Fae ritual.

Fae Ritual Journeying.

I was a bit rubbish yesterday in that got sucked into other projects (like written with a nib and ink in my BIG book of Shadows) instead of preparing for the ritual I knew I was going to do. Now I gave TK the choice of being their doing (magickal) study or being elsewhere and he decided to study. So after dinner and putting the mini witch to be I eventual got started on things like making the incense and preparing my ritual candles.
I used two candles as ritual items. One white and one blue. 
The white candle was dress with my fae lend oil and inscribed with the following.
"Carry me safely home and back again.
My Mother gently guide me to you.
All my seven sisters aid me on my journey."
Then did the blue on (which I will leave private).
Now to make the incense (thank goodness for the coffee grinder Gina gave me).
I took these herbs: apple leaf and wood, rosemary, gorse, willow leaf and honeysuckle flower and gum arabic. Once ground (which took a while) I placed the herbs in a ramekin and added the fae oils.
I got my altar and it's tools set up already, I had my wand and athame and scourge (it is made of elder wood). I filled a pint glass with water and got my twisted root candle holder onto the altar. (This was a gift from my initiator CW and without TK ritual tools I had space on the altar.) Anyway it was getting pretty late so rather than bake something I used finest Scottish shortbread as my food offering  for libation, I retrieved the blackberry and boozy mush from the fridge (where it has been since Mabon) and but some of it's syrupy blood red booze into my cruach. Phew almost ready? Oh cup of (and I mean a BIG cup) of chamomile tea.
I lit the candles in the root holder and dimmed the other lights. Using one of their flames to light my charcoal. I put charcoal disk into it's old and dented censor. When it had stopped "fizzing" I add the incense a pinch at a time. I opened the window a little and got out my big besom and swept the space clean. After I shut the window and added more incense. It smelt beautiful and sweet. I took off my PJ's and took down my hair. I spoke the Witches Rune to wake up my tools and then I used my wand to cast the circle and called the quarters. I called the fae of each element too at this point and then I evoked the Lady and Lord  and welcomed them in the usual way. Then I lit my anointed candles and lay down on the floor. TK sat quietly reading. I was a bit cold so I got the white(ish) throw and lay on that. I began as I usually do by deep breathing and making myself feel light. I was very surprised by how quickly I went.

Now I was in a sunny pine forest. A large reindeer nudged me and spoke. Then a large bear appeared. I was over joyed and threw my arms around the bear and buried my face into his thick slightly grey fur. I asked if I should ride him to get home, and he made fun of me and in the next moment we were at a a castle on a cliff top looking out to sea. I reached a doorway that was smaller than me and as I ran my hand in a clockwise direction over the frame it seem to grow. In the centre of the door was a disk and I twisted it again with the palm of my right hand and the giant doors opened inwards. Inside was the great hall. Set with tables laid with food and fire burning brightly at the centre. It was totally empty at this point. Behind the top table is the room I need to be in and there are my sisters. All wearing veils of some kind. They are arranged around a circular smooth stone table. I take my place beside them and lay both my hands flat on the table. Markings begin to glow brightly and the table seems to move and yet not move. I can feel the connect and love from these beautiful women. Then as I turn I see the room behind me is full of people now, they are eating and dancing. I am warmly welcomed and then everything hushes as she just appears. She is older than I seem to remember and she tells me this is "just the time of year". She is wear a pale blue robe and carrying a staff that she tells me is holly, it is as white as her long thick hair. She ushers me to "my room" and tells me "the bed is now of ivy rather than honeysuckle."
I lie down and she turn me on my side and then notice my sisters are there too. She heals me. We talk and laugh at length. It is very moving and full of love and warmth. When she is done she tells me to dance. As we reenter the great hall I do dance. I am embraced by many and we laugh. Suddenly I am aware I will have to leave and she just looks at me softly and say "I will take you back." There is a blinding light and she is standing over my body in the ritual circle. She tells me to "bathe in holly, and place a sprig in your broom." Then she bless the house and it seems to me a flash of light that could reach out into space erupts. Then she is gone. 
I am on the floor and my hair is wet from the tears that have cried. I sit up and pat myself down. I drink some water and wake TK and ask him to fetch me some holly leaves from the garden. He is not particularly impressed but he goes out and wrestles with the spiky bush. He grabs about a hand full and a sprig that fits nicely on my broom. I place the leaves in my herb decoction pan and bring it to a rolling boil. I discover that cooking holly leaves smell great (I even dipped my finger in to taste and it wasn't so bad). While it cools on the stove I add more incense to the burning which is still in, just. Then TK and I bless the cup and the offerings. Then I thanked and released everything and everyone. I didn't stripe the altar properly and take off my tools but I did take the jug of strained holly water and run a bath. I put a lot of rock salt in it too (nothing fancy just salt) and blessed the bathroom. I got in the bath and once in I poured the holly water over my head, face, shoulder and back. Once it was all gone I submerged myself in the water and just floated a while (it is a small tub so I can not usually do this). I lay there replaying in my head all that was said to me and by whom. I held onto the images over and over. Then I washed my hair and rinsed off. I felt a bit bad for drying my hair so late but I noticed a chill had come over the house. It was cold, really cold. I got into bed finding TK already there reading still (it was coming up close to 1am by this point). I re-played the journey in my head again and again, holding onto the love, support and healing I received. At about 6am I woke up, really really cold. I got out of bed and tried to find warmer PJ's to wear (in the dark trying not to wake TK who was blissfully asleep) I lay there shivering for a bit but slowly got warmer and warm enough to sleep an hour or so later.
I feel so good in some ways (even though the house feels really cold to everyone not just me today) my back and shoulder feel much improved and I feel calmer and more focused.
I had not planned on sharing my journey with you but it seems to have just poured out. The faeries in my house are very active today (when I told mini witch she moaned "MORE active? I can't find anything as it is!") but all seem quieter now.
So that was my journey. Put holly in your brooms, salt in your bath and go home as often as you can.
 I do not own these images.

