Preparing to Die

The trouble with blogging and generally writing and producing artwork on the internet (or anywhere else for that matter) it that time runs away with itself and 5, 6, or more hours can disappear in an eyeblink…

Last Thursday night was to be a ‘reading’ night, where I would catch up on what my blogging friends were up to.  So off I started at around 11pm…

… Rainforest Robin was in the middle of a hot valley, with lizards under her partners trainers (go there) and Angie had managed to get another episode of “Laura” posted up (It’s like Desperate Housewives without the censorship)…Angie has four blogs in total, another one of which “Time and Oft” is a really interesting missive about vintage postcards - tonights postcard was about a world war one soldier on a short leave in a country house, before he returned to the front line…

A rumble from my stomach heralded the start of the midnight hunger pangs, so in the middle of Janet’s blog,  I thought I’d get something from the fridge. I remembered that I had bought a beef roll the previous night and hadn’t got around to eating it, so I picked up the still-wrapped roll,  made a cup of coffee and pottered back to my laptop and went back to Janet and her natural mix of spirituality and humour.

I was just finishing Janet’s post, when I thought that the taste of my spicy roll tasted a bit sweet/pungent…but I dismissed the thought and when onto Tamera’s latest post. Tammy (bet she hate’s that handle) was in an usually humorous mode. Tamera was the first blogger to read any of my posts and is a mine of good sense and strong opinions.

(This beef roll tastes great. Really pungent musty spices)

Munching away, I went onto Brainteaser who mixes spirituality with meaningful poetry. Sherma’s writing is beautiful….and then onto Ravenscawl who I have neglected lately, amongst other great writers, due to my theatre-work going into overdrive. (between us we’ve produced a great translator for “wordpress.com, complete with little country flags - see the sidebar.

By now it was around 1.30am and my eyelids were drooping a little, so I  left my darkened middle-room and headed for the brightness of the kitchen (and yet another caffeen shot)…I like to work in the dark. It runs in the family; Christina used to spend all her evenings in the dark - the light of the street-lamps was enough for her and gave a bit of a romantic glow to her front room. It’s gentle in the dark, or half-light.

Returning to the fray, I next looked at timethief, who writes a very authoratitive technical blog - and who is also very spiritual….and…on… to…Sue (sdk 1988) great rock star drawings, good sense and great videos…soul-to-soul.com is really worth having a look.

I have always been partial to rolls and pasties and this particular culinary delight was really unusual. It was marketed as a ‘beef’ roll, but it could have been any sort of meat, as the taste was quite unique.

I was begining to feel rather ‘coffeed-out’, so I entered the kitchen once again and made a mug of ‘Rosy-Lee’.

I returned with my hot tea and to Lilly of Lilly’s life that most formidable (but not forbidding!) writer, who always makes me feel that I could never write with the fluidity she possesses…and she’s so..well ‘Charismatic’ (so go there)….a good read…and then onto another cup of coffee (2.30am).

It’s partly my fault and also partly because of the erratic schedule of ‘touring’ that I suffer from diverticulitus - anyone else who spends a week or so feeling grotty every few months will understand. It’s mostly my fault though - I’m a ‘none-reconstructed-male’ or in other words a ‘lazy old git’ who has never learnt to cook and who really needs a diet of boiled vegetables and steamed fish (and boredom).  My normal intake of Burger King, Tandoori Night(mares), Oriental fillings, Mexican Tacho’s and all,  has stupidly left me with a strong exterior, but with an interior with the paint flaking-off a bit.

It was around 3am when I reached ChrissyMarie (to whom I have dedicated a widget on the sidebar - go and have a look for Card Craft.) and finished the beef roll - well almost - around 11 twelfths of the way through the foot-long torpedo, I decided that I’d had enough and that to further taunt divertic….

….”AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!”

You see, I had switched on the light and in my hand, festered the remaining 12th of the rotten, rancid, one month old, green and black nightmare I had been intermittently munching on for the past  hour - I had picked the wrong roll from the ‘fridge.

AAAARRRGH!

AAAARRRRGH!!!

