Supernatural Encounters – True Stories And A Guest Blog Post By Victoria Zigler @VictoriaZigler

Reblogged from Hugh’s Views & News:

I’m delighted to welcome Victoria (Tori) Zigler to my blog today.

After reading an interview with Victoria on the blog of Teri Pollen, I invited her to write a guest post about some of the encounters she has had with the supernatural.

Supernatural Encounters by Victoria Zigler

With it being Halloween week, Victoria’s post had me thinking about a ghostly encounter I once had. However, nothing as strange as the missing bath plug in one of Victoria’s stories.

Perhaps Victoria’s post will encourage you to share your true stories of supernatural encounters?

I see dead people.

Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I’ve wanted an excuse to use that line since I first saw “The Sixth Sense” many years ago. But it is the truth, so I hope you’ll forgive me for indulging myself.

Anyway, it’s not just people. It’s animals too.

Well, technically, these days I don’t ‘see’ them, because…

Continue reading at Hugh’s News and Views 

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Solstice of the Moon: The Field of Prayer

Easter Aquhorthies. Image: Paul Allison CCA2.0

There were many merry meetings in Inverurie, bringing a golden glow to the afternoon that belied the grisaille of rain and wet stone. We were greeted outside our meeting place with fierce hugs from a lady we love dearly and who has been much missed over the past couple of years. Inside, there was the wonderful surprise of finding the Canadian contingent, and we had soon filled a fair proportion of the tea-room with laughter and conversation… there was a lot of catching up to do.

When all members of the party were assembled or accounted for, we set off for the short drive to our first destination. The circle sits on a hillside above the town with a small parking area a few minutes’ walk from the stones. By the time we arrived the steady rain had turned into a lashing downpour. I stowed my camera in an allegedly waterproof pocket for safety, where it promptly and irrevocably drowned. But that circle alone was worth it…and the weekend was only just beginning.

Easter Aquhorthies is one of the rare ‘recumbent circles’ found only in this small area of Scotland, and in the far south-west of Ireland. ‘Aquhorthies’ comes from the Gaelic; it may come from ‘auch’ or ‘achd’ meaning ‘field’, and ‘ortha’ meaning ‘prayer’ giving ‘field of prayer’, or be derived from ‘achadh choirthe’, ‘field of pillar stone’. If the sanctity of the site is preserved in its name, which is of a much later date than the circle’s creation, it would suggest that a recognition of its importance as a sacred centre long survived its builders. So too would its state of preservation…as if all later peoples understood or perhaps feared the magic of the place.

Image: Stu Smith, Flickr CCL

And it is magical. That first sight drew gasps from many of us. It is a truly beautiful site, even in the rain and even at first glance, appeared to be remarkably complete. Running Elk ushered us into the circle with instructions to find ‘our’ place within it. A place where we felt comfortable…or uncomfortable… and to consider why that might be. Two stones had stood out for me, even on the approach. I wandered around to the almost polished back of the huge recumbent and by the time I had finished exploring it, everyone seemed to have found their places. I stood by one of the flanking stones, hopeful that, even in the rain, I would be able to hear what Running Elk might tell us. I need not have worried on that score… not in this circle.

This circle is one of around ninety recumbents in this area and one of only a few to have retained all of its stones.  There are nine single standing stones in the circle and the recumbent stone itself, flanked by a pair of uprights. The recumbent appears to be chocked with further perpendicular stones, but closer inspection shows that they were not, in fact, designed as supports. Perhaps they have more to do with the acoustics of the circle… from where he was seated between the perpendicular stones, everyone in the circle could hear Running Elk perfectly. Yet, when he stood, his voice was lost in the rain. Later, we would discover that the voice could not carry outside the circle… one step beyond, and it disappeared into the breeze.

Image: Otter CCA3.0

Somebody knew what they were doing with these stones. Yet Easter Aquhorthies has been dated to the Neolithic period, around six thousand years ago. Within its central space a boy-child was carefully buried in a cyst. We have seen this before. Running Elk suggested that the burial may have predated the circle, hallowing the space. We wondered why it always seems to be a boy-child and Stuart signalled that special bond between mother and son. With our daughters, we share our skills and experience of life; sons we raise to manhood and watch them leave our world for their own. And this circle was a place of priestesses.

