortunately, I’m dressed for mild trolling and not Yomping and soon my poor sweaty feet in their down at sole old pretend crocks are seriously protesting.

Mollified by a tasty and calorific pub lunch, we wander down some rather fetching paths. After a wayward deviation in entirely the wrong direction, at last we meet with the river.

My, my but its posh! Lots of lovely boats of a smart and expensive nature are a-bobbing about on the water. ON the river bank assorted dogs, owners and sun worshippers in various states of undress scamper, chase and loll variously. Amongst the chugging and splashing of the boats, the occasional mallard can be heard comically quacking at anything moving.

My companion, a non-swimmer is a wee bit anxious about my falling in the river. I veer dangerously and curiously close to various unsteady looking banks, whilst she admonishes my waywardness. In a determinedly disobedient doggish manner, I attempt to ignore her. Finally, we shelter under a whispering aspen tree and sit down firmly on the bank at a safe distance from any precipices.
A boat approaches. The river gurgles and swells, licking at the steep banks. I breathe quietly and call the swan, leaning my head against the sturdy aspen. The wind dances in the tree tops and they whisper like fine rain on flower petals.

It is easy to slip from the bank into the silvery rippling water. The river is cool against my naked flesh, I swim swiftly down river. I dive down underwater curious to explore the underwater world, so peaceful, green-grey and still.

Surfacing I shake water from my face and look up to find a white swan regarding me. She swims round me, as though inspecting me and then heads off down river. A few yards further on, she stops but does not look round. I take this as an invitation to follow.

We glide down the river and turn into a dark bush lined tributary. She shows me her nest in a muddy bank under an overhanging low trailing tree. I see that there are five smoothe eggs shimmering in the gloom. She settles down on the eggs and I curl up beside her and go to sleep.

She is gone. I move slowly and circle the nest. It is empty. Where are the eggs?

I’ve had a strange dream. I can’t quite remember but I am filled with dread. I fear that I’ve done a terrible thing.

I slither guiltily away as fast as I can from the nest. I slide into the water and find a muddy hole just above the water line under a bedraggled bush nearby.

But there is no hiding place. The swan soon discovers me in my muddy puddle. I curl up into a tight ball, so ashamed do I feel.

I confess to fearing I had eaten her babies. Gently she reassures me, it was all a bad dream. Her eggs are gone, but it was not I who took them. Soothed, I consent to come back with her, for I am all she has now.

A dog tears past my companion and skitters down the bank. It plunges into the water, rolls about and then pelts back up the bank, shaking water off its coat with vigorous disregard for anyone within spraying distance.

My companion has been humming quietly for some time. She sings to me the beginnings of a song about the swans. After a while we climb to our feet and walk further down the riverbank.

She has seen a swan on the other side. We sit down on a bank of clover. The swan disappears and we get up to walk back.

“Oh,” cries my friend and leads me further along the bank. Two swans have climbed onto a small beach in search of food. We sit down in front of them and begin to toss bread to them. Unhurriedly, they catch and eat until the bread is finished. They paddle about on the water’s edge for a while until first one and then the other slowly swims away.

“Uh” says my companion and informs me that she’ put her hand in a pile of poo! We fall to discussing its provenance and decide that by a process of illumination that it is swan poo and that this is a gift! I feel sure that her swan song will emerge into something even better than it already is and that when it is, the swans will really like it.

Suddenly, she leans dangerously down the bank. She presents me with a soft and fluffy if muddy swan’s feather. I stroke it gently and remember the softness of the swan I had slept beside. I put the feather away somewhere safe.

It is time to go. WE walk back along the river, diverting briefly to paddle in the water by a muddy little beach in order to cool ourselves. We eat ice creams and make our way briskly back to the station for the trains are far and few between and I have dinner with friends to eat before the night is out.

2009-06-13T11:54:00.001-07:00

The peaceful swans - Regent’s Park

Saturday June 13, 2009:

The rain has cleared. It’s a good day to search for swans. Regent’s Park, our destination is teaming with Londoners out enjoying the sun. We walk around the lake where we are importuned by a wide range of wild fowl, amongst them, white and black swans.

The geese, ducks and woodpigeons are belligerent in their boldness, quarrelling cheerfully, honking, cooing and quacking at each other as they vie for the attention of anyone holding a plastic bag that just might contain food. The swans mostly go about their business only occasionally wandering over to see if the food is up to their great standards.

“Ug”, I grunt, climbing into the pedalo. We’re taking to the water to get closer to the swans. Purposefully we paddle off and I am reminded of ducks and all that furious underwater activity that goes on to get them from A to B. My legs soon begin to hurt but I peddle on gamely until we rock to a stop under ash, elder and alder trees. It is cool in the shade and, although other boaters are noisy, the peace of the hanging branches arches over us.

I am pushing my way through the thick undergrowth. Under foot, the ground is soft and soggy and slightly slimy. The air is pungent with dampness and goose poo. I’m searching for swans. I know they’re here somewhere.

I am hot and sweating by the time I make it to the water’s edge. In a little muddy cove, ringed by hanging trees, sit the swans, shining in the gloom. There are a number of adults with cygnets in varying shapes and sizes. I ease myself down onto the bank under a willow and wait.

The swans ignore me. There are distinct families but, surprisingly, there seems to be quite a bit of cooperation going on, which is unusual as swans can be fierce.

“What is the message of the spirit of the swan?” I ask myself. All is peaceful. All is ordered. I wait and allow the peace to descend. Time moves on.

I am drawn to the water. I step down into its coolness and begin to swim. I glide along and am soon surrounded by swans, two adults and three cygnets. I join the row, just behind the third cygnet. We swim in an orderly line; everyone following the pen with the cob bringing up the rear. I know my place. This is my place. I am safe, I think, paddling speedily after the other cygnets.

The boat rocks gently. Something is flapping and splashing behind me. I sense the swan watching, checking me out, ready to usher me back to the others. I stretch out ears to catch every sound.

“Oh” says my companion, “We’re being circled by a swan, a white swan that seems to be checking us out!” The swan circles the boat completely and then swims off. Another appears and the boat begins to drift away from the bank. Taking this as an invitation, we set to peddling again.

The boat slides out from under the trees. In the full sun, it is really hot. We follow the swan until it slides under The Bridge where we cannot go. WE peddle on round the island.

With a certain amount of huffing and puffing, I climb stiffly out of the boat. On around the lake we walk. A black swan takes a bath. He splashes vigorously, heedless of who gets soaked. Meanwhile across the other side of the lake, geese are quarrelling.

We head for the Rose Garden. Skirting a police officer giving a man clutching an accordion a vigorous dressing-down, we turn into the coolness of the garden. Sweet rose wafts to us on the wind. We stroke and sniff the lovely blooms. Bees hum, feasting on their sweetness. My fingers trace the shapes of the delicate satin petals as they tremble in my hand.

“Oh I forgot there was another lake”, exclaims my companion as we walk alongside the water. Here on the bank, two black swans sit preening themselves, oiling and cleaning each feather carefully and purposefully. My companion stoops and picks up a small black feather. It is soft and delicate in my hand. Silently, I thank the swans and we move on, leaving them to complete their toilette in peace.

I want to sing, I think to myself. I wish I knew a swan song. Perhaps one will come to me before long. Thank you lovely swans, I say to myself as we turn out of the park and back into the busy hubbub of the summer city.

2009-06-07T16:21:00.000-07:00

12 In search of swans – Cambridge

Thursday June 4, 2009:

It is in search of swans that my companion and I bend our steps to Cambridge on a blustery but sunny Thursday. My companion, a Cambridge M.A., talks of telling swan stories under weeping willows by the silvery Cam and I am hooked. I picture the rolling green lawns, the graceful waving trees, the majestic white birds floating gracefully upon the silver rippling water and my heart shivers. The “aah” I emit is one of longing and satisfaction.

Cambridge bustles with tourists. The undergraduates not confined to the examination room, lunch and laugh or work away industriously at waiting table and all manner of other occupations. The soft summer air is edged with the cool damp tongue of the Fens.

We walk down to the river. It teams with punts and geese and ducks. There is not a swan in sight.

Assured that there are swans and they don’t mind the busyness of the river, we climb into a tourist punt. Our companions, a large group of Japanese chatter amongst themselves, take pictures or ask questions. Our tour guide, a strong young man keeps up a steady patter of mild information about the colleges as we gently float past.

I settle back, surreptitiously trailing my fingers in the cool scudding water. Weeping willows caress my hair as we float under them. In my mind, I cast a circle and call to the spirit of the swan to come.

The river is quiet. I lie on my back in a punt. Buildings, trees and bridges all pass silently.

Now I turn into a dark tributary. Willows bend and meet above my head. I am in a cool green tunnel, the silver river bottle green with weed and the green light through the trees.

The tributary widens into a pool fed by a bubbling stream. There amongst the dark reeds, a single swan shines silver against the green. I lie there and gaze at her beauty, her head held high, her graceful neck curling, her wings furled.

Words formulate in my mind. I open my mouth to speak …

Bach dances into the air and my pocket vibrates violently.

“Damn,” I say to myself, sitting up and lunging for it to turn it off. No one in the boat takes any notice of me and my phone. Another punt passes; another young man describes the buildings we are passing.

I sigh and sit back and close my eyes. I will myself to return to the swan in the pool but the image evades me. Instead I connect in with the gentle water and allow myself to be soothed by its motion.