How to walk a mountain.

 How to walk a mountain.

The difficult path? The pathless path? The journey that was following your dreams? You ever go hiking or walk in mountains? I don't so much now but I used to a lot. The weird thing about a hike or walk up a mountain is that you can walk and walk, and you don't really think you are getting anywhere and not only the THE MOUNTAIN LOOKS BIGGER! You can look back over the path and you can see the bits that looked easy from where you are standing now, that were tough at the time and belittle how hard it was, and be daunted by how high and how far you have to go. Now when I go climbing or walking I always take a flask of tea. At about the "You have to be shitting me" point of the hike I sit down and have a cup of tea. I don't look at the mountain or the path I look at my cup of warm brown joy. Maybe at the sky. I don't worry about the mountain (it isn't going to vanish or anything) or about how I could have climbed it better. I just sit there and take a little rest. Then I pack up my stuff and I think about the next spot I could sit down and have a cup of tea at. I set myself a little challenge, only small. The next rocks or that weird tree. Then I just let my feet walk and my mind wander, sing to myself, maybe tell someone who isn't there something I wish they knew, think about things I want to paint, or meals I want to make, all the time I keep walking. I give myself permission to feel what I feel. Okay my knee hurts...yes it hurts, but I keep going. It feels sad that I can not climb as well as I want to be able to..it hurt too, but I keep going. Sometimes I might start laughing at something that is funny in my head..that is okay too (maybe not in Tesco's though), and the odd thing is the mountain keeps looking bigger, but it isn't going anywhere. I am the one travelling. I am only accountable to myself. The mountain doesn't care. The trees don't care. The random sheep, they don't care either. If I made it half way today, maybe I can do further tomorrow, or maybe not.
You are the person setting the goals. You.
You can't run a Marathon without training and practice. You have to start small, then add small goals along the way. Life is like that. It has injuries and walls and doubts but all that means is that you are human, just a lot more honest than a lot of people. So take a moment, have some tea (I think this ambrosia of the Gods is awesome) and give your self a break, don't think about any of the if only's or what if's, just enjoy the sky and the way the tea moves in the cup.

Scariest things that go bump in the Night.

Scariest things that go bump in the Night.

 Now I know I am a witch, psychic and medium so maybe I am bias, but if somebody/something was stupid enough to "attack" me when I was sleeping like they do in horror films it would change very quickly from Paranormal Activity to Carrie. Now I don't know if this makes me brave, well trained or just really grumpy if I get disturbed when sleeping. The closest I ever came to this I ever came was while I was staying at my Dad's house when I was 17. Rather than grab me (or talk) they keep ripping the bed covers off in one swift motion waking me up. Then nothing happened.
On the third morning (at the tender age of 17) I gave the room a stiff (yelled at them a lot actually) talking to and told them to show themselves or bugger off.Which he did by walking behind me in such a physical fashion I thought it was my Dad.
That was the end of it. No more sleepless nights. Nothing. No priest, banishing oil or fire required, just a very angry redhead. 
Nothing else happened.
Now in theory this is because while people look like ghosts to dead people, I don't. While other people can not punch them in their spirit form, I can.
Not that I often do. Dead and unseen forces very rarely want to harm the living. Love, forgiveness and kindness are more a part of my ghost busting kit than anything else. 
While we forget that our thoughts become things and our fears distort something like a lost little boy, who didn't want to move into the light because he was "the man of the house now" into a demon terrorizing us, and all it took was some kindness and love to show him the way.
While it can be "fun" to tell each other ghost stories at this time of year, remember that they were people once too.
While I do maintain the idea that the witch should be the scariest thing in the forest, it is not because we are dark, or evil, but because we know. We know what is made by human hearts and minds, and what is not. We know that anger is pain and how to help heal it. We know the way through the Veil and do not fear death or life and respect both in equal measure.
If you have stared into the abyss of suffering and can still dance, and laugh and live, then what is the "dark" Lovecraft like imaginings given form. These man-made (and woman-made) "demons" are usually injured parts of the self, normally from deep soulful trauma. In giving them a kind of face or personality they have something to fight against so they do not remember being vulnerable, or "weak". The bigger and scarier the demon, the bigger the truama and the stronger the desire to erase it.
It can have a very physical presence and look like anything that the person feared or was disgusted by. Yet these manifestation are very real. Where attention flows, energy goes. This is why self reflection and compassion are vital. The spot where a man hung himself after years of mental illness had a being such as this. Yet all it needed was healing and love, underneath was an injured child, part of a person that was rejected entirely to be "strong" was not only his weakness, but ultimately cost him, his life.
So this Halloween season, don't be afraid. Face your demons with tenderness and compassion. Grieve for those parts of yourself and know you can heal. You can be happy. You do get to choose. Light a candle for those who are feeding their "demons" and never open doors you can not close.  

Truth in Fiction.

Truth in Fiction.

