Inner Journey ~ Suzanne #writephoto

I journey within –

For so many nights now I have been dreaming of old tired places, thoughts and experiences I have no wish to revisit but which lurk in the dim recesses of my mind. It is as if all the debris of my psyche lies in wait for me to sleep so that it come come out and haunt me – night after night. Every sorry story I have ever been part of is choosing this current time frame to revisit me in fragmentary nightmarish scraps. It is as if I have become a voyeur surveying all those moments in my life when I was less than perfect or failed to achieve some goal.

Often these dreams are so disturbing they wake me up. Invariably this waking occurs at strange times – 02:02, 3:33, 4:44 etc. For a long time I thought the dreams were pointing out deep psychological dramas I needed to resolve. I would lie in bed, tossing and turning as I wrestled with my demons.

After a while it came to me that these dreams were showing me things that happened a long time ago. They were often about events that had been resolved with time or they retold stories of incidental moments that I could nothing about now. It was if my mind was somehow stained with these things – that those unpleasant occurrences had left behind a residue that still coloured my subconscious.

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Peace Listening and a Mini Break ~ Debbie Roth #writephoto

First, I want to thank all of you for your encouragement and support for my move.  I’m in my new home, and it’s beautiful!  I moved on Tuesday.  Here’s a photo of me in my new place – I plan to do my coaching from the blue chair on the left (I love it).

Also, guess what?  The day after I moved, I left for a 3 week trip to Jerusalem and Italy.  So I’m writing you from my Air B&B in Jerusalem right now.  I plan to take the next few weeks off, yet I couldn’t take today off because….


Peace Day is sponsored by the U.N. as a way for each of us to tune into the peace inside.  I love this day and do my best to share about it as much as I can…. including here in the land where there’s been such sacredness and such war.

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The Stone and the Pilgrim (3) ~ Steve Tanham

Sun in Gemini

“It’s all about tea-rooms, with you, isn’t it!”

It was said some years ago, and there was anger in it – just a bit – but she was right. We both collapsed in a heap of laughter on each other’s shoulder a second later.

There has to be humour in these weekends. They can be very intense – not by imposition, but by personal choice. When those attending, particularly for the first time, see the effect of a group of fellow adventurers working with the landscape, it can become infectious. We’re not just here as tourists, though that’s great fun and part of it, we’re here to experiment with consciousness – in a loving and lovely way. If that doesn’t harmonise a group, nothing will.

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Pillars ~ Hayley R. Hardman #writephoto

It started out as a game of hide and seek which turned into a nightmare none of them could ever escape from.

Reblogged from The Story Files

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Pillars ~ Michael #writephoto


Every pillar had a story.

History was like that and not always kind in the memories it held.

The tears wept were held within each pillar as the past was captured within the marble and mortar.

The sixteen-year-old girl banished by her family to a life in the nunnery, the punishments metered out to extract penance from her, the unwanted affections of the Novice Mistress and the trauma of the Bishop’s assistant as he ‘counselled’ her privately in administering absolution.

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America’s Stonehenge: Part Four: Alethea Kehas

Reblogged from Not Tomatoes:

Continued from part 3


This curious serpentine slab above the wall faces west toward the “V” Hut

From the “V” Hut we began to move into the disturbed remains of the Pattee Area of America’s Stonehenge. Passing from the west, the place of the womb-like chamber of the V-Hut where water seems to collect intentionally before it is passed through channels, the three of us followed the East-West Chamber east.


I believe this is part of the restored wall of the East-West Chamber, but I did not get the site number in the photograph for confirmation.

I think this was around the time I grabbed my granola bar from my bag and started shoveling it into my mouth. Grounding was needed after the experience at the “V” Hut and I was not feeling wholly myself. We were now heading to the most controversial area of the site, the Oracle’s Chamber, which runs alongside and beneath the 4.5-ton slab of stone called the Sacrificial Table.


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Intrigue ~ Hélène Vaillant #writephoto


Sister Catherine rushed down the stairs landing right in front of Mother Superior.  Stupified, Catherine held her breath while Mother Superior recovered hers.

”What is the hurry Catherine?”  asked Holy Mother.

Looking over Mother’s shoulder Catherine saw Father Sebastian’s shadow behind the pillar.