More punts go by. Clear voices cut through the brisk air describing the scenes as we pass. The tourists in our punt click away and keep up a steady commentary to one and other in rapid Japanese. Patiently, the tour guide connects with my companion and they talk about Cambridge and her time there in the sixties.

We are back at the place we began. I climb out and we go in search of a toilet, tea and consolatory crumpets., Consoled and sated, we make our way across the river in search of the perfect willow, which we find in the grounds of Trinity.
The tourists have all gone home. The exams are over. A group of young men picnic in a punt and feed the greedy geese.

“Grace, I love you” bellows a young man robustly from the goose feeding punt. Fleet of foot, a young woman in red shorts speeds across the bridge and down to the punt where she tells of her fortune in the exam she has just finished.
I lean against the willow and reach up to stroke its trailing fronds. Below us, the river trickles, ducks and geese splash happily about with the boating undergraduates. I pull from out of my pocket, the circle I had cast earlier and put away for safe keeping.

I stand on the bank. The river flows fast beneath me, silver and cool looking. The breeze shifts the feathers and I shiver, whether from anticipation, cold or something else, I know not. I am heart-sore and I am standing waiting, waiting for something that may never come.

The light changes, shifts from day to night. The river is dark now, the wind stronger and colder. I weep, standing alone on the bank. I can’t name my sorrow, although I know what it is.

Against the dark bank and the darker water, a silver shimmering shape appears. The ghostly outline of a great swan, head erect, neck arched, wings furled against her great body. She stops in front of me, sits silently on the water watching, just watching.

Is that an appeal, or is she simply regarding me? I stand on the bank, the swan’s feathers of my robe warm against my skin, softly caressing me as the wind comes to me.

Now I know she wants me to come with her. Inside, I am afraid. Inside I hear my own voice say “I can’t, I can’t”. My voice is young, the whine of a frightened child. I hang my head and weep. I weep for shame and sadness, hating myself for what I can’t do.

The swan sits and watches me. Her mute appeal is in her very stillness. Suddenly the clouds part. Now she is haloed in silver for the moon beams down upon her, and I know I have to go with her.

I step down to the edge of the river and dip a foot in. Oh but it is so cold. I shiver and withdraw and still she regards me steadily, silently, imploringly.

I take a deep breath and step down into the river, wade towards her, immersing my warm body in its feathered gown and we swim off together.

I don’t know where I go. I only know that I have to do this. The swan swims beside me, guiding me. I cleave through the water, forgetting the heaviness of the feathered gown now waterlogged and clinging to me. We turn down a dark tributary arched with trees which meet above our heads and swim onto and into a little pool, fed by a bubbling stream.

…

The current drags at the wet feathers of my gown. My hair streams out as the river bears me back to the bank. I am inert, not dead but numbed and still. My heart is heavy. My tears mingle with the cold, cold river water as it washes over my face.

I am alone. The river is dark. The sky is low and thick with clouds. The willow tree on the bank dips sad leafy fingers into the water. I climb heavily onto the bank and sink down beside the great tree.

From the river, from a small tributary under arching trees in a pool fed by a bubbling stream, I hear the most piercing of songs, a peon of pain. High and mournful, it echoes eerily through the night. My sol shivers and I weep anew.

I blow out a great sigh and wipe my face.

“Oh, how sad,” I say to my silent companion sitting upon the bank. I tell her of my journey.

We sit in silence for a while and then she tells me of her search for the right story to tell today. At length, she tells me the Dream of Aengus, story I have never heard before.

“Oenghus fell sick. No one knew what it was. But he did. For every night he had the same dream. He dreamt that a beautiful woman came to him and she played on a lute and sang to him. In the morning, she would go. He didn’t know who she was and he couldn’t get over the longing for her and fell into a terrible illness.

Oenghus‘s mother sent a great healer to find out what ailed her son. This healer was so consummate a healer that he could go to a sick person’s house and know what was the cause of their sickness, simply by looking at the smoke that came out of their chimney. But Oenghus was too sad to kindle a fire.

The healer studied Oenghus. In time he said, “I know what ails you. You have fallen in love in absence.” Oenghus said “this is true.”

The healer went to Oenghus’s mother and told her that Oenghus had fallen in love in absence and the only cure was to find the woman he met in his dreams each night and bring her to him.

So they took the description of the woman Oenghus met each night to the faerie people (for Oenghus people were of the faerie people) to all the corners of Ireland. After a year, they returned and reported that they had not found this woman that Oenghus met in his dream each night.

Then they sent out to the Kings of Ireland. One of the kings thought he knew who the young woman might be. Off they went to search again for another year. Eventually they came back with news.

There was a place in the mountains where every year on the feast of Samhain, this woman came to a certain lake. She brings with her 150 swan maidens.

At the next Samhain, Oenghus was taken to the lake. He was borne there in a chariot as he was too sick to walk or ride. There, he saw the woman of his dreams and with her, the 150 maidens, all dressed in swans feather robes. The swan maidens were chained in twos by silver chains around their neck. His lady had a silver collar and a chain of gold, she was a head taller than they and together they were extraordinary.

Oenghus knew that his sickness would not leave him without her. He saw her, a being of tremendous power, with very great magic. Here was the daughter of a great faerie king. Oenghus returned home, more deeply in love and more sick.

Messengers were sent to her father the faerie king to say that Oenghus wanted to marry his daughter. Her father told them it was not in his gift to give the hand of his daughter because her magic was greater than his. His people were a magical people, gifted in shape-shifting and much more.

But Oenghus people were warrior people. Their ways were war-like ways. They launched a war against the faerie king and they went into the fairy mound and took the king hostage until he would give up his daughter.

The king told them again that her hand was not in his gift, because her magical power was grater than his.

”Threaten me if you will,” said the faerie king. “You cannot drag my daughter into your world. The only way Oenghus can be united with her is for him to give up his world and enter hers.”

They let him go. Oenghus continued to grieve. He did not know how to enter her world. But one night, she came to him and played her lute. She told him that she would be at the lake at the next Samhain and would be in the shape of a swan. If he came to her then and gave up his world, they could be together at last.

So Oenghus went back to the lake. He walked all the way, took no weapons, no warriors, just himself in his illness weakened body.

He stood on the lake and called to her. But she did not come. He called her by her name but there was no movement. He called her again and again and again.

All at once she swam into the lake in her swan form. She spoke to him in a human voice and she said:

“You are of a violent people. You have killed my kin. You have sought me for years. I will not go with you unless you undertake on your honour that I may come back to the lake here whenever I wish.”

He gave her that pledge; he dropped anything that was left to him of his inheritance, of coercion, force and trickery. As he dropped it, his body dropped from the bank into the lake. His weakened body as it touched the water began to transform into that of Aswan.

And so he joined her. They swam round the lake three times in honour of his pledge, of what he had given away never to touch again and in honour of that love that lay between them.

And they rose up together into the sky and flew back to his mother’s land. AS they flew, they sang. This song was such that it put the people of every village they flew over to sleep for three days and three nights. Finally they landed at his mother’s home and stayed together for ever.”

The river has emptied. The cheerful boaters have gone off in search of dinner. The wind rustles the weeping willow leaves and the water shivers. Only the geese and ducks still quack, honk and paddle under the darkening sky.

I shiver. The air has chilled. My limbs are stiff. Quickly, I open the circle and we climb out from under the willow tree.

My heart is filled with tenderness for the beautiful birds. Though they have not graced us with their physical presence, their gentle spirit is all around us. I remember the soft caress of the swan’s feathers and give thanks for their quiet beauty. It is time to leave the tranquil river and return to the busy city.

2009-05-04T13:51:00.002-07:00

Saluting the song birds

Sunday May 3, 2009:

ON this year of the birds, it is only right that I mark International Dawn Chorus Day. It’s not so easy to get up this morning. My body has not yet adjusted to the alarmingly early start two days ago. Still, the thought of the birds does the trick.

As we step out of the taxi in a pleasant suburban street in Kilburn, the song thrushes are giving it some welly. Our guide, Dave the conservationist tells us that they are the first birds to sing this morning – which is surprising as the blackbird is famously usually the first bird of the day.

We stand on the street and listen to their song. They find a phrase they like and sing it several times. Then they find another and sing that several more times. There are three birds, we think.

Ah now here comes the blackbird – a deeper richer sound. He sings away and I feel my face crack into a proud smile. That’s my bird, I think as he dominates the air.

WE walk about inside the little nature reserve next to the railway line to Euston. It’s a little haven of meadows and trees. Soon, the robins begin to sing, then the wood pigeon.

The air thins as it always does at dawn. Imperceptibly, it grows warmer. Now comes a great tit, chirruping away. And then, dominating by volume, the little wren begins to sing his heart out.

I stand amongst damp bushes and allow myself to be washed of sleep and sadness. I imagine the silver song flowing over me, feel it creep into my joints and they begin to feel better. Ah, this is the life!

It’s six am. The birds have been singing for two hours. Suddenly, they quieten down. It is our cue to seek out breakfast.

Hunger satisfied, we walk back down the road away from the little nature reserve. Dave hollers after us. We turn and climb down as he has heard the black cap sinning. WE join him and listen as the little bird offers us titbits of its warbling song. Our chorus complete, we make our way home.