So you might have noticed I didn't blog yesterday. I have been a bit under the weather and yesterday the kitten I hand reared went to his forever home.
So truth in fiction is like truth in dreams. It uses symbols and ideas to covey real things to us. In that vein here is a short piece I wrote rather a long time ago.

“Come and take a seat Mr Collins”

The waiting room was overly warm and even the fake plants drooped in it's oppressive air. He took is usual seat, the one nearest the window, though the view was only of a brick wall of the adjacent building through wooden blinds. The secretary went back to typing something and he adjusted his grey suit trousers and coughed because of the dry air.

The door opened and a man with moist eyes and a dazed smile left the room. An elderly lady in a suit stood behind him and motioned that the man should,

“Speak to Sue, dear. Ah Mr Collins, do come in.”

He stood up slowly and headed towards the room. It always seemed so dark after the neon of the waiting room but it was also cooler and more pleasant.

“Are we ready? I think it is time to push deeper, much deeper.”

He nodded and lay back on the couch and the deep breathing and hypnosis began.

It is dark. I am alone. I was asleep. There was something, something that woke me. I go to the down stairs. My feet are bare on the wooden steps. I go to the glass door that looks out over the lake. Lights. There are lights dancing on the lake. I stand at the window and see them. Like fireflies. Like lanterns. One of them gets bigger. The dark lake shimmers. There are sparks. Something is emerging from the brilliance. A lady in the light. A luminous beacon. Long slender arms white and shimmering, raised above her head.

Her ethereal face obscured by the light emanating from her form, but I know she is beautiful. The black lake reflecting her image and as she dances the reflection in the water shows marble columns and a great hall. I can see it, this other place in the lake. She seems so happy, so full of life. She begins to dance. Tiny droplets of water jump and fly like sparks as she flicks her bare legs in figures of eights. The dancing speaks of to me. It is a grace and a passion, a composure and longing. It has a wildness, a freedom.

I press my face against the cold glass. I hold my breath as it fogs the glass. I want to see. I use my blue and white striped pajamas sleeve wipes the glass. It doesn't work, it smears everything. I open the door.

There are trees around the lake. I seem to notice them for the first time. There are no stars and no moon. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the waves as they lap against the sandy shallow shore.

The dancer doesn't stop, it gets faster. Different. I feel something in my heart. It is racing. I feel warm. Ignited. I am confused. I am delighted. Tears stream down my face. It feels like summer, and Christmas, and love.

The dancer turns her head and looks. I see a figure in the darkness standing on the shore. A woman, a real one not like the dancer. She is closer to the light than I am. The dancer seems pleased and spirals and leaps towards her as though she dances in the hall. She dances closer. The woman raises her hand. It is like they know each other. The dancer's fingers touch the woman’s hand and the woman is illuminated. She is crying. She is smiling. Yet there is something sad between them. Something longing.

I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. Slowly the dancer coaxes the lady onto the lake and they stand on the surface as though it is ice or marble. My heart races. They shimmer and shine together. They orbit like stars. They leap and skip. There is a something different, the joy seems to grow into a sorrow. They wrap there arms around each other for a moment. Then they nod and separate.

The lady takes something from her coat. It seems heavy. It is a dagger in a sheath. She raises it above her head. The dancer kisses her face. The woman for a moment glows like a flame but she pulls away. She throws the dagger into the air. The dancer leaps, and spins.

It falls slowly like a leaf but as it touches the surface of the lake there is a blinding flash. Then darkness.

I look at the lake. I strain to hear. The lake ripples slightly. The trees sigh. A fox in the distance cries. My eyes are searching, searching the lake for the dancer or the woman. There is a splash. I can not tell where it came from. I run into the darkness.

My bare feet run to where the lady had been standing. I stand still, trying to see something. I try and listen. There is something. Something in the water. In the water, the cold dark water the woman struggles to swim. I get a branch and reach it out to her and she pulls herself closer to the bank. Her hair is slicked to her head and her face is streaked with mud. She hauls herself with much effort and heavy fabric onto the bank. I recognise this woman.

“Mum?”

She tilts her head and smiles wearily.

“It's late, back in bed.”

We walk back to the house. Every footfall makes a wet noise. I say nothing. My mother says nothing. We walk back to the house. It is strange to see it so dark. She opens the door and I climb the stairs to goes back to bed.

I turn and look at her. She is taking off her shoes.

“Mum?”

“Tomorrow, Lucas.”

Her voice is shaky and thick with emotion. Tears are streaming down her face. I want to know. To understand. I stand there on the stairs unable to move.

Then there is a scream. A terrible, terrible scream.

I barely see her move but she is rushing me upstairs pushing me gently but insistently towards the bathroom. We go into the cold room together and she picks me up and gets into the bath with me. She pulls the towels in with us. Her teeth are chattering so she clenches her mouth tightly. She hugs me so close to her chest. Her heart is racing. She smells of mud and leaves and damp. She keeps whispering the same thing over and over.

“It will be all right.”

There is a crash outside but she holds me tightly so I don't sit up. The wind howls and the windows shake. There is another crash. I start to cry. She keeps whispering and kissing my head. There is a flash of light.

“What is it Mummy?”

“A storm, a terrible storm. Just a storm.”

I can hear her heart hammering against my cheek. The house begins to moan and groan. I hear something shatter.

“What is it really Mummy?”

“The dragon, the dragon is passing through. Oh Lady protect me.”

