“Hey Crow what are you doing up there?” asked the small dog with the wagging tail. The crow, though , startled did not move at once. Taking a deep breath he pretended to look off into the distance.
“What are you doing up there, and why is that tree all black and dead like winter looking”. ….. “Go away hissed the crow” trying to retain a semblance of nonshalance. But the small dog would not go away, and the small dog would not be quiet, she was an inquisitive dog.
Continue reading at willowdot21
Wisdom or folly
Feeding those who pick our bones
Offering ourselves
When you visit the table
You seek no more than a meal
*
Sentry, looking out
Eyes constantly searching
Keeping his flock safe
Reblogged from But I Smile Anyway
Reblogged from Barb Taub… because we need all the smiles we can get 🙂
Where does your calendar say you’ll be this week? Where are you really? Like the rest of the world, for the past year I’ve led a parallel existence–the one my calendar says I’m having, and the isolated one I actually lead.
Coconut juice on Ganpatipule Beach. As Google reminded me, for the past seven years on Republic Day, I’ve been adventuring in India with my friends Jaya and Janine. Google reminded me with this photo that last year I was finding instant celebrity in Ganpatipule. The years before that included beach sunsets in Odisha, mountaintop temples in Rajasthan, paddling between crocodiles at a bird sanctuary in Karnataka, crashing a wedding in Gujarat, a dawn escape from a Delhi facing security delays due to a visit from then-president Obama.
We can’t travel this year, of course, so I invite you all to join in a virtual trip back to a year ago. Our packed days played out against news reports of a growing threat from a new virus in China, but none of us knew we were traveling on borrowed time.
In my case, the Kardashians don’t need to worry. Oprah’s book recommendations will get a gazillion more click-throughs than mine ever will. My daughter’s cats’ Instagram account will always top mine. [Actually, almost anyone’s Instagram would beat mine because I only joined so I could stalk my children. But despite the fact that I have put up a grand total of zero posts, I still have lots of followers. My theory is they find my complete lack of material soothing…]
Continue reading at Barb Taub’s blog
“…Manifest thy light for my regeneration, and let the breadth, height, fullness and crown
of the solar radiance appear, and may the within shine forth!”
Abbe de Villars, ‘The Comte de Gabalis’
“We’ve just got to the top of the slope by the castle,” said the voice on the phone, in answer to my query. We had been a few minutes late arriving on Holy Island, and our companions had begun to stroll out towards the medieval castle that dominates the island landscape. Having failed to find them in any of the three cafés where we had looked, we had located them by phone and, putting on a bit of a spurt, finally caught up with them. From here we could look back at the beginning of our journey, over the water to Bamburgh Castle, just as the spiritual pilgrim looks back on his inner journey and sees with greater clarity than before, how short was the true distance he had to travel , no matter how difficult and tortuous the route he felt he had to take.
The plan was that we should spend an hour exploring in our own way before meeting for a light lunch and our departure, so while some visited the castle, the rest of us walked back into the village and met the sparrows. Time always makes its presence keenly felt on Holy Island, which is odd, because, in so many ways, it is a timeless place. As you cross the causeway from the mainland, that sense of stepping outside of time is one of the most striking feelings, and, if you remain when the tides come in, flooding the causeway and cutting off the island from the shore, there simply is no time, only the spirit of place. Yet the tides rule all and the clock ticks regardless, and for those who must leave before the waters rush in, time is always limited. That very consciousness of that knowledge makes every moment precious.
When we had gathered once more, we walked over to the ancient parish church, dedicated to St Mary the Virgin. In spite of the fact that there have been people on the island since the very earliest of times, this is the oldest building to remain. It is built on the site of St Aidan’s original monastery, founded in 635, and parts of the building date back to that century.
A service had just finished, and we had no wish to intrude, so simply sat quietly for a while, in contemplation. Faith is unique to each of us, no matter by what name we know it or what path we walk. Each of us has our own relationship with something other and greater than ourselves and the simple silence of St Mary’s seems to welcome all those who turn their faces to the Light.
There are beautiful stained glass windows, touching tributes to those who have served in the church and those who have lived on the island and worked with the sea. There are windows that glow with colour and light, a statue carved from elm and called ‘The Journey,’ that shows the monks who carried St Cuthbert’s coffin on its long odyssey, a transcript of the Lindisfarne Gospel… the beautifully illuminated manuscript from the last years of the seventh century, made by a monk called Eadfrith in honour of St Cuthbert.
Fourteen hundred years is a long time for any place to be at the heart of a tiny community, and the church holds that community in its heart.
You ‘may sense the ‘thinness’ linking with the ancient saints who trod the same ground so many years before,’ says the church website. And you can. There is a very real sense of the sacred here, of something older and deeper than the exoteric Church that we know today. It is impossible not to be moved by the echoes of so many centuries of prayer.
Continue reading at France & Vincent
Turisaz
*
…Merlin was still lamenting his plight;
‘How does it happen that the seasons are so different?
Spring provides leaves and flowers,
Summer gives crops,
Autumn ripe apples,
but then Winter’s ice wastes all!
O, that there were no white frost…
Continue reading at France & Vincent
*
‘…In the Golden Book of the Golden Game
a Golden Angel wrote my name…’
We wish to speak now of a curious incident in which we were involved and which is not wholly unlike some of the legends so often related in the Alchemical Journals…
In those days we were still in a Magical School and also active in a Magical Lodge, albeit a teaching one.
We were just preparing our report…
Continue reading at France & Vincent
“One for sorrow, two for joy
Three for a letter, four for a toy ….”
If I saw one, I used to keep my fingers crossed
Continue reading at Live, Love, Laugh, Learn
I spent the night with friends… more socially distanced than any pandemic ruling could possibly require…. and I’m tired. I didn’t sleep as much as I would have liked and spent a lot of the night tossing and turning. That is not as contradictory as it might seem, for it was when I did doze that I spent the time watching those I love wander across the screen of dreams. Though that is not quite a true depiction. I was in there with them.
I dream vividly and in colour and was surprised when I learned how many people don’t, though apparently with the demise of monochrome media that is changing dramatically. Which raises some interesting questions about how our minds and perceptions are, quite literally, coloured by our environment.
Be that as it may, my dreams have always been vividly and graphically coloured and I feel them as reality while I am dreaming… and honestly, there are some you really wish did not feel quite so real…
Last night, however, it was lovely to see and to hold those who are distant in time and space, to talk with them and smile with them, hear much-loved voices and share the small things of every day. Most I recognised, though there were others I knew that I have known and loved, although they are not part of this life’s story. Waking each time, as I wavered between the worlds, brought a sense of both warm gratitude for that touch of presence, and a hint of loss that it was not ‘real’.
Yet, it was real, on its own plane, and in that moment. It was only on waking that the change in my mode of perception traced that dividing line. It was real as I felt the touch of minds and hearts, the embrace and warmth of those long departed or far away. Dreaming opens the doors to meet across the miles, or to be once again with those who have departed this world to a place where we may meet in joy, just as we would have done in life. These are not old scenes replayed, but new interactions.
What does it matter if they are not ‘real’ if they touch the heart and call up the deepest emotions? If such a meeting still fills you with joy and gratitude when you have woken, and it is real enough to change your world and your day.
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
The crow sat upon the branch, looking down at the man.
Each day this week, the man had appeared. Each day he stopped at the entranceway then paced back and forth, sometimes muttering, sometimes silent. The gates were open, yet, each day he did not enter. What was beyond the gates that stopped the man.
Continue reading at new2writing
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 