2009-05-04T13:51:00.001-07:00

Under the silver halo– Hampstead Heath

Friday May 1, 2009:

“Encircled by the blackbird’s song
The golden sun begins to rise.
Beneath the mist, the flower strewn heath,
Proves summer is a-coming in!”
I feel distinctly grumpy this morning. Perhaps it’s the unearthly hour or my irritation that the taxi driver doesn’t know where he is going. My p.a. has lost her house keys and is keeping us waiting. I’m not very good at being late. It makes me nervous. I breathe and ask to leave my anxiety and impatience with winter.

We walk under a soft dark sky circled by birdsong, their fluting and twittering ringing above our heads like silver audio halos of joy! I breathe in the fresh morning and imagine the sound gilding everything around us.

I scoop up the cool dew and wash my face in it, feeling my warm cheeks cool. At the top of the hill, London lies beneath us, a million lights glittering in the greying dawn. WE sing a song, do a little dance, leave a posy and walk on. At the pine grove, we sing another song, leave another posy and walk on.

There is a rolling mist across the heath. WE wade through it and as we do, wild flowers glisten in the dawn light. Two male mallards sit companionably together beside the path watching us as we stride forth. Frivolously, I wonder aloud if they are staking out a new gay cruising ground! I quack cheerfully at them as I pass.

We walk on and I begin to feel distinctly tetchy as I march up the uneven hill. My knees hurt this morning and I am thinking about the climb over the fence into Boudica’s mount.

But we are there to help each other. Despite my swearing, I get over. We gather amongst the trees and make wishes laying our hands upon the head of the prancing ‘Obby ‘Oss, who is proving this morning to be a bit of a handful! I wish to be happy in my heart – a public acknowledgement that, despite the good things that have been happening recently, I’m still sad in my heart. Briefly I wonder what the basis of that sadness is before my mind is drawn back to the problem of getting back over the fence again!

That accomplished, we all walk down through the heath towards the Kenwood Springs. Perhaps it is the abundance of the dawn chorus that has inspired us, but we sing all the way. Some sacred songs, some might musical, a hymn and some silly songs. WE have the heath to ourselves, only the birds are making more racket than we.

The spring bubbles and tinkles. WE circle it and drink tea and eat strawberries. WE sing to the spring and gather may to wear in our hair and as a pre breakfast snack. Here, we give thanks for what is turning out to be a gloriously sunny summer morning and begin to make our way back across the heath, to breakfast.

2009-05-04T13:50:00.001-07:00

Dragon fly king – Dunwich

Sunday April 26, 2009:

The threatened rain has not materialised. I shove the thick jumpers and heavy waterproof into my bulging suitcase. It’s tee-shirt weather and I still feel like a schoolgirl on a summer holiday.

We walk west this time, along a circular route. Dunwich village is quiet. The church sits peacefully amongst its grounds. The little lane is flanked by high hedgerows and runs between woods, the occasional nice detached house, and farmland.

From time to time we meet other walkers and I am struck, not for the first time about the walker’s etiquette of always saying “hello”. It all seems rather civilised to me and I “halloo” along with the rest of the party as we pass strangers. But for the most part, we share the lane only with the birds and I suspect, I’m the only one saying “hello” to them!
WE turn and move into open space. The heath is festooned with bright yellow gorse, the air sweet with its soft coconut fragrance. I imagine the vivid yellow against the dark green gorse, backed by the soft sandy soil and the whole, lying serenely under a clear blue sky. I construct the painting in my head, draw hazy white airplane trails and small, swiftly moving dark shapely dots of fast flying birds wheeling overhead, their wings all a-glitter with the noon-day sun.

We’ve been walking for some time now and we search for a place to sit and rest for a while. I set my little green mat down in a patch of sunlight and stretch out beneath the kind and gentle sun. Closing my eyes, I allow the soft sandy soil to support me as I listen to my companions chatter and the call of sky larks high above me. I breathe in the sensual sweetness of the gorse flowers.

Standing against the dark green gorse leaves, the yellow flowers and the blue, blue sky is a strange creature. He is tall and thin, with delicate antennae waving and bobbing on top of his head. Great turquoise chiffon wings spread wide on either side of his body. They flutter in the breeze and the light shines through them like iridescent rainbows on oily water.

I gaze and the image is clearer now. His narrow face is dark, the antennae waving like flexible elegant antlers, his body long and thin, the gorse half concealing his legs. I can’t tell properly but he looks like an enormous dragon fly with a human face and the most beautiful of gauzy wings.

Now I can see his eyes, dark, calm and steady. He stands and silently regards me. I am transfixed, full of wonder. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful and yet so unearthly.

The narrow face is androgynous the body too indistinct to guess further at his gender. He looks ethereal, other worldly yet definitely here in the flesh. I feast my eyes, drinking in every detail about his beauty.

A few feet away, a companion cackles with laughter. My neighbour leans across and prods me. I sit up and he is gone.

On we trudge down a sandy track into the woods. The trees hold their newly greening branches over the path. Warm fingers of sunshine tenderly stroke my cheek. Still the image of the dragon fly shimmers in my minds eye as I walk.

Out of the woods now, we sit down under a hawthorn hedge to eat lunch. I picture the dragon fly and the heath as I eat. I feel a soft sense of calm and peace settle upon me. How fortunate I am to be able to spend time amongst the beauty of this green earth and how good to be able to find this peace again by remembering the beautiful dragon fly.

2009-05-04T13:49:00.001-07:00

Between the shining waters - Dunwich to Walberswick

Saturday April 25, 2009:

Today we’re going north, to Walberswick and another nature reserve. The Suffolk coastal walk takes us on a rutted path between thorn edged fields and houses with sweeping drives and hidden lawns. I plod along, for I AM TIRED, HAVING WALKED ALREADY FOR TWO HOURS IN PERSUIT OF MORNING BIRDS. #

Sun shines down from a cloud scudded sky. It feels more like July than April. I feel very much “on holiday” and don’t mind my tiredness.

I am glad though when we sit down for a snack and a rest. I sit on a bank whilst my companion describes the surroundings. Over the hedge, on the edge of the river, for we are now walking beside the River Dunwich, swans go about their business. Suddenly, one rises up into the sky and flies past us, gracefully pooing as he goes!

Our guide, a little fixated by animal bodily functions is intent on allowing us the experience of encountering otter sprint – an oily liquid poo smelling rather of carbolic soap. ON side of the path, the grasses have been flattened by something beating a straight path to and from the water.

Rested, we climb to our feet and trudge on. Now we are shoulder high amongst the reeds on the nature reserve just south of Walberswick. Here, the river Dunwich meets other water courses, pools of shining silvery water ringed by dark reeds are all around us.

Suddenly, I have had enough and I retreat to sit by the river on some steps and wait for the Twitchers of our party to return. Whilst there, my companion spies reed warblers, herons and another high flying bird of prey circling overhead. The second of a group of teenage Duke of Edinburgh Awarders stagger past under their impossibly heavily looking stuffed rucksacks. I raise my face to the sun and breathe the slightly fishy salty air.

Now we scramble over a bank into a wood. Here we will eat lunch and rest before walking on into Walberswick. Here too the wetlands have stretched, the boggy ground under our feet traversed by means of narrow and slippery duckboards. Still, we make it and scramble up to a circle of trees.

The woods are relatively quiet. Only insects and small creeping creatures rustle about in the undergrowth and amongst the dry leaf mould. The wind, sharper now, reaches into the coolness to remind us that indeed, it is still only April.

We edge our way down the steep path, seeking the driest route. Out of the woods, we move towards the sea. Climbing up into a shifting pebble bank, the sea wind smacks at us, making me wobble slightly as I march doggedly forward. My knees are killing me – they hate this unstable terrain. Thinking of tea and cakes, I walk on.

2009-05-04T13:48:00.001-07:00

Post dawn chorus - Dunwich

Saturday April 25, 2009:

I can’t persuade anyone to actually get up at dawn and have to be contented with a pre breakfast saunter. AS we walk up the road out of the village, we are encircled by cheerful singing. The garden birds are in fine voice.

Mr Show-off, the blackbird sings from every corner. I imagine him perched up high on a sunlit branch, his head thrown back and his beak open singing to the morning, his song a shower of freshness, heart lifting and courage finding. The wren soon joins in with its elaborate trilling song, surprisingly loud for such a small and humble looking little bird. Not to be outdone, the robins begin quarrelling in the tree tops and then singing as hard as they can.

Here the road is boarded by big houses, set back in their own spacious gardens, backed by a cool coppice. High in the tree canopy the yaffle of a green woodpecker echoes, is punctuated by the snappy “jack, jack” of the jackdaw and the bad-tempered screech of the jay. I swear I hear the gentle hooting of an owl, clearly confused by the time of day.

From behind a barn, a cockerel crows and a dog barks. The chaffinches are duelling the tits with their songs and the black cap occasionally punctuates their noise with his thrilling warble.

We stop still and listen. There amongst the bushes of a bare plot of land, a nightingale begins his distinctive song. Twice in 24 hours. I feel honoured. Dodging out of the way of the milk van, we move on.

“Do you know how to tell the difference between a pidgin and a dove,” says my companion. She goes on to explain that a wood pigeon sings “my feet hurt Betty”, the collar-dove, “My feet hurt” and the stock Dover “feet hurt”. I stop and listen and sure enough, the wood pigeon is importuning the uncomplaining Betty about his poor feet. The Collar dove gets to the point with his simple statement and the stock dove, presumably too exhausted to waste words gets to the nub of the matter.

My stomach growls. A partridge shrieks and a crow caws. Somewhere in the distance, a gull peons. We make our way swiftly back to the Inn in search of breakfast.

