see their website!

Either it’s because the work I do involves me in being exposed to so many wonderful initiatives I’m just getting used to them, or it’s because I’m becoming jaded in my old age, but I have a confession to make…a part of me (and only a part) groans when I get yet another petition, or message that calls on everybody to be good in some way. It seems so obvious doesn’t it? We don’t have to keep affirming that we want peace and love and so on do we? I’ve sat through some talks where the only message seems to be ‘we want more peace, more love, we must be nicer and so on.’ Well of course! Can we now move on to the practical details of how we can actually realize these ideals?

So when I got an email about the new initiative started by Karen Armstrong called ‘The Charter for Compassion’ my first reaction was ‘Well here’s another one’. But then I remembered a book of hers I have: ‘The Great Transformation: The Beginning of Our Religious Traditions’ which surveys that fascinating period when religious thinking took a leap forward, and the Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus, Confucius, and the Greek philosophers were busy feeding new ideas into the Collective. Armstrong’s work is really good, and when I looked beyond the initial presentation of the Charter (whose videoclip is given below) I saw that indeed practical initiatives are flowing from this idea. To see the website go here.

The internet is helping initiatives like this work more effectively. There is another one that also seems to facilitate effective action, and uses the power of the web. It’s called ‘Buy 1 Give 1′ and enables people to easily set up arrangements so that with every purchase a donation is made:

This is how they explain it: ‘At Buy1GIVE1 we’re ‘crazy’ enough to be creating a different world; one where we’re all playing a part in making a difference. It’s a world where every purchase makes a difference. For example:
Every time you buy a book, a tree is planted;
Every time you dine out, a hungry person gets fed;
Every time you visit the doctor, someone in need receives care.’

I’ve been looking for a project that links publishing with tree-planting in this direct one-to-one way. We’re going to use it for the next book the Oak Tree Press publishes (Journeys of the Soul – Nuinn’s biography hopefully to be released early next year). See the Buy1Give1 site here.

You might be interested in this project: from The Friends of St.Nectan’s glen site: Saint Nectan’s Glen is an area of woodland in Trethevy near Tintagel, north Cornwall stretching for around one mile along both banks of the Trevillet River. The Glen’s most prominent feature is Saint Nectan’s Kieve, a spectacular sixty foot waterfall. It is spectacular and we believe it should be preserved for future generations in it’s pristine state and as it is for sale, we’re concerned about the future of this sacred site, so we have set out to buy to keep it as a sacred place of pilgrimage for all to enjoy.

This is a special interest group set up for the establishment of a group of trustees, friends and benefactors to collectively buy the sacred site near Tintagel, Cornwell, which was the place where King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table went to be anointed by the monks there before setting out on their Grail journey.

These days it’s still a site for modern pilgrims and spiritual seekers alike who are drawn to the Arthurian sacred sites and to the magnificence of Cornish coast and temperate rainforest. St Nectan’s Glen has been for sale for about three years. Here’s an advertisement for the property:

http://www.tintagelweb.co.uk/For%20Sale.htm

We are in the process of setting up a collective of investors who will buy into St Nectan’s Glen as trustees and we are also be registering it as a non-profit charity organization so that it will be a place of spiritual pilgrimage rather than a profit-making commercial operation, to preserve it’s spiritual value and not to taint it with too much commercialism.

From The Daily Post in Wales:

The New Zealand Maoris are to be recognised as “honorary Celts” in the run-up to the big Wales v All Blacks rugby international next month. Gorsedd of Bards officials will make a presentation to a representative of the Maori nation at the Senedd in Cardiff tomorrow. (The Senedd is the Welsh Assembly, G.) Welsh sculptor David Petersen has created (a) stainless steel Horn of Plenty to mark the occasion. It will be presented to a member of the Ngati Ranana London Maori Club. Wales take on the All Blacks on November 7.

We need new nursery rhymes and songs that reflect the very different world we live in now…  OBOD member Claire Gilbert has created some fabulous new songs with great lyrics like: ‘I like worms: They don’t sting and they don’t have germs’. From her websection on ReverbNation:

Claire is a nursery nurse and has worked with young children in many different settings since 1991. Throughout that time she has enjoyed most of all encouraging and developing the children’s interest in music and in the natural environment, both of which she is passionate about. Although she fully appreciates the rich heritage and musical importance of nursery rhymes, she thought it was about time someone came up with some new material for children to enjoy that reflects the wide range of cultures and influences within the modern UK population. So with a sprinkling of inspiration she started to write some herself.