Continue reading at Willow Poetry

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North-easterly: Sidetracked by poppies…

While the story of the recent Castles of the Mind weekend will be shared on the Silent Eye website, our ‘extra-curricular’ adventures during that trip will be, as always, told on our personal blogs…

We had arrived in the north, checked in at our accommodation, and, after a coffee, as we still had a couple of hours to spare before we were all to meet, we decided to stretch our legs and explore a little of the village where we were staying. The pub in Beadnell, The Craster Arms, would have to be visited at some point, especially as it is housed in a sixteenth century pele tower, whose five-feet-thick walls were designed for the watch tower to warn of approaching danger, and as a refuge when it arrived.

With the Walk and Talk weekend ahead, we stayed clear of the inn; these things need to be approached with a clear mind. Instead, we admired the cottages and old manor houses as we headed for the rather unusual church.  The tower alone was worth a look, sporting, as it does, an octagonal pierced stone screen at the base of the spire. But what struck us most was the arch of the door that was decorated with poppies and beside it flies a flag that reads simply, ‘Lest we Forget’.

It would be difficult to forget that this year marks the centenary of the Armistice, the end of the first World War. Across the country, poppies are blazing in every village church and by the roadside, in town and country, are silent silhouettes, the almost-lifesize representations of those who served in that terrible conflict. We had seen many of them on our journey, and they are deeply moving when you see these lone shadows in the green land they gave their lives to protect. “The war to end all wars” was just another chapter in the violent history of mankind, and it was sobering to reflect that our weekend would revolve around medieval structures whose primary purpose was might.

The church is dedicated to St Ebbe, a sister of the saintly King Oswald, whose relics had once been housed in the area. It is a fairly modern building, dating from 1746, with renovations in 1860. It was built to replace the original chapel, founded by St Æbbe herself in the seventh century, which had fallen into ruins by that date.

It is a simple, small church, exuding warmth from the pink-tinged stone and welcome from its door which, as far as we could see, even stood open at night, with the sanctuary light casting its glow through the stained glass of the east window. It would be a beautiful little place at any time and well worth a visit, but this year, the parishioners have done something remarkable as an act of communal remembrance.

Every window weeps poppies, each one hand made, knitted or crocheted, each one telling a story. There are red poppies for the soldiers who fought and died in the trenches and on the battlefield.

White poppies for those who served but who carried no weapon…the ambulance drivers, stretcher bearers and those whose belief in peace was stronger than the command to kill.

There are purple poppies for the animals who served our need, without their consent, and yet were maimed and killed …the eight million horses, the donkeys, carrier pigeons, cats, canaries and dogs.

And there are poppies, red and white, for those who were shot at dawn… many who would today be diagnosed as suffering from acute PTSD but were simply condemned for cowardice when they ran from horror.

This little church includes everyone, from the soldiers to the nurses, from those who tilled the fields and fed the country to the mothers who waited and wept.

The WWII Roll of Honour on the wall bears the names of villagers who served and died, but also the names of those who were included in the prayers of this tiny village which, even today, holds only around five hundred souls.

For such a small community, it is a long list… and in every village church there is a similar Roll of Honour.  At St Ebbe’s, even the reredos behind the altar is a memorial.

The kneelers are some of the best designs we have seen, including some unusual designs which seem to have been specially made for the occasion…and one with the Tarot ‘Tower struck by Lightning’, which also seemed oddly appropriate.

I should probably talk about the beautiful stained glass with its unusual depictions of saints, and about the carved screen that separates the nave from the chancel, but all the fabric of the church pales into insignificance beside what its people have created within its walls.

A hundred years ago, one murderous conflict ended. My great grandparents served in that war, and some were still here when my own children were young, and still passing on a legacy of memories. A hundred years is not so very long and the legacy of those who lived through those days was passed down to a generation who also took up arms. Their children…our parents…raised us in the aftermath, with memories of their own.

“Lest we forget”? It is not ancient history. Their legacy is a living one, still part of who we are, and will continue as long as humankind takes up arms against each other, seeking still to resolve our differences with the shedding of blood.

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In the Similitude of a Dream III…


… At this his relations were sore amazed; not for that they believed

that what he said to them was true, but because they thought that

some frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing

towards night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his brains,

with all haste they got him to bed.



But the night was as troublesome to him as the day; wherefore,

instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears.

So, when the morning was come, they would know

how he did. He told them, Worse and worse

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Hearth #midnighthaiku

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