2009-05-04T13:47:00.001-07:00

Bird song and dance (Dunwich to Minsmeer)

Friday April 24, 2009:

The sun warms our faces as we thread our way along a thorn bounded path hard by the Grey Friars Abby and gardens. The blackthorn froths with blossom, the mustard garlic subtly pungent as we brush against it. Grey Friar’s wood is dappled, cool and sheltered. The songs of the humble garden and wood birds silver the air and the new green leaves uncurl imperceptibly, knowing that summer will soon be here. Laced between the triumphant blackbird’s call, a black cap’s warble is sometimes heard.

Out on the heath, the wind blows the coconut sweet breath of the gorse flowers lovingly into our faces. Willow warblers and sky larks called across the blue sky above the brilliant yellow gorse.

A-top a cliff now, the beach stretches out like a pale crescent to left and right. Below, the breakers crash upon the tumbling stones. WE walk on as the gulls circle above us, shrieking.
Meanwhile on Minsmeer, a pair of Avocet scoop their upturned beaks into the water, stand and gaze around then tuck their heads beneath their wings for an afternoon snooze. On an island nearby, two gulls quarrel with a third who is intent on building a nest. It flies back and forth with twigs longer than its body in a never-ending zigzag of industriousness. A pair of shovellers, with wide Daffy Duck blunt beaks which make them look like they are smiling idiotically; push their beaks into the mud in search of a snack. On the other side, a group of greylag geese rise as one into the air calling to each other like a dozen rusty gate hinges. In front of us, a mallard sticks his bottom into the air. Across the water, the noise is incredible, like feeding-time at the zoo only worse. I imagine them all, sequenced and arranged as though in an indiscipline and disobedient Busby Barkley dance routine.

After tea and fruit cake, just as the sun begins to slide behind the tall trees, from the depth of a thorn bush, I hear a nightingale begin to sing. His melodious song captivates us all; harden Twitchers and fledgling birders alike. We stand in a circle, spell-bound and my heart shivers lightly. “Aaah”, I sigh, allowing tension to slide away.

2009-05-04T13:46:00.001-07:00

Night walking – Dunwich in Suffolk

Thursday April 23, 2009:

On Wessleton heath, the night hums, crashing waves and distant traffic bind the quiet dark stillness in which we stand to listen for nightlife. Only a red legged partridge shrieks across the woods. Our ears play tricks on us. Is that a baby crying or a vixen’s love call? And is that rhythmical chuffing, a train, a motorboat out at sea or an unknown creature of the night?

By Fenstreet reservoir, a cluster of tall reeds frames the soft darkness that is the treacherous unseen water. Nothing is stirring. WE move on along the lane.

A church clock strikes ten. The dome of the sky throws its sonorous unhurried chimes back to as. Another red legged partridge shrieks, is silent and then shrieks again. His call echoes against the undulating land upon which we stand.

Silence again. Then softly a tawny owl hoots as it swoops invisibly upon its small scurrying prey. A bush shakes and I feel the gentlest paw or hoof fall in the grass verge behind me. I do not turn –merely stretch out my ears to its silent presence as though to nod “hello”. And then, across the sky, the rasping rough bark of a fox cuts the air.

2009-04-13T12:02:00.001-07:00

Goose World

Sunday April 12, 2009:

The sky, a misty grey hangs low above us as we walk through the moistness. It’s so early on Easter morning, we almost have the world to ourselves. Only the birds trill and halloo to each other from amongst the newly budding trees.

Girdled by softly humming traffic, Finsbury Park lies neatly before us. From time to time an occasional panting runner disturbs the peace as the fairground workers quietly begin their set-up. WE walk on, past the silent café, drawn towards the lake by the honking geese flying low above it.

Disappointingly for me, municipal anxiety about health and safety has fenced off this lake. Abandoning the fantasy to sit under a willow and commune with the webbed-footed ones in their habitat, we walk its circumference, searching for the best place to connect with the geese and ducks, a vantage point from which we can feed them and experience their cheerful waddling, grumpy quarrelling and sheer greed without being in beak range.

I lean over the fence and proffer a morsel of hot cross bun to the bossily honking goose not two feet away. The wind scatters the crumbs as the pigeon, geese and ducks close in. The message has got round fast; it’s breakfast time!

Casting the circle, I call the spirit of the birds to be with me as my companion reads from The Kalevala :

“In the beginning there was water. In the beginning there was nothing but grey water, and flying over the water there was a golden-eye.

She was looking for somewhere to build her nest. She flew east and west; there was nowhere. She flew north and south; there was no speck or spit of land. There was only wind and wave.

The mother of the water took pity on the bird. The mother of the water raised her knee above the surface of the water. Like a bank of sand, the knee of the mother of the water rose up above the waves.

The golden-eye landed on the knee. It seemed a good place; she made her nest there.

She laid seven eggs: six were golden, the last was iron. She settled down on her nest. She brooded for a day; the eggs of gold and iron were warm. She brooded for a second day; the eggs of gold and iron were hot. She brooded for a third day; the eggs of gold and iron were burning the leg of the mother of the water. They were scorching her skin. She felt as though her sinews were melting in a terrible fire. The mother of the water could bear it no longer. She twitched her knee.

The golden-eye flew up into the air and the eggs smashed into the sea. With a hiss of steam the mother of the water lowered her leg down into the grey waves.

The golden-eye was circling in the air, calling and crying to her broken eggs.
But a beautiful thing was happening. A strange and beautiful thing was taking place. The broken eggs were becoming a world.
The lower half of one egg became the world beneath, the top half of another became the sky above. The golden yolk of one became the shining sun, the white of another became the pale moon. A mottled shell became the stars in the sky. The dark shards of the iron shell became the dark clouds.
The golden-eye was circling the air inside a world of her own making.
And the mother of the sea rose up and saw this new world. She swung her hand through the waves and arranged the headlands, she made the coasts smooth with the underside of her arm, she lifted lands and continents, she sunk her heel into the deep hollows.
The golden-eye circled in the air above her and the wind whistled in her wings.
That was how our world began.”

I raise my great heavy wings, stretch out my long neck and lift up off from the lake’s bank. The world turns spiralling beneath me as I soar into the white sky.

Alone I fly, a great grey goose, wings spread like angel’s, my neck stretched, my great body dark against the light sky whilst beneath me, the world spins. She shows me her rivers and lakes, her seas and oceans. She shows me her hills and valleys, her forests and mountains. She shows me her great cities darkly clustered on the banks of wide rivers. I fly on.

Behind me the sun rises. A great winged shadow - my shadow – casts darkness over the land below. All is quiet as though a pall of sleep has fallen heavily, pinning the living world beneath .

Like a sleeper,the world turns again. The sun gleams upon the moving waters, lightens the dark lands and guilds the tree tops.

Below me, the lake lies, cool and grey in the morning light. Two women lean over the fence feeding the ducks and geese that cluster by the water’s edge. A hungry pigeon bobs its head respectfully as it pecks from an open palm.

Down, down, down into the lake I dive, emerging fluttering and honking, spraying water in all directions as I vigorously flap my great wings. In front of the women, a bossy Canada goose is ordering the quarrelling ducks about in the crumb flecked water.

It is dark. It is quiet and it is warm. I lie cushioned in softness, held in something hard yet slight. I move my head and where my beak touches, the brittle hardness breaks and I feel cool, cool air and the warm heaviness of something feathery and firm on top of me.

Something is poking at my pocket. Instinctively, I move backwards as the goose on the other side of the fence honks at me. I toss the remains of the seeds to her and she lets my leg alone.

“The water’s clear”, says my companion, beginning to describe some of the antics of the ducks ducking and diving in the lake. Several upend themselves and present their bottoms to the day. She wonders briefly if that yellowy duck with the tufty head is a golden-eye.

Ferreting in her bag she pulls out a piece of paper and begins to read from The Wind IN the Willows, by Kenneth Graham:

“DUCKS' DITTY.
All along the backwater,
through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
up tails all!

Ducks' tails, drakes' tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight
Busy in the river!

Slushy green undergrowth
Where the roach swim
Here we keep our larder,
Cool and full and dim.

Everyone for what he likes!
WE like to be
Heads down, tails up,
Dabbling free!

High in the blue above
Swifts whirl and call
WE are down a-dabbling
up tails all!”

“Brrrr” It’s a bit cold. Time for a duck’s dance!” I say, beginning to flap my arms and waddle, feet turned out.

“Don’t forget to stick your bottom out too”, comments my companion, matching her words with actions. I stick out my bottom and begin quacking, waddling and flapping.

“I think it’s time for breakfast” I say, slightly out of breath. “Let’s open the circle and get going shall we?”

My companion reaches into her capacious bag and pulls out yet another piece of paper.

“Before we go …” she says and begins to read From “Song of Myself”, by Walt Whitman:
“My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing'd purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else,
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,
Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,
The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,
Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.”

Walking back through the park, I imagine I am wearing “the tufted crown intentional” – headgear that is perhaps more purposeful than its cousin the (tufted) crown imperial”! . I waggle my head experimentally and quack cheerfully.
Silenced only by a double chocolate egg, I walk on munching. Behind us, a small group of geese rise up above the lake and honk their “goodbye”, - or is it “good riddance”?