(do not read on if you are of a sensitive disposition - I hold no responsibility for your fate, if you continue further)

It took a timeless moment for me to rationalise the situation:

 

I knew I had to be sick. I didn’t want to vomit - and I hate that word…’vomit’. I have played at two theatres in England which perform ‘in the round’ and the entrance their stage or arena area, is via two entrance chutes or ‘Vometories’ -  I have never made an entrance at either of the two venues, when I didn’t feel a little queasy.

I could feel the saliva rushing to my mouth (I told you not to read on!) but I decided, as I stumbled to the loo, that it was for the best.

Only that I wasn’t sick.

No matter what I tried, the rotten roll stayed down.

 

I returned to the kitchen, seriously worried. I tried to work out the best time to phone Tim, our company manager. Would I be too ill to phone at around 9am - should I phone earlier? It was already 3.30am and I had to be up by nine.

 

Somewhere out of the distant recesses of my mind,  the memory regurgitated, of the time I choreographed and performed in a show in Margate. I had rented a flat for the season and had decided to domesticate myself (I’ve grown up now and accepted reality) and cook myself an omelette. It looked very appetising when it was ready, but I had added far, far too much salt and I was subsequently violently ill.       

So I took a half-pint tumbler and stirred as much salt into it as it would take. When the mixture had reached well beyond saturation-point, like a small silver sand-storm-twister at the bottom of the glass, I downed it in one gulp.

Nothing.

not even a burp

“No…No….No!”

 

 

I remembered Liz telling me that people sometimes died from food  poisoning. But to snuff it from a rancid roll? 

What an utterly stupid way to depart this life

 

 

“Please God, don’t let me be remembered with a snigger!”

I remembered my mother’s words, in case of an unexpected hospital visit: so I showered and changed my clothes, tidied up the front room so that the paramedics wouldn’t be shocked at the state of the house and then, as the early grey light of dawn slowly illuminated my garden (for the last time?) I laid down on the bed fully clothed to wait for the inevitable onset of terminal stomach-pains…

The last chapter of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” finds
Scrooge in a state of delight upon waking and finding that he is still alive…

…I awoke suddenly at 9am. I was lying in exactly the same position, on top of the bedclothes, with my cellphone by my side. I got up slowly and made my way to the kichen.  There on the table lay the remainder of the beef roll. It was disgusting. I made a cup of tea and sipped it carefully - would the hot tea activate the poisonous snack? Half an hour later, it became apparent that I had escaped unharmed - I had not the slightest symptom of digestive upset and although it was to be several hours before I could bring myself to eat, I felt completely well.

Had I survived because of an iron constitution? Had the salt-water cocktail saved me from digestive demise?  Or had God indeed listened to my prayer and with celestial good humour, decided to spare me the epitaph of being “done in by a spicy beef roll”.

Upon finding that he is still alive, Scrooge changes his ways and uses his hoarded money to help all he meets, especially Tiny Tim.

So was I hoarding something - something that I could share with others, to give thanks for being spared food poisoning - or worse?

Then it came to me - I very seldom respond to all the kind comments on my posts, unlike Robin, Lilly or Tamera (and all) and furthermore. I had been given two awards, which I had not passed on or shared in any way…

 

                  Scrooge makes amends…

 

The “Arte y Pico” Given to me by Lilly of Lilly’s Life - Thank you so much Lilly, I really couldn’t believe it when you gave me this award. 

I had been blogging away (it seemed) to no-one (noone) and suddenly there I had a recognition that made me very happy and also tad shy…

 

Upon winning this award you are tasked with the following rules…

1. You have to pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.  http://arteypico.blogspot.com

 

So my “Arte y Pico” people are: (Scrooge smiles and doffs his stovepipe hat)

Janet of   http://janetgardner.blogspot.com/

Chrissy of http://chrissymaries.blogspot.com

Tamera of  http://pentads.blogspot.com

Angie of Time and Oft (Okay Angie ~ Laura can have some of the glory as well)

…and Scott Sheperd of Don’t Manage Your Stress - Rekindle Your Spirit, who has a couple of blogs which are really, really excellent and who is also a great guy.