Paul is an accomplished musician experienced in composing, performing, recording and producing many different genres of music. He has been the front man of the UK’s premiere Jethro Tull tribute band The Dayglo Pirates for 11 years and is one half of the rock duo Sossity, writing and performing new and exciting material with his wife Marcie, an accomplished singer and flautist. He also composes and records ambient music as a solo artist.

We have been developing this music together, writing parts to be played on real instruments to create a full and unique sound, in contrast to the cheaply made synthesised music that is more often available for young children these days. We believe that they deserve better efforts… Hear the music now!

Read this description of London’s Camelot and the Secrets of the Grail – a new book by Christopher Street of ‘Earthstars’ fame:

Only one place actually called Camelot appears on old maps. So far it has been overlooked by those in search of this legendary location. It is hidden in woods on the outskirts of London. Archaeological digs show it had a massive drawbridge over a moat, walls five and a half feet thick and a dungeon. It also has apparitions of a Guinevere-like “White Lady” and is regarded locally as a place of visions, healing and inspiration, with some very definite and intriguing connections to the Grail Myths and Arthurian Legends. . .   Was the real Camelot here in London? What is its Round table? Is its holy well haunted by a Grail Maiden? Is Arthur’s sword-in-the-stone still in London, built into a wall?

Available as an e-book or a paperback. More details from www.earthstars.co.uk

 

Lady Godiva in Pre-Raphaelite style by John Collier

You think I’m joking?
From the BBC website:

“A giant human puppet of Lady Godiva and three 30ft (9.1m) crocheted lions are among the artworks selected to showcase British culture at the 2012 Olympics. More than 2,000 entries were received in what the Arts Council dubbed “the most ambitious and wide-ranging art prize in the UK”. The 12 winning designs, from Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales and the nine English regions, will share £5.4m….
Coventry icon Lady Godiva will be recreated as a giant human puppet and lead a cast of thousands in a processional performance, before making her journey to London.”
More here

 

The accomplished writer Elizabeth Cruse set off a few weeks ago to find out what a mysterious order of Druids gets up to on ‘The Continent’ – as that vast expanse of territory that lies beyond the safety of our shores is known. This is her report:

OBOD Retreat in the Forest of Broceliande – 22^nd – 25^th October 2009

Ozegan plays the bombard in the Val Sans Retour

In Le Val Sans Retour (The Valley of No Return), in the magical forest of Broceliande, the great enchantress, Morgaine le Fay, entertained her many lovers. But her beauty and enticements were a trap for mortal men. Once in her enchanted valley, they were unable to escape, held prisoner forever. Only one man sat down to feast with Morgaine and left the valley unharmed. This was Sir Lancelot whose heart was so entirely given to Arthur’s queen, Guinevere, that he was impervious to Morgaine le Fay’s charms and quit the valley without a backward glance. In so doing he broke the spell forever and all her other lovers were set free.

This story was one of many told to a group of us in Brittany by the extraordinary Breton musician and storyteller, Ozegan. (Many of you will remember his stirring Breton pipe music and flamboyant jester’s costume at the Summer Assembly in 2008.)  He it was who had organised the first ever OBOD retreat in Brocéliande this October.  I had long wanted to visit the forest where some say Merlin was tricked into an enchanted slumber by the fairy woman Vivien (or Nimue) and had booked as soon as I saw the announcement in Touchstone. Trois jours en Brocéliande sur les traces du grand cerf blanc. Who could resist? So, taking my courage and rusty French by the scruff of their necks, I had caught the night boat to St Malo, setting foot on the land of Brittany as the tattered cloud flags of dawn were flying in front of a fiery sky.  Now, here I was up on a hillside above the tarn called the Mirror of Morgaine listening to the harsh notes of Ozegan’s bombard (an early version of the oboe) echoing across the valley.  Mist cloaked the hills in the distance but near at hand sun sparked rainbows off cobwebs and warmed the grey rocks of Merlin’s throne.

Falling into my mind, like the gold and crimson autumn leaves that embellished the Breton woods and countryside come a succession of pictures and sounds:

The first night – a ceremony at the scared well of St Onenn, who is the patron saint of the little church in Trehorenteuc where we were staying.
Cold brilliant stars, frosty Milky Way arcing overhead, candles flickering and wavering cries of owls alternately far away and near at hand.  A scary descent to the healing waters (good for dropsy and eye problems) down at the bottom of crumbling steps. A spiritual entry into the other world and a return to the gentle welcome of my companions for the week.

On the following murky misty morning we gathered around the fire that burned in the salon of the gîte where we were staying. Ozegan played his psaltery, a medieval stringed instrument, plucked with quills of goose and crow or played with a bow. The alternate sounds of harp and wild violin. With only the fire for light we were translated to the Middle Ages.