2009-04-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

Blackbird Owl’s Sacred Avian Calendar

Ok, I ‘fess up! There is no rhyme, reason or rule for what I am trying to do this year. No great pagan avian calendar gifted by the gods and channelled by the great priestess of the birds. No old runic carvings to examine and decipher. Not even a gothic late Edwardian tome written by a bloke with slightly dodgy politics after too much sex, drugs and The Charleston! I’d like to say I channelled it whilst flying on the wing with some great migratory flock of golden birds. I’d like to say even, I had a conversation with the blackbird and the owl and they revealed it to me.

Last year’s trees were hotly disputed – so I plumped for what sounded right to me. I read a few books, which all disagreed with each other and went with my own notions of what sounded right – well until I got depressed and lost the plot, that is. This year, I spent some time trying to mix some kind of bird calendar with the slightly dodgy tree calendar I used last year. Well, didn’t I get my feathers in a twist! The trouble is, thirteen moons don’t necessarily fit into a calendar year. And from thence it was but a short step to confusion.

And in that confused state, I phoned a friend, my favourite witch, The Low Priestess. And by purely consciously mind and middle earth means, I ‘vet come to a conclusion – and that was actually most of the battle. I don’t care if it doesn’t fit in with myth (what myth?), it doesn’t matter it if it doesn’t totally work ornithological either. What matters is that it squares to me.
And with a scirring of wings in the coolness of the dawn breeze, here it is:

Blackbird Owl’s Sacred Avian Calendar.

Imbolc
Blackbird and the rest of the thrush family.
Blackbird begins to sing his triumphant song as the wheel turns through Imbolc. The first bird I connected with, one half of my name. Allegedly some druid thinking associates this bird with the forge and I associate the art of smith craft with Brigit and Imbolc is her festival.

Spring Equinox
Duck, Goose and other pond companions.
Come the spring equinox , the ducks are a-waddling and a-courting and doing all manner of rude things. The geese that stayed are a-strutting and those who’ve returned fill the skies with their rusty gate calls. Spring makes me happy and so do ducks.

Beltane
Swan
Swans are the great lovers, mating for life. Although Beltane is more about sex, I associate these beautiful birds with late spring sunshine under the dappled willows.

Summer Solstice
Pidgin and his cousins the doves.
Pigeon, ubiquitous in cities like London, but also the sound of summer with their “Droo-droo, Droo-droo”. I hear their call and immediately I am sprawled beneath a shady tree on a rosy summer afternoon, snoozing gently.

Lamas
Pheasant and other game birds
August is the season of game hunting. The plump pheasants, partridges and grouse fly in fear of their life, yet lead the guns a merry dance too. After the first harvest, summer begins to think of autumn and the game bird flies across the wide moor.

Autumn Equinox
Swallows and other migrants
Summers end and the avian summer visitors fly south. The swallows fill the sky on their journey to over winter in Africa. Of course birds migrate in and out of the British Isles throughout the year but the time when the swallow leaves marks the end of summer and the cooling of the days until winter.

Samhain
Owl, raven and the crow family
AS we move into the darkness, the owl, the Cailleach and the raven the destroyer speak to me of the death of one thing and the birth of another, echoing Samhain as we die to what we no longer need, and are reborn anew.

Yule
Robin and Wren
Here are the twins at the time of the birth of the sun and the death of the dark. Robins and Yule are a common partnership. Wrens were hunted on St Stephen’s day. Together they sing.

2009-04-05T12:36:00.001-07:00

Dancing for the ducks – Waterloo Park, North London

Wednesday April 1, 2009:

“Oh, I should be a-protesting” I remember guiltily as I get off the 210 bus outside Waterlow Park. My companion and I have come to pay our respects to ducks, it being duck time of course.

I did toy with dressing up in flame coloured clothing and going to dance like a fool in the city along with like-minded souls, anything to protest the crimes of capitalism. Alas, a lunch date has slipped into my diary and it means that instead I only have time for the ducks before dinner. Well that is my excuse anyway.

We stride through the sunny park, stopping briefly to admire a new play area, the structures looking strong enough to bare an adult’s weight. But I am impatient for ducks and I’ve not much time, so we scoot along. The quacking and honking dances to us on the wind. And here are the ducks waddling around on the edge of the pond, splashing in the cool water under the willows.

There is something cheerful about ducks. I just can’t help quacking along with them. Somehow, their presence lightens my heart. I laugh and quack away as I get out the oatcakes and begin to scatter crumbs.

Ducks, geese and wood pigeons fix their attention on what I suspect is breakfast mark six and cluster and clamber on the other side of the fence. I get out the RSPB toy mallard and squeeze it.

“Quack-quack-quack-quack, quack-quack-quack-quack” quacks the toy duck.

“Quack-quack-quack-quack, quack-quack-quack-quack” gives back the mallard with a green head.

“Quack-quack-quack-quack, quack-quack-quack-quack” grumbles a rougher sounding duck from over on the left, a little belligerently.

WE all fall to quacking and soon the song of the toy, ducks and humans weave together in a cacophony of happy calls in tenor, bass and alto. In and out of our song the Droo-droo, Droo-droo” and “honk-honk, honk-honk” of the pigeons and geese move. Soon the air is filled with a joyous orchestra of the pond side and we continued to sin contentedly for some time.

Finding a seat, my companion and I sit down to contemplate the ducks in comfort. I call the spirit of the duck to come to me and sit back and wait.

I am upside-down underwater. With my bum in the air and my orange feet sticking up comically I am perfectly happy. Dignity? Who cares about dignity, I’m looking for food!

Below me the sky, pale blue smeared by the dark weedy water, shines opaquely. Above my head, the muddy bottom of the pond is my duck’s sky. I see amongst the weeds, curious openings and dark places and wonder what is down there. I see also, other heads like mine and the furiously paddling feet above the bottoms of the other ducks, geese and coots with whom I share my pond. With a flurry of splashing I right myself, shake the water from my wings with an enormous amount of flapping as I swim into a pool of sunlight.

We stand by the fence again, lured by the comic waddling birds. A red faced coot comes over to investigate the alien quacking from my toy duck, followed by another and then another. Not to miss out on anything, several mallards waddle up onto the bank and gather around.

What are the qualities of the duck, I muse as I lean against the fence? According to a rather waft and over emotional bird oracle I’ve found, the duck is his own worst critic. But I see ducks as optimistic and cheerful souls. Yes they argue amongst themselves and at times their squabbles can be quite vicious. But, every time a duck waddles into my thoughts, I think of a happy creature with that flat billed smile and my spirits rise. Their ubiquity is reassuring, for it is always easy to find ducks. Perhaps that too means they don’t get enough honouring.

And with that in mind, I suddenly need to dance. Splaying out my feet like a duck’s, I begin to waddle from side to side and to flap my arms like wings. I nod my head and quack as I rock from side to side. My companion joins in and the ducks waddle closer to watch in appreciation.

“Quack-quack-quack-quack, quack-quack-quack-quack” calls a particularly handsome purple headed mallard, according to my companion. He turns, waddling on orange feet, his black tail and brown rump apparently looking rather magnificent in the sunlight and with a splash, enters the water and paddles away. Soon an Armada of mallards, their colourful heads erect, their orange feet furiously paddling, shoot across the pond in search of a small child in pink with a lot of bread to give them.

“Hail and farewell ducks,” I say, bowing to their retreating backs. “Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for making me want to dance.”

2009-04-05T12:33:00.001-07:00

Following the winged ones

I call now the element of air. Let your breath blow me onwards through the year as I fly with the birds. I will fly to inspire, and so that we may all know and love justice. Hail and welcome winged ones!

I have no text, no ancient lore to follow. I have only my instinct and my promise - to connect with the birds this year. In the helter-skelter rush into spring, and the busyness of my life, I have had time only to regret that I did not spend more time preparing. But Ostara has passed and I don’t yet know completely the calendar I will follow. Being a bit of a completer finisher, this irks me somewhat.

I wander round the garden listening to the glorious dawn chorus. Maybe I should align the birds with the trees? Blackbird is the bird of the threshold. He begins to sing soon after Imbolc. Let him companion Rowan then, I decide. The geese fly high in the white skies of March, let them fly above the naked elegant ash tree. How merrily the ducks paddle and play. Let them waddle and quack amongst the wet roots of Alder. How beautifully the willow weeps into the swollen spring waters below. Let them weep with the soulful swan as she glides beneath their shade.

I know that as the year casts her crone’s mantle that owl and raven will be there. The sacred twins, the robin and the wren will herald the beginning of the year in birch. All that seems right. But where to place the pidgin, for I must have pigeon? And as I think of this, the other birds begin to peck and squabble, clambering for inclusion.

The tree calendar is aligned to the moons. In 2008, birch began on the new moon which appeared on the day after St Stephen’s day. It seemed right that Wren and Robin companioned it. The month of birch next comes in the second week of January 2010, late for the robin and the wren. Now if I’d worked with birds this last year, everything would have fitted in beautifully!

So what about working with a bird for each festival? Blackbird would fit in with Imbolc, Duck with Ostara, Swan with Beltane. Owl and or Raven with Samhain and Wren and Robin with Yule. My mind boggles. I could just decide, but I can’t decide so I go off to talk to the ducks, because, whichever calendar system I decide upon, both agree that it is time for ducks!

2009-02-28T07:59:00.000-08:00

Rowan’s seed

The Witchen or Wiggen tree, lady of the mountain or poetical delight of the eye is a small tree growing generally up to 30 feet in height. Her slender branches point upwards as though reaching to call down the moon. She grows almost anywhere tolerating poor soil but needing light and air so prefers high altitudes. When Rowan’s creamy flowers fall like a froth of silky softness, small green buds swell and as the season progresses ripen to rich red berries.