So guys…You’d better not be lazy like me, but get to work with your own awards (or watch what you eat!)

 

Then Janet of Dolly’s Daily Diary gave me the “Brillante” Award, which I have also been hoarding and which has been gathering dust on my cyber sideboard…

I now bestow the award to the following nine bloggers…

 

…”Ahem”… (clears old parched throat)…  My “Brillante” Awards are to: (Scrooge smiles, his features cracking into an unaccustomed grin)…

Robin Easton of “Rainforest Robin” ~she got her Arte y Pico from Lilly at the same time as old Scrooge here…so dry off my dear and collect your award -  you wonderful writer:   http://nakedineden.com/nakedinedenblog/ 

Sherma of BrainTeaser - A great writer and poet… (and truly, truly scrumptious)

Lilly of Lilly’s Life ~ Just the best (she already has the Arte y Pico on her mantlepiece)

Truebird of The Birds in the Meadow ~ A real nature person, a self-confessed biophiliac  and an excellent photographer - so go and see her work - her writing and photography and eat your heart out…

Eric S of Ruminations of a Small Town Mountain Boy ~ I’ve only just “met” Eric. He has a really classy blog and I’m looking forward to reading him each week. (He’s also very caring)

Ravenscawl - http://ravenscawl.wordpress.com/  As he says “Mental Cannon-Fodder. Kem Shahol cares a lot and probably hurts a lot. He makes me realise how easy it is to go through life, blindfolded to the injustice all around.

Sue Kleiner of Pencil Sketches and Art  http://soul-to-soul.com - great vid’s and rock stars, artwork  and humanity.

Liara Covert (Liara5) of Dreambuilders Australia - A daily blog on what I could term spiritual human behavior. Liara has great insight and experience ~ she is another great writer I have neglected recently.

timethief of …This Time This Space - timethief is a strange mixture of spirituality and technical expertise. Again…another great blogger I have neglected recently.

 

So “Brillante” guys…put your award on your blogs and smile.

“Brillante” rules are…

1. Put the logo on your blog.

2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.

3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.

4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.

5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog. Picks I have made are under no obligation to do a post in this award. But enjoy it…

...Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely 

more;and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. 

He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man 

as the good old City knew, or any other good old city, town, 

or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see 

the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded

 them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened 

on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their 

fill of laughter in the outset; and, knowing that such as these 

would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they

should wrinkle up their eyes in grins as have the malady in less

attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite 

enough for him.

  (Charles Dickens ~ A Christmas Carol)

 

Finally, we are now in Lugnasadh and it is probably nearer the real birthday of Jesus, as opposed to his official one ~ well even Queen Elizabeth has two birthdays…

And so, as
Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One! 

soulMerlin  ‘h’

As for me…I am so chuffed at receiving the awards, I’m going to put them on the sidebar of Flowers and Scorpions for a good long while, even though they both relate to this blog. It’s just that I can’t put them on a wordpress sidebar (I’m stupid) but I will put a link back to this blog.

Stop Press! Ravenscawl has just emailed me the code to put the awards on the sidebar (he’s just “Brill” - Thanks Kem)

I’m so happy about them….THANKS.

PS: Anyone fancy a Spicy Beef Roll?

  (’hic’)

 

Technorati Tags: brillant awards,arte y pico awards,scrooge,poison,blogging,artwork,preparing to die

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ The Biggest Joy

 

 

The biggest joy was on the way home

The Earth the Moon the Sun

and the whole 360′ panorama

of the Heavens

and that was the powerful, overwhelming experience.

and suddenly I realized that the molecules of my body

 

and the molecules in the bodies of my

partners were prototyped and

manufactured

in some ancient generation of stars

and there was an overwhelming sense

of  Oneness

of connectedness

 

 

   

It wasn’t

Them and Us

 

 

it was

 

 

       “that’s me”                                   “That’s All of it”

 

 

 It’s One Thing

 

and it was accompanied by an ecstasy

 

An Insight

 

An Epiphany

 

Words by * Edgar Mitchell - Astronaut Apollo 14

photographs by soulMerlin

Dedicated to Scott

~

Acknowledgement

I was watching the brilliant documentary *”In the Shadow of the Moon”, when I realized that the profound words of Edgar Mitchell applied as much to the celestial mystery of Stonehenge as they did to his return to our beautiful and fragile planet - forming a living link between today and the creators of the ancient monument to the stars, 6000 years ago.

