A purple haze gave the forest a magical quality, something unearthly that Mike couldn’t quite put his finger on. With a Jimi Hendrix song playing through his brain, he realized that the haze was really a carpet of flowers. Bluebells.
One of them rang out.
Mike startled awake. Early morning light streamed through the window, making his mind jump to a fictional Lauds, with the hidden bells of make-believe monastery calling all to prayer.
Continue reading at Trent’s World
Easter is symbolically the time of the celebration of the death and resurrection of Christ. This thread of story and principle runs through our civilisation very deeply; and Easter Sunday is the most important day in the Christian calendar.
Jesus (the) Christ did not proclaim himself king, despite being labelled ‘King of the Jews’ – quite the opposite. He said he came ‘from the Father,’ not from some royal and kingly forebear. The lineage he claimed was of a deeper and less material nature – one that would only manifest itself in right actions and the generation of goodwill through a deeper understanding.
In so doing, Christianity is more explicit in the nature of the change to human nature represented by the older and more ‘pagan’ stories of the Sacrificed King. The common elements are worthy of exploration.
Would we expect any ‘king’ to be the…
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Brushing against the flowers in the carpet of blue
listen out for the chimes as you walk
usually, you wouldn’t hear them
except – on this occasion – there’s only the
birch trees – and they’re not saying much
Continue reading at The Inkwell
It is spring. The sun is shining. Everywhere there are flowers, trees are heavy with apple and cherry blossom, hedgerows are white with a bridal veil of blackthorn and alive with small birds. It is as if the earth herself is reminding us that this is a time of hope and renewal.
And yet, we are living a through a time of deep and anxious uncertainty. Families and friends who would normally be gathering to celebrate this weekend, whether for religious or social reasons, are now kept firmly apart. Police patrol the streets, the media disseminates fear and, in spite of the known health benefits of fresh air and exercise, and the detrimental effects of loneliness and social isolation, we are all locked away in our homes.
It seems hard to believe and even harder to accept that this is happening. Many of us feel helpless, afraid for our countries, for our loved ones and for the future.
We are not helpless. We can each take responsibility for our own actions and make the most of each day. We can use the time to take stock of how we live and realise what we truly value. We can look at the changes that have been imposed and ask ourselves if any of them might be worth pursuing. We can keep an eye on elderly or vulnerable neighbours… something that was once a part of every community, but which has been largely lost in the hustle and bustle of modern life. And, if we are at home with family and loved ones, we can take the time to be with them in ways our normal busy lives seldom allow.
While our bodies may be restricted by the rules of the ‘lockdown’, our minds and imaginations are free to roam. Our minds are our own and can only be locked down if we let them… we can do with them as we choose. Whether we choose to read, learn, do something creative, virtually visit new places, daydream or make plans, our minds are our own and we do not have to let them succumb to the atmosphere of fear and anxiety that seems all too ready to descend upon us. Both laughter and fear are contagious… and we can spread either.
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
it takes a gift from God
to cover the earth
surreptitiously
quickly, deftly
Continue reading at Reena Saxena
Moments come and go
Ephemeral as springtime
Memories remain
*
Reblogged from John Bainbridge at Walking the Old Ways:
Here’s an extract from my walking autobiography Wayfarer’s Dole, recalling how all this walking really started…
The other day, thinking back on my many rambles, I remembered the time I deserted from the staid world of responsibility and took to the roads. The occasion marked an important stage along the pathways into roaming and vagabondage.
I was sixteen when I walked out of my home in Teignmouth to do the usual train journey to the technical college in Torquay, where I was studying – not from choice – retailing and business studies. I say studying… in fact I did very little work, dreaming away at the back of the class, more interested in surreptitiously reading novels than trying to understand the finer points of a balance sheet. Mind, I still passed the exams. God knows how!