The wind howls and I jump at every crash. Yet she holds me tightly. Her teeth stop chattering and her breathing becomes easier. The storm seems to lessen. The noise and light have passed.

Spiritual Guilt

Spiritual Guilt


Just stop. Just breathe. 
If someone else has an attitude problem and you were upset by their behaviour it is okay. Forgive them. Forgive yourself and let it go. It means next to nothing. It wasn't about you. Using any kind of faith, or belief, or spirituality to punish yourself is such a drain on the loving kindness you want to send out. Being tolerant of others is infinitely easier if you extend that tolerance, unconditional positive regard and love to yourself. If someone is being a jerk, maybe what they need is for you to let them know! They might be so lost in their own bad mood they didn't realize that they were being a jerk (they still might not care, but that is not in your control). 
If you go out of your way to look for the bad in people you will always find it, even if you are looking at your self.
Take a few deep breathes and if you have the time close your eyes for a moment. 
Visualize a big bowl full of water. See it clearly, then see a drop of water making ripples on the surface. Then allow the surface to still again. See soothe still water. Working with your breath, breathe in this stillness as PEACE and as you exhale feel the tension release from your body. If the anxiety or anger return, drop another drip into the water and repeat the process. Anger is pain. Are you angry at what happened or something else? Let all these feelings dissolve in this cool calm water.

 As part of your daily practice it might be a good idea to return to working with water and it's spirits to help remove this need to blame anyone for how you feel or what you think. Yes mindfulness is important, but looking for the best in other has no benefit if you do not look for the best in yourself. You are growing and it is an imperfect process and sometimes we make mistakes but that is part of the process not outside of it. Peace is about stillness, breath through the ripples, they pass, they always pass. Stillness is our natural state. The ripples are not wrong, they just are, just as the stillness just is.
The past is past, ghosts of ripples and are not important right at this moment. The future is not important right now, only the soothe water.
Now open you eyes. Smile and continue your day.
 

Witchin' your Craft.

Witchin' your Craft.

What ever your craft, there is a witchin' element, a magick to it when you pour your heart and soul and magick into what you adore- something happens.
It becomes more than a song, more than a painting, poem or scarf. It is a charm, it is an expression of something full of wonder. It is unique and beautiful.
If you want to, if you feel the need to buy your magick fix then use this urge to support those who turn their craft into magick and put magick into their craft. For some it is in making things grow, for sowing, pruning, potting and re-potting, the crumble of the "right" kind of soil between their finger. Things that they grow are different, brighter, greener, infused with a sense of something "other". This like my friend Marie. She walks her pagan path her way. It is how she decorates her house (goth chic darlings) in how she rescues all the cats, how she bakes (oh how she bakes) and how she gardens in turning an urban space into a witchy haven. It is how she raises her step-son and loves her husband (not short on his own witchin').
There is of course Francesca, writer, poet, singer and making of beautiful art. Her qualities and unique beauty shine through it all.
 Her silk paintings

Then there is Brittany. Now I am bias. I have always adored everything she does. Yet more than that her sense of creativity, scientific know-how, business brain and loving heart radiate a power and presence in all her work. From the labels she designs and prints herself. The scents, therapeutic qualities and the magick of her soaps, perfumes, skin care, and hair products, all of which she makes by hand; blows me away. Sometimes she beats herself up for "not having it as pretty as.." yet it is all so beautiful. This craft and passion come from her magick. It is elegant and effective, powerful and playful. Her witch witchin' (not to mention her cooking) is pretty damn good too. Yet she wears her witchin' lightly, never feeling the need to belittle others or thrust her power in a space.
A few of my favorites are:
Her ritual bath salts and potions
Her enchanting perfumes
Her handmade soaps
Salts and ritual cleansing are important to me and it is always nice to use something with a kick in it before you do anything.
Hecate being a Goddess Brittany works with often this stuff kick-ass!

Witch Craft is not something you read, it is something you do. It is a dance, a stitch, a knack, a talent you practice and work at until it is the best it can be. If it is full of heart, if it speaks from the self then it is good magick!

 If your craft is getting someone the perfect bra (a miracle in it's own way) walk that path. Magick isn't just wand waving and pretty stones it is in following your passion to the benefit of everyone around you.

Old Witches.

Old Witches.

In my window right now is an old style but beautiful witch. I was given her as a gift (it puzzled me as I do not collect them). As October dawned I hung her in my front window facing out. Yet as I sat here meditating and doing my daily practice I looked up and saw her smiling at me. As soon as I got her I named her Dorothy, or Dot, after Gerald Gardener's teacher Dorothy Chutterbuck. Now as she came from Pendle maybe Alice might have been more fitting but Dot she became. I have had her a few years and I didn't really know what to "do" with her. She is pretty enough, but she never really was mine somehow. I don't know why but the gift felt weird and she irritated me rather than bringing me a sense of gratitude. I can not really say why particularly. She isn't old but she is I suppose older. She isn't ugly but she isn't classically beautiful. She looks a bit like a Mother-in-law, somewhere between 45 and 55 and at just 30, I was a bit insulted I think. 
"Saw this and thought of you.."

I know if came from a place of over simple logic and from what I gather was an expensive gift. Had it been a hippo or and elephant I might have had the same feeling, though I might have taken it better. Yet here she still is smiling at me gently. As though to say 
"I was 34 once too, it isn't so bad you know."