The Stonehenge Trilogy

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ Part One “The Spectator

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ Part Two “The Player”

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ Part Three “The Biggest Joy”

~

*DVD - In the Shadow of the Moon

Technorati Tags: stonehenge,summer solstice,universe

the Miracle of the Solstice

Part One ~ The Spectator

I have always wanted to go to either the Summer or the Winter Solstice at Stonehenge, but I usually find myself too far away to make the trip. This year was different, as we were performing in Crawley only 90 miles away from the ancient monument and so I weighed up the pro’s and con’s…

 

 

…There seemed to be a lot of reasons against going. We do a very hard schedule with two performances every day (and three on a Saturday) - it’s great, but it doesn’t leave much time for anything else…unless…unless a real effort is made. Also, my health has not been at it’s best over the past two years…probably just that I’m getting older…but I find that hard to accept…and so I decided to go.

 

I packed a thermos of coffee, together with my winter anorak and set off from Crawley after the evening show. The weather was black and drizzly and I began to have misgivings when I saw the repeated message “long delays on M3″ flashed up on the information boards on the crowded motorway, which looked like a scene from Bullitt or the Gumball Rally. (Driving standards in the UK have become a joke).

 

 

I stopped for a meal at the first services on the M3, only to find a barren overpriced franchise-arcade. The vision of an  expensive but delicious grill faded in the reality of the municipal toilet-paved concourse, with it’s Burger King and KFC stalls, complete with diffident staff. After wandering around for a while, I settled for a self-service coffee and a packed sandwich and continued toward Stonehenge.

 

As it was, the “long delays” turned out to be a stop-start pause of around ten minutes, due to “cone-practice” - (a long line of cones and no workmen) and I soon found myself diverted into the Solstice car park. It  was still only half-past two so I sat in the car and had a coffee. Time passed slowly as I watched the neighbouring van, with it’s hippy throw-back passengers and booming speakers. I began to have misgivings as to exactly what I had let myself in for.

 

I got out of the car at 3.30 and set off in the drizzle and mud, through the car park, which looked like a scene from “Close Encounters”,  towards the meeting-point, where at last I managed to get a bacon sandwich. I was really hungry by this time and ate it along the way (and wished I had bought two). There is something very special about a bacon sandwich in the cold morning air.

The atmosphere around me was becoming tribal, with people talking to each other more openly and excitedly than in their day to day lives.

“You been comin’ here for years, ‘ave yer?”

I looked at the young hoody - “No, my first time”

……”Really?”  he replied.

(I wondered what he meant….)

“see yer later mate”

(mate!) …. “Yes…See You”.

 

Then I realised that with my white beard, I looked the most ‘really-Druid’ of all the visitors there - maybe as much as my fantasy mythical (?) ancestor , who it seems put the whole thing up in the first place. So there…

 

…I stood in the light rain,  as the sounds grew and the atmosphere built towards the crescendo of dawn.   A group of student revellers sang and chanted to drumbeats and horns, on a  sacred platform of sandstone, erected 3000 years before the birth of Christ.

 

Were the fuzzy orbs on my LCD screen, spirit visitors from 3000 BC - or just condensation from the humid air? Certainly the spirit of the swaying mass before me was strong, but not at all dangerous. I am always cautious of group atmosphere in a crowded situation - this one was rowdy but good natured.

 I stumbled around the perimeter of  prehistoric  cathedral, which over the ages has been used as a temple, a burial ground and an observatory of the universe. Stonehenge is 6,000 years old and it continued to be rebuilt, extended and modified, from it’s inception, up until around the time of Jesus.

This suggests  that the motivation for continuing the work, was passed down from generation to generation, rather than solely from within the political and social events of any particular era. 