Continue reading at France & Vincent

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CrossFire… #MysteryThriller ~ Jaye Marie

CROSS X7.jpg

Excerpt from CrossFire

‘Do you know why we have brought you here today, Ann?’

Ruth thought she would ease her way in, rather than accuse her straight off, for triggering any hostility wouldn’t get them anywhere.

The woman stared at Ruth, her pale, colourless eyes searching for clues. ‘Nah… but I ‘spect you’ll get to it pretty quick…’

Ruth indicated a brown paper bag on the table beside her. ‘We found a pair of work boots at your house, Ann. According to your husband, they’re not his. Are they yours?’

Ann Taylor glared at Ruth. She seemed to be enjoying the interview, her arrogance showing through the previous nervousness. ‘Dunno, can’t see them can I?’

Ruth undid the bag and placed the dirty boots on the table. Most of the mud had dried and fallen off, but still didn’t seem like the kind of boot a woman would wear. ‘Are these your boots, Ann?’

Continue reading at Anita Dawes and Jaye Marie

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Carrots and Coals: Green and Grey…

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…A hand extended, smiling eyes unseen but felt.

She takes the hand, stiff after the long vigil in the chill of night, accepting assistance to regain her feet.

The grass is cold, frost biting her bare toes.

Above, a million stars streak across the heavens.

It is done.

The old one smiles and raises his hand…

…. Voices call her back.

The sunlight casts a pale golden glow … across the circle her companion opens his eyes.

There is something she recognises in them….

She knows not what it is…

Continue reading at France and Vincent

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Reaching for the sun

Derbyshire (4)It doesn’t really matter where we think dreams come from, they often have things to say. Some regard them as spiritual, most accept their psychology but however we see them it is undeniable that we access areas not usually available to our waking thought.

Dreams may begin in that liminal hinterland before the candle of consciousness is snuffed out for the night and then we have that odd state where we observe the dream unfolding beyond our control and yet retain control of our conscious thoughts and can ‘make notes’. As I sank into slumber, I was in that state and quite firmly telling myself I’d have to get the dictionary out in the morning, scrawling notes on a mental blackboard that I could ‘read’ when awake. It wasn’t that I didn’t recognise the word, but in that context, it was going to have to be thought about.

Derbyshire (5)The speaker I could not see, barely an outline in the misty light… and my thoughts went back to the bedside book I had just put down… an old favourite, Terry Pratchett’s Reaper Man, a book I have to say that I do not recommend for bedtime reading. Laughing out loud until the tears run is not conducive to sleep. On the other hand, as with all Mr Pratchett’s books, it does make you think quite deeply about the universe and the human condition.

The figure in the dream looked like the picture my mind paints of the Auditors of Reality, the faceless bureaucrats of the gods, albeit more radiant, and I can quite see where the crossover between the experience of the day and dream comes in there. “You are becoming an etiolated society,” said the voice.

Derbyshire (2)Etiolated – it is what happens to plants when they are ‘forced’, like rhubarb, in the dark; growing long, pale and thin; without strength for lack of sun as their stems reach ever upward seeking for the light. Yes, I could see how that could apply; both physically and symbolically. It comes from the old word for the stubble used for bedding… for sleep… and that too makes symbolic sense.

Again Mr Pratchett came to mind, a moment in The Hogfather where Death talks about the belief in possibility that is needed to be human “…To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.”

As I go out to face the day, no doubt I will be thinking about that.

Derbyshire (3)I don’t think belief has failed us, but we have moved away from a belief in the numinous being an integral part of our every moment and perhaps we are the poorer for it, replacing wonder with celebrity and magic with the special effects of a technological society. We doubt, question, dissect and demand proof… which implies a belief in possibility to begin with. Some things we can prove by scientific means, others we can only prove subjectively in the knowing of the inner heart.

We do stop and wonder and we do believe in that something that is magical, mystical or simply awe-inspiring… when beauty creeps in unexpectedly and we stand in awe before a wide horizon, or when a child conveys the magic of a moment with sparkling eyes. Then we remember that we are children too… children of a universe overflowing with wonder and delights and in those moments our etiolated soul, stretched thin by the constraints of the busy, confined lives we lead, bathes in light and drinks the sun that feeds us with all the colours of life.