Continue reading at Walking the Old Ways
In the bliss of solitude
I wandered
beneath the greenwood
in meadows freckled with blue
Continue reading at Kim Blades
From the archives: What was supposed to be a quick, two day ‘raid’ on Dorset, back in 2013, somehow expanded, as our travels seem to do, to include a few other places… like Somerset. And eventually, Wiltshire…
Sitting on a bench in Cerne Abbas, watching butterflies and indulging in ice cream whilst leafing through the newly purchased books, we discussed the route home. We could go back the way we had come, take an alternative homeward-bound route, or we could, possibly, take a longer detour via a place that I and a dear friend had passed a few months ago and which I wanted to share with my companion. The outcome was inevitable. We chose to detour and headed northwest to see a dog’s nose. It was very early in the afternoon, after all….
The Nose in question forms part of the famed, if controversial, Glastonbury Zodiac. Terrestrial zodiacs are monumental representations of the heavens in the earth. The Glastonbury Zodiac was brought to public notice in the 1920’s by the visionary Katherine Maltwood. The object of our quest was the Nose of the Girt Dog… Canis Major… otherwise known as Burrow Mump.
Whatever your opinion of the Zodiac in question, the Mump is a startling feature in the landscape. Rising steeply to seventy-nine feet high, the conical mound stands in sharp contrast to the flat plain. Crowned with the ruined fifteenth-century church of St Michael, it is a surprising sight as you round a bend in the road. At first glance you could be forgiven for thinking you are imagining things, so similar does it seem to another St Michael’s tower on the Tor, not far away in Glastonbury.
We parked and climbed, once again in the heat of the early afternoon sun. There is a stark beauty in the lines of a ruined church, framing nothing but the azure of the sky in its arched windows and empty doorways. Through the ravaged archways the horizon is framed in colours more brilliant than any glass and on a day as clear as this, even the Tor itself can be seen in the distance.
At a purely practical level, it seems entirely odd to have built a church here in such an inaccessible place, yet it is somehow also very fitting that it links the earth and the heavens with its fabric of faith and memory. There is also the theory that links many of these St Michael’s on the high and holy places of the old ones with his role as subduer of dragons…
The new church at the foot of the Mump was locked, but the pub next door was open. We had earned a cold drink beside the River Parrett as we discussed the next step of the journey home. Not that there was any doubt… it is very hard to pass so close to Glastonbury and not at least call in there. It is a place special to many hearts for many reasons, not least, I think, because so many Paths meet there in understanding and peace.
Before setting off for Dorset, we had been playing in the landscape all week, a landscape we see and feel as something beloved and sacred, that feeds the heart, mind and soul with its mystery and beauty. The return to home and the last hours of our ‘holiday’ before normality claims our attention did not need to be rushed. It would, indeed, have felt churlish not to visit the place fabled as Avalon. As neither of us had seen the White Spring, we chose to park near the foot of the Tor and visit this modern sanctuary to an ancient Nature.
We were surprised to find the place was not only open but ringing with the voice of community. Within the shadows of the sanctuary created there to honour Brigid, there were children laughing and a throng of naked pilgrims stepping into the chill water for healing and blessing. It was another moment of unexpected and natural beauty. Particularly lovely to behold was the heavily pregnant mother-to-be. It seemed entirely appropriate in those waters. It may not be our chosen way, but we can honour the faith of our fellow travellers, seeing the beauty and joy and sharing it for a moment when our ways meet. It is, after all, the same Journey we share, simply a different Path.
We stayed a little while in the darkened halls before returning to the car. It was a flying visit, but all that was needed at this time. There was, after all, only one way I ever take home from Glastonbury, and that held more ancient places… and it was still only mid-afternoon. In many ways, it felt as if, by visiting so many of the old, hallowed places in awareness of their inner life and human history, we were joining the dots of a hazy picture written in the landscape. Like the chalk figures of Cerne Abbas and Uffington, cut deep into the earth for eyes and hearts to read, the meaning of that picture is not always clear, shrouded in the mists of time and veiled in the confusion of the hustle and bustle of daily life. Perhaps it is a simple picture that laughs gently and says ‘You are Home’.
out of the blue?
come out of hiding
bluebells mask the forest floor
filter away stress
Continue reading at Jules Pens Some Gems
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 