She probably was and was probably better looking than I am too.
I like my "mother" space, emotionally, spiritually, I am unsure I want to leave it behind.
Yet the time to come will be for myself as well as for others. I am growing into myself, not out of myself.

I have meet a few very old witches, in pastel knits and matching pearls and they are fabulous. Kind and wise and knowing, still dancing the spiral, still drinking too much sherry. I don't know why the old witch bothers me but she does.
.

Surrender

Surrender: to Yield as strength.

Part of the Fey Path I teach is the elemental daily meditation. One of these is Air. Air for me is about yielding, about surrendering. When we consciously surrender to our breath we gain an insight into the world of these most nebulous beings.
When we talk about surrender it is often thought of as weakness, or lack of courage but the joy and peace of acceptance of who you are, where you are, what you think and feel gives you the freedom to let go of all these things. Start with your usual daily mediation position, with soft music and gentle light. Then sit or lie down comfortably.Take a deep cleansing breath and hold it for a moment then slowly let it go. Take a few more breathes like this and bring your awareness to where you are.The room you are in, the objects around you, the sounds. Just observe. 
From the moment you stop resisting where you are and settle into being purely in the moment you do not lose anything but gain a freedom from yourself.
This surrender is an experience that is loving not fearful or frightening space. This true experience of being rather than doing, or feeling is to embrace a positive loving space within the cosmos for yourself. If tears come, let them fall. If you get the giggles, laugh. Breathe through it all and LET THEM GO. You are not your feelings or your thoughts, or your body. Accept it all. You are. You are energy, let it all flow. Let it all go. If you are resisting; accept your resistance and then let it go, let it go with your breath.
If you are fearful or anxious accept that and let them go too. You are not your worries. Say yes to this space. Embrace it. Say yes to being. Say yes, to letting it go.
Enjoy this space, enjoy this quality of being. This is the joy of surrender. It allows you the moment to choose and act rather than react. When you have reached this state of awakened being radiate gratitude, peace and joy. When you feel you have achieved this come back to the room. Write up in your journal where you are, what you personally experienced and try again tomorrow.

  

Anger is pain

Anger is Pain:
Bullying a symptom of fear.

I woke up in a reasonably good mood today, but exactly like last month post full moon bleed is making me sensitive and a bit...stabby?
I do get that rude and obnoxious people like to bully people because it makes them feel powerful but it makes me angry, which is just pain in another form. I understand mentally the problem is all theirs but it hurts. Emotionally it feels like a kind of rape. (No I do not use this word lightly). That is what rape is after all: the need to impose yourself on another and to take something from that person to make them hurt and frightened and feel less. People make the mistake that rape is about sex. It isn't. It is about power. To prove that they are strong they need to make someone else feel weak. This of course only proves they are weak, needy and not feeling their own worth. Any arrogance or swagger comes from their mask needing to hide all or any seeming vulnerability, because they are frightened. They know that they are hollow. While rape is the most extreme form of this, bullying whether physical or cyber is on the same spectrum.
This is why bullies like it when their victims hurt themselves. Psychologically they are erasing their "weakness" or their version of the person for themselves.
Men typically raping a girl or woman is about them repressing their own anima; their own internal innate femininity that they fear is a weakness or takes away from their sense of masculinity. 
Bullies do a similar thing in attacking what they hate about themselves, whether it is their anima (or animus); someones creativity, sensitivity, strength, weakness. What ever it is this person represses or has been taught is a weakness rather than a strength, it is part of the bully. If the bully was ridiculed about wanted to be creative, (or saw other they deemed "strong" attacking creativity) these are the people they will attack, often with the criticisms they were attacked with. If they feel this difference, the more they are aware that they have this capacity within them too more violently they will attack those they perceive have this trait.
There is a current trend to attack and bully those with belief. I wonder if it stems from that moment which their belief in something beyond themselves was shatter. You can not measure everything but you can measure it's effects.You do not have to believe in anything but going out of your way to bully those who might be vulnerable or seeking comfort in faith is cruel, and will not remove the inner child sobbing at the loss of wonder from the world. Demonizing those of faith or assuming they are stupid might make you feel powerful but the truth is that most of the world has some faith in something outside of themselves. God, Goddesses, ancestors, spirits, angels, jinn, faeries or just a sense that there might be...something. In a recent poll conclude that 77% have some kind of faith, in something.(link to article below).
Okay I am feel a lot less stabby now, and a lot less hurt. In truth though until culturally we address vulnerability as strength, accept the yin and yang of people all people bullying and rape will not go away.
So I pray that the Goddess of blood and darkness will soothe and heal them, or protect their victims.

 

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-24576115

I believe In Faeries.

I believe In Faeries.

There are some very clever people who do, as I do believe in faeries, the fey, the good neighbors. Oddly I do not know if belief is even the right word, maybe accept, respect, acknowledge them as a part of my life and spiritual practice would be a better description. I am not sure they care if I believe in them, I imagine some do, but the ones that seem to be visitors or residents in my home and temple couldn't give a crap what I believe so long as I give them cake and occasionally booze. My house Brownie, (Mr Brown) helps me cook, and protects the house, well from people he doesn't like. He will steal, I mean borrow or remove things if he feels insulted (by guests as well as the household) or disrespected. He is also not above taking and eating food if he doesn't believe he has been given his fair share. On the plus side if you set him aside some bread dough when baking, or a piece of cake and the occasional bit of booze, he may even appear while people are there. He gave me a right fright once by running under the table while I was kneading bread. Even my guest jumped back. Even if he is not being seen, then he will bang about the cupboard doors. A very skeptical friend was about to blame the cat for the noise until she sat down next to him, the banging and opening closing the cupboard doors continued but my friends eyes were large as saucers! How I laughed!