Derbyshire (1)

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Illusive #midnighthaiku

Cling to illusions

Eyes closed holding back the tides

Dreamer’s paradise

Neither will nor rueful strength

Delaying the dawning light

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For Colleen’s poetry challenge, theme chosen by Marsha Ingrao

 

 

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Inverlochy Castle ~ Jo Woolf

Reblogged from The Hazel Tree:

We were driving back from a road-trip to Glen Garry, where we’d been admiring the spectacle of autumn colours: birch, beech and aspen dripping in luminous shades of yellow and gold, and the distant Knoydart hills burnished bronze with bracken and heather. But we didn’t get far down the lonely road to Kinlochhourn before the sky turned an ominous grey and squalls started to rattle the car with sleet. It was almost as if we saw autumn merge into winter that afternoon: Ben Nevis and the surrounding hills were wearing new shawls of white, and the peaks of Glen Coe had a similar sprinkling.

On the outskirts of Fort William we noticed a sign to Inverlochy Castle and turned off on impulse, to see what it looked like. I wasn’t expecting great things, largely because we seemed to be in the middle of an industrial estate. It didn’t feel like the right place for a grand-sounding fortress.

Continue reading at The Hazel Tree

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Solstice of the Moon: The High Way of the Fairies

glenshee

We…well, okay, I… decided to take a shortcut from our stopover to our destination. ‘Shortcut’ may not be entirely accurate. Taking the main roads would be nine miles shorter in distance, the roads would undoubtedly be faster and with less likelihood of being further sidetracked… but we would have to drive on fast roads that show little of the countryside and navigate towns along the way. The alternative was to meander through the hills on narrow and winding roads. Either way, we had a good four-hour drive ahead. Knowing the beauty of the Cairngorms, there really was no contest.

Our road was to lead us through Glen Shee, now famous for its winter skiing, but it was its older stories that drew us there. Its name comes from the Gealic word shith, which means ‘fairies’… and the Glen of the Fairies is a beautiful place. Until the old language fell out of use in the 1800s the inhabitants were known as the Elves of Glenshee, Sithichean a’ Ghlinnshith. Coire Shith,  the Fairy Burn tumbles down the slopes of Ben Gulabin and a Bronze Age standing stone still marks the ancient gathering place at the Hill of the Fairies.

glenshee2

There are many legends about the Fairy Glen. One of the earliest is the tale of Diarmid, a famous warrior and Grainne, who fell in love with him. Grainne was the wife of the local chieftain, Fingal, and when he realised the state of affairs, Fingal arranged for Diarmid to hunt the enormous wild boar that had been terrorising the glen, hoping thereby to rid himself of the warrior. Diarmid tracked and fought the boar and his might prevailed. Fingal demanded that the boar be measured to prove the feat, but in doing so, Diarmid was poisoned by the beasts bristles. Fingal refused to allow his healers to help the young warrior and Diarmid weakened and died. Grainne, unable to live without her love, threw herself on an arrow. The two were buried, side by side. Legend says they sleep in the four-poster stone circle known as Diarmid’s Grave.

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The Alchemists: Paracelsus… Stuart France

File:Paracelsus.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

Phillipus Aureolus Theophratus Bombastus von Hohenheim 1493 -1541

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‘The sun comes out and many reptiles spawn.’

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Many to whom the name of Paracelsus is familiar are wont to regard him as a singularly successful ‘quack’ who revived traditions of an earlier school of occultism in defiance of the more ‘scientific’ methods of his own time.

Nothing could be further than the truth.

In fact, the ‘doctors’ of Paracelsus’ day were for the most part theorists with very little, if any, practical experience. Paracelsus, on the other hand, derived his medical knowledge from both experiment and experience and travelled the world practising his medical science in more countries than any other medical expert of his day.

The name Paracelsus was a self adopted nom de plume possibly connoting ‘the highest of the high’ a Greek/Latin hybrid play on his surname Hohenheim (‘High-Home’).

To understand the writings of Paracelsus it is advisable to possess the keys to his alchemical code.

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Carrot and Coals: Shift…

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The stone is warm beneath her back.

Above her the clear blue of the sky is powdered with clouds, barely moving.

It is sheltered here in the circle, the earthen banks of the henge protecting the centre from the ceaseless assault of the winds in this high place…

*

…She closes her eyes and waits, feet towards the centre, hands crossed on her breast, relaxing each muscle, each limb in turn, breathing deeply the clear air.

The shift comes.

The world falls away.

Continue reading at France and Vincent

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