An offering ~ Suzanne #writephoto

a healing balm of liquid light
coming in waves
pulsating

dissolving old forms
freeing stuck energy
releasing old burdens

 

Continue reading at  Being in Nature

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Ethera ~ Na’ama Yehuda #writephoto

She was Ethera, and she came at the peak of the longest night, on the cusp of the broadening daylight.

She was Ethera. A human. A spirit. A soul. Sometimes one. Often all.

She’d lived among them, flesh and blood and hope and heartache. She’d hungered and shivered and grew and raised and danced and cried and plowed. There had been nothing in her that foretold what she’d become once she passed the veil to the realm of Nether. Where summer did not come and winter did not grip the land and where the prayers of people held substance, unlike bodies, which did not.

Continue reading at Na’ama Yehuda

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Whitby Weekend: The church at Lastingham

It was only a few miles to the final destination of the Silent Eye’s weekend in North Yorkshire. We were heading for St Mary’s church at Lastingham, the final resting place, or so it is believed, of St Cedd, who had played his part in the decisive Synod of Whitby in 664, when the Roman form of Christianity was adopted in place of the old Celtic Rite in which he had been raised.

In the October of that year, St Cedd died of the plague at the monastery of Lastingham and was, according to tradition, buried there in a grave. When a stone church was later built, becoming the chapel of the monastery, his remains were enshrined within its walls and are now said to be in the crypt of the church, to the right of the altar.

In fact, Cedd’s brother, St Chad, who became bishop of Lichfield, took over at the monastery after his brother’s death and Cedd’s remains were eventually moved to be with those of his brother in Lichfield. Some of their bones were later taken to the Catholic Cathedral in Birmingham, so the best that can be said, according to Wikipedia, is that ‘Cedd is believed to be mostly buried at Lastingham.’

While it may seem odd to modern minds that bones and relics are scattered, it must be remembered that the reverence of saintly relics is still very much a part of Roman religious culture. It is also worth considering that in ancient times, the bones of the ancestors were revered and cared for, keeping those who had passed as more than faded memories and making them very much part of the living community. Even in Victorian times, relics such as locks of hair were taken from the deceased for love and memory. It is only in very recent times that the remains of the dead have been so definitively disposed of.

But, although the crypt was the object of our visit, the church itself was not to be ignored. It is a beautiful old building, St Cedd had founded the monastery in the seventh century and built a wooden church. Cedd’s monastery is thought to have been razed in a raid around 870, but in 1078, Stephen, the abbot of Whitby, restored the monastery and began the building of a stone church. The work under Stephen was never completed, but the main body of the interior is a place of beautiful, pure proportions in the Romanesque style.

The church continued to function, adding aisles and developing over the centuries, until a final restoration and completion took place in the late 19th century, in memory of a child who had died in her seventh year.

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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Change Your Evil Ways ~ Jim Adams #writephoto

As I was in dreamland last night, the ghost of Christmas future came to me with an offering that she would let me see what fate had in store for me, if I promised to stop beating my wife. I was prone to violence when she got me mad, or didn’t do what I told her to do. I have been known to hit her, kick her and I have even chocked her on a few occasions, but each time she got on my nerves, so she deserved it. It started on our wedding night, when I saw her sucking face with her cousin, who does that, so I smacked her around to get her back in line.

Continue reading at A Unique Title for Me

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Past #midnighthaiku

*

Winter stone whispers

Memories of summers lost

Pale ghosts remembered

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Afghan Adventures #14 Food & Friendship ~ MarySmith

Reblogged from MarySmith’sPlace:

Slide45 (Custom)

Harvest time

Islamic rules, and the traditions of the country, dictate that hospitality is shown to guests. People, therefore, felt obliged to invite the foreigner round for dinner. Some would have felt easier fulfilling their obligations had I been a man, unsure as they were of the etiquette in dealing, on a social footing, with a foreign woman. Hussain, and usually, at least one of the others from the clinic would accompany me to the dinner party – mehmani.

Some men would greet me with a handshake, although often this was the merest brushing of palms – as though the touch of a woman may necessitate some kind of decontamination procedure to be carried out later.  I soon made a policy decision not to offer my hand unless the man offered his first after several embarrassing situations in which I would extend my hand, realise that the man did not want to shake it and withdraw it, just as good manners forced him to extend his. We looked as though we were attempting a badly synchronised performance of Pat a Cake.

Continue reading at MarySmith’sPlace

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Offering ~ Anjali Sharma #writephoto

The Lord is
The supreme power,
Let’s honor the Lord by offering love and warmth to the mankind.

Reblogged from  Positive Side Of The Coin

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The Anchorite ~ Tallis Steelyard

Reblogged from Jim Webster, aka Tallis Steelyard:

The anchorite

It has to be admitted that illness had laid Maljie low. It finally forced her to admit that not only was she no longer eighteen, it was most unlikely that she would see thirty-five again. In all candour this rather irritated her. After all, she felt that for a young woman of her age, she had done eighteen reasonably well, but not so well that she couldn’t have gone back and improved upon it. As for thirty-five, there were aspects of the age she felt she had mastered, but work was probably needed on some of the other features.

Still, it was nice the way that people rallied round, with the utmost solicitude that they felt was appropriate for a lady of her advancing years. Still, she bore with it bravely. Nobody got the sharp edge of her tongue, which was, Maljie felt, merely another of her symptoms.

It was about then that people suggested it was time she laid aside the more rigorous duties of a temple warden and instead concentrated on her more spiritual gifts. Kindly people pointed out, straight-faced and without any hint of a smirk, that she had accumulated considerable wisdom over the years, and her innate kindness and concern made her the obvious person to provide spiritual guidance and solace to those in crisis.

Continue reading at Tallis Steelyard

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The Seal of Circe ~ Alethea Kehas #writephoto

The Seal of Circe 

She wove the rainbow through the threads of being

offering life in her hand

“Drink”

It felt like the moon

moving through the shadowed land

filaments of light filling the long

forgotten pathways. She sang of magic

Continue reading at The Light Behind the Story

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Offering ~ Honoré Dupuis #writephoto

Time has now come. I expect her, I have long expected her, and, now, I know she’s there, close to the gates. She bears the chalice. From it, I will drink, to the last drop.

And so, the prophecy will be fulfilled, the order restored, the gods appeased.

Do I regret anything? I had a long life, known many winters, and so many springs: so much ice, so much sand, I hear the sound of bells.

Continue reading at  Of Glass and Paper

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