You see I believe, I do not know but I believe that the universe is not a solid sheet but like a bubble bath with worlds and dimensions all rubbing up next to each other. That some of these places (and times) mean beings from these places interact with our world. Some like the balls of twinkling light or Victorian faeries, twinkle because they need a lot of energy to poke a hole from their bubble to ours, while other do not need to or use rocks trees or water instead as a conduit. Now this foam, or bubble membrane is what I call The Veil. So at times of the years this Veil is thinner that others and is thinner in certain places. Sometimes it is thicker. These beings of all shapes and sizes are more universally constant to people than almost anything else. The names might change but if you go by habitat and how they look then Russian faeries and Irish faeries and so on are almost identical. Research, as I do in great detail and you will find them. How we treat them, respect them, what we believe they are might change, but their appearance, habits, likes and so on have changed very little.
 So what does this mean in terms of magick? Well it means that when you cast your circle you are making a space within the bubbles. You effect and interact with The Veil, creating "a world with worlds, where the Might Ones dwell". This place is both protection from and space where fey can enter or leave this plane. When we evoke the elemental quarters we are drawing on and inviting in these beings and their energy and power. This is why I never "summon" because fey take manners seriously and will right royally fuck you up if they feel slighted or injured. Those foolish enough to make oaths or promises to fey and break them have my sympathy because that level of mind-numbing stupidity will never be forgotten. Yet it is not fear, but love and deep affection that cements my relationships with these folk. They are generous with their time, affection and wisdom. They are warm and funny, fiercely loyal, beautiful, practical but whimsical creatures. Once under their cloak of protection no harm can come to you or those they feel are "theirs".

These are wild forces given names and form, full of life and power. They find magick in everything. Yet they have their laws and respect those that know them, but are not above ridiculing or lying to those that do not.
Yes I believe in faeries and even better, they believe in me.






I do not own or make the images in this blog. All rights are with the artists. 

Dreams

Dreams and how not to Fear them.

Dreams are one of those things that seem to divide people. Some see them as vital spiritual communication and other do not see them as anything but brain mush.
Dreams are of course a bit of both. Yet sleep and dreaming is hugely important not only to our mental health and well being but new scientific studies have found it allows different genes to turn on or off dependent on how much and the quality of your sleep. Heart disease, obesity and even diabetes are only some of the genes that can be affected.
I am a bit bias. I LOVE sleeping. Not only because with looking after a tiny kitten I have had less that usual, but I have always loved it. I dream in colour and when I found out that a lot of people don't I was shocked and surprised. I have also always been able to astrally travel and lucid dream all my life. As a child I was early to bed and early to rise, but living on a farm then it seemed only normal. Having kids has altered my body clock some what but I still love sleeping and dreaming.
Psychology at it's beginnings was founded on analyzing this doorways to our truest self. Dream are our personal landscape. Everything in our dreams comes from us, it is normally a part of ourselves. Other people in our dreams tend to not be the actual person but the reflection or idea of them we have. This is why sexual dreams that can seem violent, upsetting, erotic and disturbing or not as awful as they seem. It is the innocence, brutality, or any other quality we associate with that person we are trying to take into our self, or be a part of. Or of course run from or destroy.
While these psycho-dramas are a healthy response of the self trying to deal with complicated feelings and unresolved situations they are no less real than the external world for the dreamer. The sub-conscious mind, or the instinctual mind is not less than the one with a voice. It may speak in feelings and pictures but it is real and part of the whole person. Dreams are the landscape, the place where symbols are real and real is symbolic. Where rivers are feelings, darkness is our own mental and emotional shadow, and light is thought. If we are feeling anxious, preyed on, hunted, lost or overwhelmed this space will tell you, clearly and with resounding clarity. 
Reoccurring dreams are this space trying to get the mind to adjust, or accept something. A trauma, a person or place that is bad for us, something that requires our attention. The longer we avoid our self the more frustrated this side of our self will become.
There are then those other dreams. They have a very distinctive quality in that you seem to be in a different space than within. Sometimes it is a real place. The people there are not the people or places you know or go to. These dreams are often to show us something beyond ourselves. I can only say from my personal experience that the light is different to when I am within my own head. The people and creatures that I encounter there are sometimes surprised by my presence, can be indifferent or have been waiting for me. The dream would continue whether I was there or not. Sometimes I am shown things that will happen, or that have happened.(These are not always nice happy things.) Sometimes I am there to help or heal someone or be helped or healed. These places often become part of my waking meditations for the healing and teaching of others. If you have a frightening dream, look first at the dream. What or who is making you frightened? The more you look at your dreams the more you will recognize the patterns of this presence, this place, in your waking life. It is a boon. A joy. You know, I think I fancy a nap...

 

Normal service should resume soon.

Sir Not appearing in this story.

So due to being a bit ill again and in need of sleep (also because someone asked) I thought I would share some of my fiction I wrote a few years ago. It is dark and so on. Normal service should resume soon.

The Death of Gregory Rivers. Unseen Stories.

Gregory hadn't moved from the underpass all day. His urine soaked trousers slid against the cold tiled floor but the Voice refused to let him move. The Voice had been with him such a long time, it left him alone sometimes for weeks or months and he almost felt normal again, but when it spoke- the Voice was not just in his mind but is in his now wrecked body, jerking him like a strange puppet.