 

The Pagan wheel of the year turns on the axis of the Winter and Summer Solstices. The Summer Solstice marks the point at which the sun is nearest to us in the Northern Hemisphere. It is the time of masculine strength and there is nothing random in the fact  that Father’s Day occurs around this time. Many of our calendar dates derive from the old beliefs. Most people know that our days of the week include the Sun (Sunday) and the Moon (Monday) and that old gods such as Thor are represented as the weekdays. Fewer realise that even the term “Month” derives from “Moonth” The cycle of life on earth is governed by the “Nurturing Goddess” and the Celestial cycle by the “God-Creator”  Now the Goddess has conceived once more.

 

After a while, I retreated from the pushing and jostling and watched the blue dawn from a nearby ridge, in company with a photographer, a tripod and his bored wife, who had wrapped herself in an exposure blanket and who stood, motionless and miserable with the raindrops running down her face like tears.

 

The sound and the beat continued to grow with the light and I decided to leave, thinking that I had seen ‘it’ and that ‘it’ had been a bit dismal with not so much as a glimmer of Sol. But something was missing. I knew I could now say that I’d ‘done’ Stonehenge, but to me that would have been rather like flying to another country and staying in the arrivals terminal. So I returned and pushed my way into the edge of the inner circle of stones.

Stonehenge is made from gigantic slabs of sandstone, transported hundreds of miles by ship and land and constructed directly and mysteriously on a ley-line. Ley lines are the paths of the earth’s natural energy - the energy was there and it was growing….

~

The Stonehenge Trilogy

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ Part One “The Spectator”

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ Part Two “The Player”

The Miracle of the Solstice ~ Part Three “The Biggest Joy”

~

All photography by (c)soulMerlin

Technorati Tags: pagan,solstice,rite,ritual,stonehenge,joy,witch,goddess,god

Dreaming of Christina

“We are such stuff As Dreams are made on” ~ William Shakespeare

Yesterday was the third anniversary of my mother’s passing. I remember the first anniversary of her death as a bittersweet celebration of her life, in which I sheltered like a hermit crab. The second year passed on a swell of faith and joy.  But now the third year had ushered in a cold loneliness and the guilt of fading Grief.

Grief returned near the end of the second show of the day. I was standing on stage and looking up into the light when I realised that I couldn’t sing. I needed a sign that she was still with me in spirit. Not a sign born of self-delusion, but one that would bring me close to her again.

I phoned my ex-wife Liz in the break between the shows. Liz immediately told me that she had been sorting out her VHS cassette collection that afternoon, when she discovered a tape she had neglected to label. She put it on - to discover it was a tape of my mother I had left the last time Christina and I visited her.                

“She looked so strong and healthy” said Liz.                                          

I felt so much better, but I was unprepared for the second sign.           I awoke suddenly at around three in the morning, in the middle of a vivid dream…

We were sitting in the back of a large limousine and speeding along a highway that rose and fell as if we were riding on a roller coaster, a ‘big dipper’ as she used to call them. Christina sat with me to my right and as I looked across at her and beyond, I could see a beautiful blue sky above the ocean and  the sunlight sparkling like stars around her head.                                                                                                                                                                                

“This is where I live” I said.                                                              

When we arrived at my home, which I did not recognise, I made her comfortable in a big house. But I knew that she would soon leave.  Then I heard an urgent voice: “She’s going to die.”

I rushed to Christina’s bedside and cupped her head in my hands. Around me were women all weeping for my mother.  I knew I could help her live and gradually I felt her heartbeat flutter and then begin to grow and travel up my arms until it became mine. Her eyes opened and they were beautiful. I could feel the joy all around me as I held all of her inexplicably in my hands. Then her gaze looked upward, and so I lifted her…

…until I was alone in the grey dawn above the granite city.

After breakfast I decided to have one last stroll through Aberdeen, before catching my flight home to Coventry. Maybe it was the sudden change in the weather that made me turn into the bookshop or maybe it was a gentle nudge, but I found myself reaching for a book that attracted me and looking at the preface.

“What if you slept, and what if in your sleep you dreamed, and what if in your dream you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower, and what if when you awoke you had the flower in your hand?  Ah, what then?” ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

It was the third joy.