One of many trees to be regarded by the ancients as a tree of life, When Hebe lost the cup of the gods, great eagle was sent to fight the demons for it. It was said that wherever a feather or drop of blood fell, a rowan tree would spring hence its feathery leaves and blood red berries.

Serpents or dragons are said to guard rowan trees. Alongside Hebe the rowan is connected with two powerful sun goddesses, Bridgid of Ireland and Brigantia of England.

Rowan has been used since ancient times as an astringent and anti biotic. It’s bark can be used in a decoction to relieve diarrhoea, and eases the discomfort of vaginal discharge when used in washing water. Rowan seeds are poisonous to children but rowan berries were prepared in decoction as a gargle for sore throats and inflamed tonsils and used externally to heal haemorrhoids and scurvy.

Associated with the sun, and connected to the element of fire, rowan has strong protective qualities and is a great source of healing. Incense can be made from ground leaves, berries from the tree are used to banish undesired energies. Rowan smoke is a powerful divinatory tool. Rowan wood is very tough. Spindles and spinning wheels were traditionally made from rowan cut between Beltane and Midsummer. The bark a fruit of rowan can be used to dye wool black and bark can also be used for tanning. Jams and wines can be made from the fruit.

Sunday February 22, 2009:

I step carefully amongst the slender trees, their bare limbs arching up to the sky as though to cradle the round silver moon beaming down upon the earth. It might be winter but it is not at all cold. The ground slopes steeply and I notice how the rowan trees lean with the steepness. I walk on.

The rowans change as I progress through the wood. Soon buds form, then feathery and delicate leaves unfurl and are soon frothed by the white blossom. Leaves grow larger and darken; bright red berries swell and hang against their dark green. I walk on under a changing sky, through a softened warmed air that, as the days roll on, begins slightly to cool with the approach of autumn.

Heavily hangs the elegant laden branch, round glossy berries pendulously swinging before my eyes. The deep green feathery leaves, like hands, flap in the breeze.

Is it I who move or do they? Do the berries swell before me or am I changing size? They loom closer, growing larger and larger. Pushing against my cheek with their silky coolness, I find myself burrowing my face into their roundness. Their flesh melts against my lips and there I am head first, immersed in the pinkie softness, not suffocating but definitely submerged.

It is the weirdest of sensations but I don’t fight it. Slowly I am being sucked in, until I am lying curled up in the berry like a docile parasite. The flesh yields, I yield, surrender, let go and am captured.

Who knows how time passes. I am conscious that I am lying next to a big red orange seed and that it sits on the edge of a pale green, slowly moving little stream. I push the seed into the green liquid, climb upon it and allow myself to drift along.

The greenness widens and quickens. Soon I am scudding along a fast flowing torrent bearing me inexorably into the darker greenness beyond.

I am in a pale green tunnel. It leads via forks and turns into another and then another. Soon I have lost count of the turnings and forks. I simply sit upon my red orange seed in the pale green liquid and wait.

At length the tunnel widens, the ceiling arches and the rivulets pools into a great pale green lake under a high arched roof, which when I look closer seems to be made out of the waving fronds of many, many rowan leaves and is itself a darker deeper richer green. The green lake glimmers, throes off an eery acid shimmer, cool and still.

I look across the lake and see a figure standing watching me. Her/his raggedy robes flutter in an unfelt breeze, her/his hair, a brilliant rowan red, falls in cascades across broad shoulders and rounded green clad breasts. Her shape is female but her face … her face, framed by the wavy red locks is pale, austere, angular yet beautiful. Neither traditionally masculine nor feminine, she/he watches me from quiet, unreadable dark green eyes.

My seed bumps the side of the lake. I clamber out and pull the seed onto the lake-edge. Kneeling before her, I look up in wonder. Now I see her robes are made from rowan leaves, and as I look up at her, I see the hair is bunches of bright red berries hanging heavily about that still face.

Silently, she stoops and strokes my face. Her hands are soft and feathery like the leaves of the rowan. I see that they are circled in berry bracelets. I gaze at that quiet pointed face, into those dark, dark green eyes and my heart shifts within my chest and I sigh, a deep releasing sigh.

Not taking my eyes from her face, I grope before me to the seed boat; I scoop my hands under it and lift it. It is light, light as a leaf almost, I think as I reach over to lay it at her feet. It is all I have to give apart from my love and reverence for her beauty and all she stands for. I fold my hands on my breast and bow my head.

I hear a gentle crack. I look up. She is gazing at the seed. I look down and see that the seed is splitting. Out from its centre pops a green shoot. Rapidly it pushes up into the aerie green light, delicate and frail, reaching out for life and sustenance. Before my eyes, the shoot divides gracefully and slowly spirals round and round, growing small twigs that become elegantly arching branches. And the rowan spirit leans into it, becomes one with the tree, grows on and up to the roof of the parting cavern which opens to reveal a pale blue spring sky beyond.

I kneel next to the tree, resting my cheek on her smooth bark. I see the canopy rise, thicken and grow out and up. Day becomes night, becomes day becomes night again and on and on as the world turns. I see her branches arch up as though to invite the moon to nestle in her arms. And I see the moon move closer and lie in that tender loving embrace. Her branches are festooned with ribbons, bells and tokens. I feel the power of the prayers and spells made by her side as the years move on.

And there before me stands my own rowan tree, slender and bare in her February beauty, little buds beneath the surface waiting to break through. I kneel before her. Her slim branches shelter me as I give thanks to her guidance this year of the trees. How apt that her feathery leaves will pass on the honour of marking the year and its beauties, to the birds, my next goddess muse, set to start at Ostara.

“Beautiful trees, I love you. Be always with me where ever I am. May your generous branches nurture and support the winged ones that I will follow this year to come.”

“Lovely tree” I say, reaching out and touching her smooth grace, “I have completed my pilgrimage to the trees this year. I have honoured the standing tree people who are your relatives and all their spirits. I willingly opened myself to tree wisdom, and have been nurtured by strong tree trunks. I have dreamed and sung beneath sheltering branches and my words have honoured the beauty of the trees. I have also taught others to love trees too. I bow to the generosity of the trees in allowing me to connect humbly with their spirits and worship the magnificence that is all trees, big or small, young or old.

I call to the element of earth, to thank you for holding me and grounding me in this, my work for this past year. I have grown strong like the trees. My strength has led me to work in the world (when I am not with the trees) to work for love and respect for all peoples and especially to champion the rights of those whom others despise and would hurt. Let me have the strength to go on with my life’s work, to grow in my skills and influence so that I may free my people of the chains of ableism.

I call now the element of air. Let your breath blow me onwards through the year as I fly with the birds. I will fly to inspire, and so that we may all know and love justice. So mote it be!”

2009-02-18T04:13:00.000-08:00

Tribute and promise

Tuesday February 17, 2009:

During the afternoon it has rained. Sawdust is smeared across the garden, even the leaves of the choisia are coated with it. I crouch down and touch the assembled logs, reach forward and meet the tree stump with gentle fingers.

The trunks lean together as though for warmth, their smooth surfaces soft with the wet sawdust, their still ivy clad bark rough and dry to the touch, despite the rain. My hands trace their sturdy shapes, the strong thick branches curving and dividing in an elegance of symmetry, leaning precariously against each other and the now exposed ugly wire fence.

It’s as though someone has taken off the sky. Under this great emptiness above my head, lies the garden; vulnerable and defenceless like a bareheaded frail old man on a cold winter’s day.

I sink down onto the low edging of the shrubbery, am enfolded in the fragrant choisia, my head in my hands, shoulders bowed in despair. I sit silently with the fallen tree. Where is its spirit now? What has happened to the creatures that depended upon it for sustenance and shelter, I wonder?

In its relatively short life, this dear tree happily hosted the ivy, allowed the pigeons to roost, and accepted the webs of the garden spiders, surrendered to the wood lice, slugs and snails. Tolerantly it permitted me to dress it, stroke it, sing to it and hug it. Always, it gave comfort with its solid cheerfulness, its quiet ever-present dominance in this little garden.

In spring, its light leafy green helped the dark holly - its near neighbour - to shine. In summer as its leaves patterned and darkened, it added to the opulence of the fertile garden. In autumn it shone golden in the western sun before letting its leaves drift gently on the autumn wind.

Never again will it reach out its arms to protect this garden. Never again will it shine in the early morning sunlight or glitter and glow at days end, lit by the western sun. Never again will its leaves tremble and shake as a tough little easterly comes searing into the garden, or its leaves tremble in the rain, sheltering all who stand under it from the storms of autumn. It is gone, it is gone, it is gone!

I remember the promise made beneath the nearly budding branches of my rowan tree on Imbolc Eve, at the start of my tree pilgrimage last year.
“I pledge to love and protect the trees, for without you all, all humankind is doomed. “

So much for my promise, I think angrily. I’ve failed. I failed to protect a tree I had responsibility for and now, every time I walk in the garden I will be reminded of that failure.

And at last the tears come. Great hot rivers of grief course down my face. My breath, caught in my throat, shakes with the long withheld sobs. I surrender at last to the pain, the guilt and the misery.
In time, I grow quiet. I get up from under the choisia and crouch down before the trunks. Touching the stump, I whisper.

“I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I will build you a beautiful memorial. I will make a sheltered habitat for the garden creatures to nest in and to play in. You will never be forgotten for, in your trunk and branches lies a reminder of your glory. And the ivy will march determinedly upon you. The birds will sit and feast and sing and crap upon you. I will decorate you with whatever takes my fancy and the folk will dance about you as you grow and change.