At first he had fought it, when one night he had drunkenly fell asleep on a grassed round-about. He had been young then, a promising student out with the boys. After that fateful fitful nightmare filled sleep he had woken changed.

He heard the Voice and it pained him to refuse it, but he had fought.

A sly smile spread across his cracked dry lips. He no longer cared about the cold, or the discomfort. His joints were swollen from the alcohol he drank to quieten the Voice enough to let him sleep for a night here or there but it didn't work as well as it used to.

The Voice had given him things, he saw the world differently. He could see lights and shimmering shades of colours around them. Most looked the same, maybe with black spots on them or parasites only he could see, like giant ticks or elongated cockroaches hanging from peoples unaware flesh.

The Voice had shown him the pattern, he must remember the pattern. His body jerked suddenly in a flash of pain as the colour and pattern was forced into his memory. It always hurt so badly, but it was so beautiful. A shifting ripple of rainbows and iridescence like a tear-drop or flame.

The Voice had given him this beautiful memory not of his own mind, but it did not temper the hate he felt towards it.

The underpass lights twitched and flickered. Something like a bird made of shadows flew pass over the heads of the regular people. How blind they were, how irritatingly hurtfully blind they were. Gregory envied and loathed them for it.

A breeze blew up and caught some leaves scurrying them into the underpass, They danced around him and for a moment he was transfixed and delighted.

“What am I?”

He asked to the wind. The wind did not answer.

He started to cough. It started slowly a wheezing choke growing ever stronger until the rattling moistness of his own lungs echoed in the now empty underpass.

For a moment all was peaceful and he was just a man again. The hold over him was growing weaker somehow. He could remember his family, what had happened to them he wondered. His childhood friends, and then he remembered Debbie.

Her dark hair and wild eyes had drawn him when he had been placed in hospital for a few months.

The ward had been crowded and nobody seemed to know what to do with Gregory. No medication seemed to work, no family had come forward. His health problems were evident, but he was just a rambling homeless man. Alcohol psychosis and delusional schizophrenia. He had taken his meds quiet as a lamb, and had enjoyed the bed and the warm bath well enough.

One day in the day-room with it's sharp objects and mismatched chairs had come Debbie like a whirling wind. She was having a fight with a male nurse that all the patience knew like to touch the girls but the staff ever listened about. She had broken his nose and the scarlet rose had exploded on his face.

The nurse swore and the torrent of accurate abuse flowed from her mouth. Some of the other patience especially the women howled in pleasure and gratification. Gregory could see she was ablaze literally, her real shape was like a flame. The other staff had now come over and begun to circle Debbie like a pack of Hyena. Someone lunged and stuck Debbie with something and she fell. She fell slowly and with a grace that mesmerized Gregory. Turning as she fell she looked into his eyes just before she became unconscious, and a spark of recognition jumped between them.

Gregory stood up slowly as the staff began to carry her away and picked up a plastic chair and began to beat them with it. The new assault from “harmless Gregory” shocked the nurses and two went flying, the guy with the broken nose tried to strike him, then in a wavering voice tried to reason with Gregory.

“We not trying to hurt you now Gregory, put the chair down. No-ones going to hurt you. Everyone is okay.”

Gregory tilted his head and smiled passively. He put down the chair, at which point the nurse made a grab for him. He batted him away easily. The Voice had given him so much strength.

“You are evil Mark. You hurt them, the girls. You are going to die soon.”

Gregory then picked up Debbie and carried her to her room. The whole room whooping and cheering as he the hero carried the damsel in distress to her room. He lay he down gently on her bed and sat holding her hand.

When the doctors had finally turned up, they had ushered Gregory into his own room.

The male nurse, Mark had never returned to the ward. Too many people had witnessed too much for them to sweep it under the carpet again.

Gregory had rescued her, and the other women in the ward and they knew it. He had told the doctors what had happened and they looked at each other nervously.

Everything went back to normal but everything was different. Some of the girls made him flowers, or gave him their pudding. Debbie did something different she just sat near him when ever she could. The staff didn't like it and discouraged them from speaking to each other but they did it anyway.

They didn't get much chance to talk about things but Gregory noticed she noticed the same things he did. The ticks and shadows the birds and animals others couldn't see, made her turn her head also.

He tried once to ask if she heard the Voice, but he began to twitch violently. The fit subsided but he got the idea that speaking to her was something the Voice disapproved of.

In the high heat of summer some of the ward were allowed to go into the garden and Debbie and Gregory went together to sit on the grass.

“Come on then.” She said jumping up.

Gregory looked confused.

“Time to go, now Gregory.”

He smiled and arm in arm they slowly walked towards some tall trees. Behind them was a sports bag and Debbie crouched down and opened it. It had clothes in it, a set for each of them and a pair of scissors. She took his arm and cut of the medical bracelet and gave him the scissors to cut off her own. She took off her clothes and Gregory blushed but followed suit. She then stuffed the bag with their old clothes and shoved a summer hat down over her eyes. Debbie was wearing a summer dress and sandals and looked lovely, as though she were going to play tennis.