~

Technorati Tags: afterlife,dawn,dreams,going on,guardian spirits,re-incarnation,spirit

The Tree of Life

It was early Sunday morning and I had driven overnight from Glasgow.  I knew that if I went straight home, sleep would ambush me and I would wake around 4 o’clock in the afternoon with that awful feeling of having ‘missed the day’. So I decided to go and see Martin’s Oak.

The sky was turning a dusty rose as I turned off the ignition and the silence after hours of engine noise was startling. I wound down the window and breathed in the heady smell of the morning air, as I watched the dusty-rose light growing in the east.

The light was increasing rapidly, so I finished the sandwich and coffee I had bought along the way and set off across the field towards the Oak.  

The power of the Oak is immense and demands respect. The first time I approached the ancient tree of life, I felt a living spirit and an aura which radiated far beyond it’s branches. Yet this morning I felt a difference, the Oak seemed like a child waiting for it’s father - for it’s Creator. Like a priest turning towards the altar, the Oak stood, as if waiting for a greater power.

I approached quietly and stood beside the ancient trunk. 

…From under the arms of the sacred tree and safe within it’s aura, I looked out over the lagoon of mist that filled the valley and the dawn breaking in the east.

 

 

then I saw the Miracle

 

and then

 

my camera power ran out.

For a moment my elation was replaced with despair -  suddenly I remembered  a set of batteries I had bought some time ago and which had gone missing. Perhaps they were in the car. I turned and ran across the field, like a best man at a wedding who has forgotten the ring, with the mocking harsh laughter of the crows, the smokey hoot of a woodpigeon and a teasing chorus of twittering laughter from the hidden nests in the ancient forest.

I reached the car and thrust my hand into the mass of luggage on the rear seat…

…and found them.

 

I turned and ran back toward the tree; the light of the sun was now blinding, so I veered to the right so that the sun would be behind the oak - and skidded to a stop. I was out of breath but my hands were shaking for another reason, as I took photograph after photograph…

“I am the tree of life”

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

+

 

“and  I am the Sun born over and over “

        

Amen

~

 

Technorati Tags: dawn,sun,oak tree,tree of life,sunrise

souls and fireworks

When the war ended, my parents rented three rooms in what must have been the servants quarters of a crumbling but still impressive building.

Riverside House stood, in all it’s pebble-dashed and whitewashed glory, near the boathouse on the banks of the River Wear in Durham. The three small rooms had no running water and no electricity, but my parents filled the house with so much love that I was proud to be the only child at school who had gas lighting and who could, just like the cowboys, dip his cup into the large urn of water that stood by the kitchen sink. 

My evenings were spent in the amber glow of the two gas mantles, that hung on the wall above our fireplace.  My mother would read to me , as we sat toasting our feet on the hearth of the open coal fire in the enchanted living-room, with the night-creatures of my young imagination, dancing and flickering in the hot coals by our feet.

On stormy nights, my parents would turn off the gas and as the mantles dimmed through red to darkness, we would sit and watch the forked lightening rip and tear at the sky, as the grove of trees behind the house howled and roared at the disturbing wind.

In the summer, my parents would take me to watch the firework display that ended the Durham Regatta. I enjoyed “Boat Race Day” with it’s  contests between the blazer-clad teams of posh-voiced university students, but my anticipation and excitement was reserved for the firework display that ended the festival. The show would begin with WhizzBangs and Catherine Wheels, but the best moment of the display was always saved for the finale, when a mass of rockets would curve upward and then burst like gigantic flowers across the night sky.

When it was her turn to go, my mother’s soul opened and wrapped me in a cloud of everything she had been, before she flashed into the darkness and dissolved into the stars.  

When the firework display had ended, we would carefully pick our way back along the darkening river banks toward home, with the distant rumble in our ears, whispering the promise of another show before bed-time.

No trace remains of the old house by the river banks. The tall trees have long gone and the wind laments, as it moans and swirls through the concrete pillars and the empty vaults of the multi-storey car park that now covers the suffocating earth.

Sometimes when I am quiet and open, she returns with the house and the trees and we sit together in the warm glow, just as we did so many years ago.