I will sit beside you and dream. As the years turn, others who come to the garden will watch you evolve, grow weathered and decay until you are ready to return into the earth from whence you came. And other organisms will come and feast upon the soil you have enriched. Other trees and plants will grow where you once were. Who knows, in years to come, another generation of hornbeam may stand here proud and sturdy and strong. Another tree lover will sit beneath it, hold it in her arms and sing to it, as I have done. Someone else will find pleasure and comfort as I have in you.”

I struggle to my feet, walk slowly round the garden to stand in front of the rowan where my pilgrimage began. I will return one more time to close this pilgrimage, to give thanks for the journey I have been on and all that it has done to move and change me, but not tonight. Tonight, I morn the loss of a beautiful tree, acknowledge my part in its demise and my responsibility in the world to protect and nurture the trees.

2009-02-18T04:07:00.001-08:00

Rest in peace dear hornbeam

Tuesday February 17, 2009:

11:31 am

I've just "undressed" my lovely hornbeam tree. I've removed the alter at its feet, the Samhain ancestor walk ribbon around its girth, the green man sconce from its chest and the cluster of bells from high up in its branches (don't know how I got them up there, I must have climbed up!). I've laid my hand on the flat of its flank and said "goodbye".

The tree surgeon stands, chain-saw in hand as I divest the hornbeam of its sacred trappings. I don’t dare even whisper to it.

In my mind, I say “I love you, I’m sorry, please go now. Goodbye dear tree and thank you for being in my life.”

The tree surgeon shuffles awkwardly as I bite my lip. I wish he’d go away and leave me with my tree, but he’s impatient to get the job done.

“I will not cry, I must not cry,” I vow to myself fiercely, my fingers failing to undo the determinedly tight knot in the Samhain ribbon. One by one, I hand the items to my gardener, tersely instructing her where to place them. Gently, I stroke the leaves one more time, don’t dare to embrace the tree although I tell it silently that I want to. I lay the flat of my hand on its ivy-clad trunk one more time and in my mind whisper, “Now go, dear tree, go. Blessed be, hail and farewell”

Head down, my face hot with the effort of not crying, I stomp back in doors and firmly close away the murdering world.

11:50 am
Chain saws are whining and the poor tree’s top most branches are hissing and bumping as they are dragged across the garden, sounding every bit like a large dead body might when being hauled off for summary disposal. I imagine their sighing swishing, a whispered protest, their version of kicking and screaming. I want to kick and scream on their behalf, but of course, I don’t. I try not to think murderous thoughts about the tree surgeons, the neighbours, the surveyors.

12:00
And now, the air is filled with the crunching and grinding of the pulping machine as it chomps its way through the twigs and small branches I've allowed them to take. I can't stand it! When will it be over. I am called outside to supervise the size of logs and branches I want to keep. I touch the dear tree’s dismembered body and inside, I weep.

The tree’s crime? It was too big for this garden or so the surveyors said. Its robustness caused the cracks in next door’s extension. The tree officer didn’t agree with this but felt that the tree did not merit a protection order, being surrounded by other trees and being only a humble hornbeam. But I know that the London clay, swelling with the rain and cracking with the sun has shifted the ground upon which many houses have been built. This is what happens when one builds on heavy clay and has extremes of wet and heat. Firm structures that don’t bend and move, crack and eventually they fall down.

1:30 pm
I help pile up the pieces of trunk around the place where the tree was. The tree surgeons have finished and are gone. The tree, cut almost to the ground lies amongst the scattered ivy, quiet and desolate. We pile up the trunks, the big fat branches, make a temporary cairn around the place where the tree was. I pick up a small fat piece of trunk, cradle it in my arms, and rest my cheek against its rough bark before laying it tenderly amongst the others.

One day soon, something beautiful will rise from this felling today. I picture a memorial, a pile of balanced and fixed trunks and branches. Ledges for the birds to sit on, places to leave offerings. Perhaps there’ll be an archway of some kind, a doorway into that other world. Soon, I will ask those who love trees and the goddess and those who love me or just love making things in and out of nature, to come and help me make something by which to remember the dear hornbeam. Together we will make something that will evolve as the years go on, hosting wildlife, harbouring the birds, a place for the folk to dance and for me to dream beside.

Rest in peace dear hornbeam.

2009-02-18T04:06:00.000-08:00

The totem guards

Tuesday February 17, 2009:

A blackbird sings loudly. His call, a tumble of fluting notes, astonishingly loud in the early morning garden. I blow him a kiss and I move down the path towards the dear hornbeam tree.

Cool ivy leaves flutter under my tenderly stroking fingers. I reach round and clasp the trunk in an urgent hug. Today is this dear tree’s final day as a tree.

I lean my cheek against its rough bark. “Dear tree, I am sorry”, I whisper, “I am so sorry.” Only a few hours now to go. What can I do to support the tree now that it is about to die?

The path leads down between overhanging bushes, their leaves damp and cool, misted with dew. I push through them gently and edge my way down. All around is green, a riot of shrubs, great trees rising from beyond them into the dawn sky. A gently woody sweet perfume pervades the air, laced with a rich moiste loamyness. Everything here is so very much alive.

Here I am in a dark leafy dell, sheltered by the branches of trees meeting overhead. I edge my way down to a scattering of rough hewn stones and the darkness beyond them. A Fogou lies behind a curtain of ivy. I stoop low and make my way in.

It is warm and dark in here. I breathe deeply, savouring that distinctive Fogou smell that damp slightly mildew earthy aroma, so familiar and so evocative. The soil beneath me is soft. I subside down onto the ground, leaning my back against an earthy bank and wait.

“What can I give the hornbeam tree on this it’s last day?” I ask of no one in particular. I wait.

The darkness oranges, flickers warmly and I see the reflection of a dancing fire on the packed earth wall before me. I turn and, there is a vibrant little fire burning brightly in a great square hearth, which seems to have been hewn from the Fogou wall. Before it, lays the she-wolf. AS though hearing me – though I have said nothing, she turns, pointing her mussel at me and makes that soft whining noise in her throat that makes me want to cry and to hug her all at once. And then she is with me, leaning her heavy head upon my thigh.

We sit and wait. The light from the doorway darkens and I know something is outside but is reluctant to come in. I touch the she-wolf’s head and we rise and move out into the relative light of the dell beyond. A great bear sits by the doorway and I crawl over and sit down beside her, the wolf following.

A shrub shakes and I hear a snuffle. The snout, eyes and then whole head of the wild boar emerges, then moves slowly over to join us. Above me, a goat bleats and I turn to see her standing precariously on the top of the Fogou. I smile and she leaps down and joins us. Adder slides out from under a pile of rocks, a blackbird begins to sing loudly on the tree by the Fogou’s entrance. a raven’s guarg-guarg joins the cacophony as it struts into the dell. My power animals have come to join me!

And then I know what I must do. I need to bring all my allies to be with the hornbeam tree today, to sit with it till the time comes for him to be destroyed. I get up and lead the animals back to the tree, stand before and call the garden animals to come join in the vigil.

A blackbird is certainly giving it some welly in the tree a couple of gardens down. On the other side, a robin is chirruping at a nonchalantly cooing wood pigeon. The fence rattles and creaks under the weight of the cat. The squirrel pelts along on the other side, keeping his distance from the prowling mog.

“Come animals of the garden, birds of the sky, the creeping crawling things of the earth, come! Come allies of my path, totems of my life with the goddess, come! Come and be with this tree until it is no more. Come and be with me in my pain and sadness. Help me bare what must be done. Help this tree now”

I breathe and stroke the tree. Reach into my pocket and find the container of seeds. I pour it over the alter and on the ground around the tree. Then I kiss the tree tenderly and leave.

2009-02-18T04:05:00.001-08:00

Father Hornbeam

Monday February 16, 2009:

I stand beside the hornbeam in my garden on its penultimate day as a living tree and cast a circle. For some time, I’ve been aware of a doorway into another world underneath one of its great branches. This morning, I decide to allow myself to explore it, with the set intention of connecting with the spirit of the tree and finding out what I need to do to release it when the tree is felled tomorrow.

I am on the crest of a hill. All around me, in monochrome with an ashen grey emphasis roll hills, sweeping down to a dark dead-looking great city by a snaking still river. All is quiet. There is no sign of life. Dread creeps across my skin in cold Goosebumps and I feel heavy and sad.

The tarmac path is straight, running down the hill towards the dead city. I walk slowly down, noticing that the grass on the hillside looks lifeless and grey. The leaden sky presses down upon me. I walk on.

Nothing changes, nothing moves. I am the only sign of life on the hill side. I plod on towards the city which doesn’t seem to be getting any nearer.

A rattling croak breaks the silence. I look up to see big black crows circling and cawing urgently to each other. What can they be searching for in this dead landscape? They circle above me as I walk on.

I’m lost in a slough of deep depression. I plod heavily on.

Now I walk through a burnt out forest, the tree stumps blackened and jagged, the grass lumpy like the scattered rough ash of a human cremation. What terrible cataclysm happened to cause this? I think momentarily of miles of burnt forest in the Australian bush. I walk on.

And as I walk, I begin to notice a change. Amongst the scattered ashes, the harshly pointing burnt stumps, one or two leaves are unfurling. Here and there, a brave bud pushes through. As I walk, the landscape around me greens; changes and the trees grow up all around me. In time, I am walking through a fertile forest and the air is populated with birdsong. Spring perfumes every breath I take. Small scurrying in the undergrowth signals that I am not alone. I walk on, placing my feet carefully yet jauntily on the path that winds between the trees.