They walked straight out of the hospital into town and sat in the park. From a pocket on the bag she retrieved two wallets both with money and a small soft velvet pouch. She also grabbed a packet of cigarettes and a battered lighter. She opened the pouch and inside was a large green gem set in a silver ring. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. It twisted around her finger and glowed with a radiance and fire as she placed it on her right hand. There some dried leaves in the bag and Debbie placed them in her hand and crushed them. She then took a cigarette and mashed it into the mix and placed it on the ground between them and light the mix. It burnt with a green flame and it's smoke wrapped it's fingers around them both. When the circle was complete it fell away.

“They won't find us now Gregory.”

She smiled shyly and gave him the wallet, his wallet. Everything was where it was supposed to be, except he had not owned a wallet in years. Leaning forward she kissed his cheek and pressed a small cross made of twigs and red wool into his hand.

“Good luck. Good bye.”

He sat staring at his hand and he pressed the cross to his chest and the fingers of the Voice within him lessened. After than things had gone well for a time. He lived in a hostel, thought about getting a job and made some friends.

One night someone had stolen his things and trashed his room. The cross had gone and the Voice was laughing at him. The sound would be enough to drive anyone mad. A rasping dry laugh that was pitiless and cruel.

He wept like a child. He had tried to find twigs and make the cross but it never worked. His swollen knuckles made the fiddly job impossible for him. He gave up.

He was unsure how long it had been, years since the Voice was everything.

In the underpass the sound of rainfall began. It rained a lot here, the place seemed to want to soak it's self in misery. The builds clung to the greyness.

The a woman in a long velvet skirt swept into the underpass wrestling with an umbrella. There she was swearing and her voice was low. He looked at her and he could see it. It was her. Her shape flickered and rippled, she was shining. It was more beautiful than the memory.

His eyes welled with tears. He tried to speak. His tongue felt numb.

“I HAVE FOUND HER. Hett! I have found her for you.”

His shout made her snap her attention to him. She muttered something and her flame vanished into a cloud like grey fog so many of the other people and and she began to hurry through the under pass.

The Voice seemed to purr with please in his mind. Then the Voice seemed to leave him completely.

Gregory began to cough and try to stand but his legs failed him. He began to shake and white spittle trickled down his chin as he cough and croaked to try and get his breath. Leaning against the wall he managed to rise to his knees. His face became red with the strain and the inability to breathe.

His white hair shook as dusk and leaves fell about him. He fell on his side and clutched his chest, in pleasure and agony. He began to vomit and the world around him grew hazy.

Debbie’s face was then over him, her dark eyes full of sorrow and love. Everything went white and the pain eased.

Someone was calling his name and he thought it was Debbie. Debbie sat in the garden. She beckoned him. The sky was very blue and the grass so very green. The colours saturated with light.

Reluctantly he moved slowly towards her like a dream. His face sad.

“I lost the cross. I couldn't make another. I did something terrible.”

Debbie just nodded, gently she smiled at him.

“I have been look for you for such a long time, but he found you first. The failing was mine. I should not have left you when I did but I had to keep her safe, I had to see her one last time.”

Gregory nodded.

“Who is she?”

A smile spread on her face.

“She is our hope. Our protector, and yours. Without her the Evil that hurt you would destroy all of your kind. Come now and rest my friend. Tomorrow I will take you to explore our land some more.”

Gregory lay his head in her lap and dreamed soft peaceful dreams about the shining lady. Everything was going to be okay now he knew. He was home.

 

Real Magick.

Real Magick.

When we talk about real and reality we get into some sticky areas. Philosophy, religion, belief and faith even psychology. 
I am waaaaaaaaaaaaay under caffeinated (my kettle died today) to debate or theorize about the substance of shared and singular reality.
So instead I will address a trend. This trend is to beat someones else practice with a stick of "critical history" or rude comments about how someones path/faith/magick was stolen or mashed into non indigenous practices, there by making it/them/"they" unworthy, wrong or suspect.
James Frazer supposed in his mighty tome The Golden Bough that before there was a "stone-age" or religion there was a "magic-age". This is a striking thought, at least to me. Anthropologist search hard and deep for something universally human and magick (I include prayer in this) seems to be it. So if we are one kind of beings wearing different colour meat suits from the same gene pool, how can anyone "steal" someone elses magick?
What we have here is a kind of cultural snobbery. I am not Indian or Asian, but I LOVE both kinds of food. Am I breaking some terrible cultural law? What if I add soy sauce to my Irish stew? What then? Ah but it is not authentic. So long as I do not think soy sauce is Irish, or that it makes my stew Asian all I have is MY tasty tasty dinner. Now it is never going to be the same as Great Aunt Aoife's but that is okay. You see cultures blend. They rub up against each other and share things. Food, music, art, architecture, ideas. This is not something new it has been happening for thousands of years. Romans invaded the British mainland to find many Celts speaking Greek!
Now; I really do think that moaning about dead people who can not defend themselves is a good idea either. Of course Gerald Gardener's practice had elements of shamanic practices he saw while in India, I imagine he drank spiced chai and love spicy food too. He wrote from his place of authenticity and his life was leaking though into his work. That is what happens. We do not exist in cultural vacuums. It would have been unreal, unauthentic if his life and experience DID NOT shape his work. That doesn't make his work less valid. His knowledge (which was huge and extensive) any less. He did something amazing. He was very brave and very courageous in a way that is hard for us to appreciate now and the rituals and books he wrote had many influences and while some are obvious, some are not. Authenticity comes from a sincere place. A place the the person is entirely themselves and present. In that sense he was probably more authentic than most other people to write a book about magick since.
Magick isn't something weird and "out there", it is something within us. It is a real force that has threads linking us all.