What, why and when we choose to remember is nothing compared to how we choose to remember. Lola leaned hard against her favorite rock and let out a sigh. Choices, always choices.
She didn’t want to be haunted by past memories. Lola wanted nothing more than to live in a world where she could make happier memories. Choices, always choices.
Continue reading at Annette Rochelle Aben
There are feeders at the bottom of the garden… they belong to my neighbours, but given the weird dimensions of our gardens, are in front of my door. My own feeding station collapsed, several times, in the muddy morass that was once a lawn. Having tried, each time, to re-erect it, I am now waiting till the ground dries out, with a bag of cement ready to mix, biding its time in the shed.
But I still get to watch the birds. There have been stalwart visitors all winter, from pigeons and blackbirds, to robins and the occasional woodpecker, but just at present, the feeders are never empty of blue- tits and great-tits, and it is a joy to watch these tiny creatures, so full of life and energy.
Even Ani will sit quietly and watch their antics, though woe betide any pigeon that lands… Ani doesn’t permit the incursions of pigeons into her airspace. Especially the one that sits placidly on the fence post and looks at the apparently rabid creature beneath her with a jaundiced eye.
On a day like today, with a blue sky above and green fields beyond, the birds are not only a joy to watch but an assurance that spring is busy and waiting in the wings, in spite of the rain and sleet that have saturated the ground and obscured the sun for weeks on end. And that is a most welcome thought.
I stand in a stony stupefied slumber on a lush verdant expanse of life. My feelings and emotions have crystallised and amalgamated into two massive frigid boulders that are made more callous and cold by the winter snow. They stand like unrelenting sentinels at my soul’s door blocking out all memories. I see all but feel nothing for nothing reaches inside. I empathise with the barren tree that watches me turning into a more hardened stupour with each passing day.
Continue reading at The Indishe
Beneath the surface
Few will look or care to see
Hidden stars shining
It has been there for months, part of the structure of a garden I see every day. It was the rain, darkening the fibres, that showed me the beauty of the wood. I wonder how such a pattern could form within a living tree, saddened that its heart is only revealed in death.
I wonder too at the dark irony that dismembers living beauty to serve our need to recreate a pale reflection, tamed to our hand.
Spark of life within
Cloistered in each living heart
Blossoming unseen
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Continue reading at Anita Dawes and Jaye Marie
He knew if was here. If only he had drawn himself some sort of map! He didn’t think he would forget so easily.
It had been only two short years when they came to The Rocks. This was one of the well-known tourist spots, only out-of-towners don’t know the story behind the rocks.
Now, he would have to search, looking for some clue as to where he buried the box.
Continue reading at Stine Writing
Reblogged from The Magical World of G. Michael Vasey:
I have always adored myths and legends. Growing up, I was addicted to stories of the Greek Gods, King Arthur and other such tales. I also enjoyed fairy tales and read them avidly. My favorite was one called Rumpelstiltskin. Imagine being able to turn straw into gold? Just like an alchemist. Old Rumpelstilskin is depicted as an Imp or Goblin-type creature but the name is also reminiscent of the German words for a poltergeist. The girl eventually goes ‘deep’ into the woods where she watches him singing and reveals his name. According to some sources, this story or a variant of it could be up to 4,000 years old!
Fairy tales and myths are stories brought to us through the centuries and were often from a verbal origin. These tales were passed from generation to generation as an oral tradition before being collected and embellished in more recent times. They contain great wisdom and I happen to believe great ‘occult’ wisdom too. They appeal to all and provide a way and a means to pass on knowledge to each new generation.
Continue reading at The Magical World of G. Michael Vasey
We grew up playing in fields, climbing stones, splashing through creeks and turning over rocks to find salamanders and crayfish. We knew what birds flew overhead, what cry that was in the night, when to plant corn so the seeds wouldn’t rot. The three of us loved our countryside, never imagining we’d leave until we entered high school where disdain and depression festered like an infection.
In four years, Darrel, Jake, and I grew apart. Darrel joined the football team, became quarterback, scored a scholarship to West Virginia State, which he deferred after 9/11 so he could join the Marines. Jake smoked weed and drank beer, learned guitar, began singing and writing music, and left for Nashville.
Continue reading at Sascha Darlington’s Microcosm Explored
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The King of Morphlance was a moderate man.
By this I mean that he was a man who preached moderation in all things and that, rather surprisingly, he also acted in accordance with this doctrine himself. As one might expect of such a man he ruled his kingdom with a natural caution endeavouring at all times to serve his subjects’ best interests without resorting to extremes. He considered himself to be a fair and just King and was, it is true, as fair and as just as any King could moderately hope to be. But with the passing years this moderation came to be a great source of dissatisfaction to him for, as is perhaps natural in a man of declining years, he harboured a secret yearning to be remembered after his death. But his was a kingly desire and he yearned to be remembered not as a moderate King but as a truly great King, for he knew what it was in the minds of men that made them remember.
Continue reading at France & Vincent
Lately I have been fascinated by the stories and archetypal meanings of ancient gods, goddesses, heroes and wise women.
One such being I became particularly fascinated this week was the Celtic and pre-Celtic mythic woman known as Elen of the Ways or Elen of the Hosts. An even older name she bears is Elen of the Leys.
Continue reading at Mapping Uncertainty
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 