I push through a leafy vale into a woodland clearing. In its centre stands a great tree. I can tell from its bark and its sturdy shape that it is a hornbeam. Before it, another stout hornbeam lies, as though in prostration, although in fact it has been felled. I touch it gently then step over it and sit down, facing the live tree.

I gaze at the big tree in front of me. Its strong trunk rises up into the sky. Its great branches spread out protectively overhead, their leaves providing a thick sheltering canopy. I look down at the roots and see, amongst the grasses and brambles, the spiralling ivy, small busy creatures scuttling and scurrying. This tree hosts a whole environment, a rich pallet of colours, a vibrant ecology of fora and flora.

I hang my head and weep for the tree in my garden. I feel this hornbeam’s paternalistic protective energy hold me, as though I were a small and distressed child.

“Father hornbeam”, I say, between sobs, the hornbeam in my garden is condemned. It has to come down. How shall I help its spirit leave?”

I sit quietly thinking, watching the still silent tree in front of me. I remember, my tree is decorated with bells, a green man sconce and a silk ribbon from the Samhain ancestor walk. At its feet stands a simple alter. When I take these from the tree, then it will be time for the spirit to leave. I shall “undress” the tree only when the tree surgeons are ready to cut it. Until then, let its spirit live happily on, gracing my garden with its joyfulness.

I rise to my feet, bow and thank the father hornbeam for his wisdom and return to my garden.

2009-02-18T04:03:00.000-08:00

Just a Simple Blade of Grass

Full Moon, Monday February 9, 2009:

A delicate latticework of leaves, like a green-toned intricately carved screen separates me from a wide green sward. I prize the tendrils apart and squeeze through, careful not to damage their fragile silky coolness.

I stand in a wide velvet green circle of grass, edged by darker trees. The promise of spring newly come, hopeful and young is evidenced by the trees, the grass, the clear sky and the fragrant air. Every colour of green is here, from the dark shiny holly, to the vibrant new green of the beech.

On the other side of the circle I see a great old gnarled oak, magnificent yet twisted, its writhing branches stag like against the soft blue sky. I tread carefully across the grass, soft and cushioned under my bare feet. I kneel down before the tree, my quest in my heart.

I gaze at the tree, trace its patterns and shapes. The complexity of its growing is strong, sturdy and purposeful.

I focus on a single blade of grass springing from beside a gnarled root. How graceful it is, I marvel. How delicate its tapered leaf, perfectly bisected by the finest of stems. It offers itself to the world in its uncompromisingly simple purposefulness. The blade trembles frailly in the imperceptible breeze, and I sigh softly, reach out and tenderly touch it.

Here is a single blade; I examine it intimately it till I know it absolutely.

“I would know myself in all of my parts,” I find myself repeating again and again beneath my breath. In knowing, I accept myself. Acceptance is simple, that’s all.

I bow to the ancient tree. Between my finger and thumb, the blade of grass slips smoothly from base to tip. “Simple, oh so simple,” I sing softly to myself as I turn and walk back across the sward, duck and carefully edge my way through the latticework of leaves.

2009-02-08T10:12:00.000-08:00

Babe in the curricle

Monday February 2, 2009:

I kneel before the unlit gas fire and carefully construct the Bridie bed. I line a basket with soft wool and silk, cover with faux fur and lay the bed down upon a little woolly rug. My fingers tenderly touch each texture, imagining what it would be like to creep beneath those covers and sleep. I sigh and remember the embracing snow outside. There’s still time to savour the dark.

“Dom-dom, Dom-Dom, dom-dom” The little drum beats a heartbeat and I sit down beside the Bridie bed. In my mind, I am out in the cold dark garden, still shrouded in thick soft snow, its surface hardening under the frosty sky.

Nothing moves but the beat of my feet, treading carefully and purposefully between the shrubs, under the arches, beneath the trees. Around me, clusters of snow flowers caught in the leaves of the trees slip easily out of their embrace and fall with a thwat. The wind shivers the branches. Droplets of frozen snow caught in the apex of two twigs meeting slip slowly and scatter, pitter-patter onto the frozen ground below.

I listen to the drum beat and breathe. The world is enfolded in Bridget’s mantle. It sleeps like a babe in a basket, lying mute and at peace beneath the soft covers, girding its strength for the returning light and the growing time.

The birch tree stands silvery and black, tall and graceful, its delicate branches reaching out to the slender rowan growing just on the other side of the path. They lean towards each other, their trembling fingers entwine. I walk under the dark arch that is their meeting point.

Trees line the path, growing together over my head, they make a dark lacy tunnel against the silvery sky, their branches, dusted with snow highlight their tangled structure. Beneath them lies the shimmering snow. I walk amongst them, placing my feet carefully, reaching out to touch their trunks as they edge closer, inclining towards me as I moved deeper and deeper into the woods.

Now I am edging carefully between them. Easily they relinquish their snowy gifts. Soon I am covered in snow. Tongues of cool iciness have found their way down my back; have slid between my breasts under my coat. I push on.

The snow creaks and groans under my feet. Snow plops wetly from the shivering branches as I pass. The wind softly sighs against my warm cheek. Nothing moves but the snow and me.

The path opens out into a small clearing. There amongst the white snow shines a cluster of creamy rocks surrounding a silver pool. As I move closer, I see that the pool ripples, is fed by a small tumbling spring whose tinkling voice I can now hear. I move closer.

I kneel in the snow and lean over the pool. Below me, my face shivers in the softly moving water. I nod to myself and then plunge my hand in, braking up the image, sending it spinning to the edges of the pool.

I scoop up the icy water, drink greedily its cold freshness, feel its coolness travelling through my body, spreading out to my very fingertips in a silvery sense of peace. It is the clear sharpness of spring water. It is the soft smoothness of fresh milk. It is sweet yet savoury, reviving yet soothing. I drink deeply.
I am sated. Refreshed and renewed. But I can’t move. The shimmering image in the water gazes up at me. I am transfixed.

The gurgling of the stream catches my attention. I see now that the spring feeds a little stream as well as this pool. It meanders amongst the rocks, across the clearing and disappears into the dark woods. I get up and follow it.

The walking is hard. The trees have grown so close to the water that I have to skirt round them. Time and again, I am led back to its side by its persistent bubbling voice.
The river leads me through the woods, to the edge of a cliff above a rocky beach. It tumbles down into a water hollowed bowl where it bubbles and churns effervescently before spilling over the rim and streaming across the pebbles to the sea.

I follow, slipping and sliding, stumbling, turning my ankles, falling, then getting up again and doggedly going on. At last I arrive on the beach, a small cove, littered with boulders and little rock pools. The pebbles slide beneath my feet as I step carefully to the gently lapping edge of the sea.

Alone on the beach, I watch the tide ebb and flow. I look out to see and notice the silver line at the place where sea meets sky. All is quiet, nothing moves but the sea and the lazy tongue of water that was the stream.

The light on the horizon becomes brighter. I watch it spreading, the silver turning to a soft gold, the sky lightening into the beginnings of the palest of grey blues. And there in front of me, a curricle bobs on the waves. Slowly, it moves towards me, carried on the gentlest of tides until it beaches at my feet.

Kneeling down, I look into the boat. There, wrapped in silks and furs a child sleeps peacefully, her soft skin creamy and pink, her hair the lightest of red-gold. One plump arm is flung around the neck of a sleeping creamy woolly lamb. Cheek to cheek they lie, softly breathing, at peace and safe.

I watch and wonder. What should I do with these two dear lambs? Should I carry them from the Sea or let it take them where it will?

The sun rises slowly above the horizon. I turn back to the pool and see, picked out in the sun’s first ray, a delicate fragile snowdrop, her demure head gently drooping. I go to her, kneeling and bowing my head. I reach out to stroke her, to cradle her little soft head between my fingers. Her cool silkiness is like the gentlest of kisses.

Then she is lying in my palm, accidentally plucked from between the rocks where she grew. I am sorry and feel ashamed. Tears prick my eyes. I don’t know what to do.

I go back to the child in the curricle. I tuck the little snowdrop into the blankets; rest its soft silkiness against the sleeper’s warm cheek. Under my hand, the boat bobs. A wave bigger than the rest lifts the vessle, spins it and gently bears it out to see.
Standing among the breaking waves I bow to the retreating boat. On the wind, I’m sure I hear a lamb bleating and a baby’s gurgling laugh. I turn back and walk up the beach to the stream and the pool.

It’s a hard scrabble up through the woods. Is that the old moon I can see peaking out from amongst the latticework of branches? I’m not sure. Is that a feather laid across it, I muse as I walk through the woods or a trick of the light against the twigs? I think about new beginnings, of commitments and of letting go of what no longer serves me.

“I leave behind panic an fear of failure” I say to the tangled trees, pushing my way into the clearing. I take with me the courage to lead,” I declare to my reflection in the shimmering pool. “I trust and honour myself as a witch, a crip and a dyke in how I serve London,” I vow, cupping my hands and drinking deeply of the icy water.

“Dom-dom, dom-dom, dom-dom, the voice of the drum calls me back. The room is warm. Outside, the wind rattles the windows.

“Blessings upon you Bridget”, I say, pouring her out some cool water, placing seeds in a bowl and a creamy white oatcake on a little plate.