~

(firework illustration - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:2006_Fireworks_15.JPG)

yes…it’s Wikimedia

Durham Regatta  Google Images

Technorati Tags: spirit,fireworks,boathouse,durham regatta,gas lighting

14th March ~ A Sacred Song for Christians and Pagans

(photo (c)soulMerlin/henry metcalfe) I took it one very early morning around two weeks ago - the dew is real and not faked by a sprinkler  

One of my favourite hymns has always been “Morning Has Broken” by Eleanor Farjeon. It was my favourite hymn as a child and continues to be so. I included it in my mother’s funeral service, together with “Jerusalem” and I never fail to be ‘lifted’ by the lyrics, which I feel can be enjoyed by both Christians and Muslims and also by those who follow the ‘Wild Soul’ of the ancient Pagan ways. I really cannot think of a Faith which would not respond to the natural reverence of Eleanor’s lyrics

The first line “Morning has broken like the first morning” never fails to move me and lines such as “praise for the secrets of the wet garden”, “like the first dewfall” and especially “God’s recreation of the new day”, show a spirituality which I think can be shared by all people, irrespective of their faith or belief.

It is significant to me that the song/hymn was recorded by the singer Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) who turned his back on fame to become a headmaster and a devout Muslim. Yusuf came to see our West-End production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat a few years ago and sat smiling in the front row - a simple and unpublicised visit which showed a unity of faith and belief that is much needed at present.

(here’s a short version with illustrations of Spring)

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=7ESHjYat9rk

(and now the full version with Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam)

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=1TWd3skb-Rw

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word

Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day

lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon

 

Eleanor Farjeon shows a natural spirituality and a love of nature in her work. A prolific writer, she has in my opinion, not only crossed over, but has taken up the tramlines that separate creed and culture. I looked her up in Wikipedia discovered that one of her first books was ‘Pan-Worship and Other Poems (1908)’

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleanor_Farjeon

I think that many of us have cause to thank her for the lyrics of such a beautiful song

~

 

Technorati Tags: eleanor farjeon,morning has broken,muslim,christian,cat stevens,yusuf islam,pagan,hymn

 

the term “Wild Soul” is taken from “Living Druidry” by Emma Restall Orr, Head of the international Druid Network

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Druid-Priestess-Emma-Restall-Orr/dp/0007107692

13th February 2008 ~ The Lure of the Night

There is something wild about the night

I become a small child, listening to a story of a nymph and a goblin

of creatures that reflect the twilight nature of my secret self

~

 

Overheard on a Salt Marsh

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

Give them me.
No.

Give them me. Give them me.
No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man’s fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them.
No.

I will howl in the deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give them me. Give them.
No.

harold munro

 

 

A Lost-Love Spell at Bedtime

Technorati Tags: spells and magick,love

Night-time is when the pain of a lost-love is often at it’s greatest. Instead of pacing around in a cloud of self-indulgent grief, perhaps it’s better to do something constructive and Weave a Spell.

When you go to bed - no matter how much you’re grieving, go through this simple process if you want another chance…..

The One Last Chance Spell

Lie in bed and relax totally.

Check your hands and arms - Feet and legs and gradually relax until your body seems to melt into the bed.

After a while (5 to 15mins or even more if your really tense and upset)

Become aware of your breathing; In through the mouth and out through the nose; regular and steady.

Don’t over-ventilate - Just steady breathing.

With each exhalation, visualize your breath as creating a red ball-shaped mist in the air above you

Each exhalation increases the density of the “ball”

Your breath is red - full of Love and Passion.

See your lovers face in the middle of the red-mist ball

Don’t use words (this is my own method, as I do not personally respond to quasi-medieval incantations) just see your lover and send out feelings of love to him or her.

Wordlessly create within yourself the desire that your lost-love will think of you and miss you

Near the end of the spell, repeat in your mind “another chance please”

(but try to do it wordlessly - just the emotion - make sure you are not being intrusive and manipulative - it’s only a chance not a contract)

then

realise that a return may not be the best for your lover and honour that realisation

“but only if you wish”

(see your Lover clearly - even if it hurts to visualise them)

Now inhale and swallow the red ball

Finish with

“I Love you”

Have Faith and Go to Sleep.

~

The next day, spend some time analysing why your lover left you. If it is your fault (any fault) resolve to change your ways - Do that and wait in full optimism for their return.

If they return (and they almost always will) resolve not to make the same mistakes again - there is no second chance.

illustration: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:AntonioCanova_PsycheRevivedByCupidsKiss.JPG

soulMerlin

15/Nov/07~A Selfish Spell at Dawn…

Technorati Tags: dawn , spell , magick , love

Around 1982, I had a young friend called Heather. Heather was a dancer in a show I choreographed, which was billed as the premier summer spectacular of Margate’s finest moments, but for some reason (maybe the reason is obvious) failed to attract more than a handful of people each day, despite having Norman Vaughan (remember ‘roses grow on you’?) and “The Great Soprendo” a magician, who was in fact Chris Durham, the husband of Victoria Wood and also Renee and Renato of the one hit “Save Your Love”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wX2bjYmUM5U

Heather was in love with a young singer called Ralph, who after first becoming very close and attentive to Heather, had recently drawn more distant and unloving. My young friend was determined to regain the full focus of his attentions and confided her love-plight to me.

As it happened, I was also in the midst of my own love-plight drama; I was it love with a dark eyed nymph who resembled (almost exactly) Jennifer Beals on the poster of Flashdance; the nymph however, seemed to be dancing ever further from the heat of my own passion. Heather and I discussed the similarities of our love problems and decided to combine forces and invoke a love spell to end all invocations of the heart.

I have always had a fascination with the occult and with ‘otherworlds’. I can remember when I was quite small - around three years old - having a recurring nightmare fantasy of what was named by CS Lewis, as That Hideous Strength. I can recall the drum-beats of Hell rumbling toward me in my half-sleep and of a fear of Evil that was a confrontation too far for the small mite I then was. I had a florid imagination, fired by the beginning of an ability that I didn’t really understand and consequently treated like a game. I was indeed “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”; unaware of just how potent a spell could be and of it’s affect on people’s lives.

In full “apprentice” mode, I looked up love spells in a variety of esoteric books I had collected and in a Grimoire I had bought by mail order, and found a spell to be performed at the first light of dawn, whilst facing the East and the rising sun.

Heather knocked on my door at around 4.15 am and we set off toward a park I had spotted, complete with four golden candles which I had purified with salt for the previous twenty-four hours and the Grimoire which contained the ritual invocation we were to chant as the first rays of the sun broke the dark horizon.

I can remember trying to light the candles - after half a box of matches and a sudden lull in the busy little breeze, I managed to get all four lit. Together Heather and I acknowledged the four directional powers and turned our full attention to the east and to its element of Air and the yellow-gold aura symbolized by the now spluttering candles.
I must admit to feeling a little foolish as Heather and I stood, chanting our invocation to draw our respective lovers back to us, but the expression on Heather’s face showed that was fully intent on the task in hand and so together we chanted the invocation a full seven times, until the breeze grew and extinguished the candles one by one.

The results were almost immediate; by the evening, Ralph had phoned Heather and arranged a night out and I had also been contacted by the Nymph, who was intent on coming down from Scotland to see me that weekend.

It would be nice to say that all ended in happy togetherness, but it didn’t. Both our partners seemed almost zombie-like in their attachments to us and not entirely happy. It was as if they were compelled to be with us, against their own will. As the following days passed, the happy reunions Heather and I had desired had turned to a numb listlessness.

And then it ended. The sad thing was that I no longer felt the same about my Jennifer Beals look-alike and Heather was glad to wave goodbye to Ralph.

In the final analysis, there seems little difference between a Spell and a Prayer - both work - but a Spell is often (due to the motivation of the practitioner) more selfish.

Then again - how many selfish Prayers have you made?

Perhaps they were Spells and you didn’t realise it.

Both Spells and Prayers have immense power

copyright-free photograph “Red Dawn” from Wikimedia http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Red_sunrise_-_swifts_creek.jpg