A talk delivered by Phillip with his customary grace and clarity (and in French) under the ancient beams of La Maison des Sources next door to the gite. A large audience of druids and others including some mysterious men in black. Afterwards a Samhuinn ceremony infused with Gallic vigour and unpredictability. The original Samhuinn ceremony was given to OBOD by Breton druids so it was a special privilege to be part of this ritual in Brittany.  The Druid prayer was recited in Breton, French, English and German. This nicely expressed the international nature of Druidry. A chill mystery manifested  with the sudden appearance of the Caillach and her chaudron vorace ready to take away what was no longer needed from the passing year. Walnuts were passed around. Walnuts? No nutcrackers? Dear reader, your guess would have been as good as mine. A zen koan for Samhain.

At the fountain of Barenton we watched the water that wells up into a rectangular chamber bubble from time to time. Chrétien de Troyes mentions this spring in the romance of Yvain describing it as “the spring which boils though its water is colder than marble.”  A hidden frog croaked sweetly along with Ozegan’s recounting of the local legend: that if a woman will look into the water at midnight on a full moon she may see the face of  her soul mate (who may, but will not necessarily turn out to be, her husband). Here it was, according to the story that Calogrenant was defeated by the Black Knight who  “came on swifter than an eagle, looking as fierce as a lion” and later Yvain came to avenge his cousin’s disgrace. Walking the long twisting path through the woods up to this fountain it was easy to imagine a knight on a charger picking his way delicately between the trees.

The Arthurian legends were never far from our minds.  The local church restored in the 1940s and 50s by the Abbé Henri Gillard has stained glass windows depicting aspects of the Grail mysteries and there is a modern mosaic of the great white hart surrounded by crimson snarling lions.

Photo by Daniel Michaut www.moissonneur-de-lumiere.com

Did we visit Merlin’s tomb and the house of Vivien? Or were they ancient Neolithic burial chambers, their once proud stones reduced to jagged teeth of rock by five thousand years of quiet endurance? It was close to Samhain and we were in Broceliande. The veils between the worlds were thin. So we slipped easily between them.

It being France food was an important part of the retreat – a torte of caramelised onions, honey and raisins remains in my memory. One day the  soup was accompanied by the wild skirling of the cornemuse (Breton bagpipe).  The grace and generosity of Michel, Marilyn and Roger of La Maison des Sources are alone worthy of a medieval ballad.

Merlin said that the most wonderful thing in the world is the scent of approaching events. Like an unseen garden full of herbs, roses and compost, the savours of a visit to Broceliande with my Breton brothers and sisters in Druidry had been drifting towards me on the wind of time for several months.  Now those three days, the new friends, and the enchantment are woven into my being.  My thanks to all who made it possible, not least, Merlin himself, elusive and ubiquitous.  As they say, with a French accent, awen, awen, awen.

(You can find the image of the mosaic  here and more information about the church at Trehorenteuc here)

Elizabeth Cruse

‘And then there is the sense that in spite of Everything – I suppose this is the Ultimate Mystical conviction – in spite of Pain, in spite of Death, in spite of Horror, the universe is in some way All Right, capital A, capital R. . .’

Aldous Huxley

Woke up this morning with the realisation that every day, like thousands (perhaps millions) of Mac users I am confronted by a symbol that says to my subconscious: “Go on, take another bite!”

I am in relationship with Eve every day.

Adrian Rooke, OBOD’s intrepid media officer, appears on this beautifully filmed new offering that is coming out soon:

A big thank you to guest bloggers Penny Billington, Mark Townsend and Maria Ede-Weaving! Your contributions have been marvellous.

After a visit to Brittany for an Indian summer weekend of music, meditation and laughter with 24 Order members and friends, I have returned to instructions from the publisher to write 100 illustration captions by the beginning of the week…  Quentin Crisp wrote: “I now know that if you describe things as better than they are, you are considered to be romantic; if you describe things as worse than they are, you are called a realist; and if you describe things exactly as they are, you are called a satirist.”  I’m going to see if I can combine romanticism, realism and satirism in at least some of these captions! In the meantime blogging will have to wait. A bientot, chers amis!

Of all colours, brown is the most satisfying. Mary Webb

Before my Pagan journey began, for many years I hated the descent into winter; as life retreated and the darkness and cold encroached, my gloominess increased. Pathologically blinkered against the beauty of winter for so long, I remember the change as a kind of road to Damascus moment, and the lightning bolt that struck was not electric blue or dazzling white but good old dependable brown.

I had once called brown ‘boring’, an absolutely no thrills colour. Maybe as we get older, flashiness grates and we yearn for subtlety, the spectrum of our appreciation widening. Or maybe, life cannot bare anyone missing out on the full extent of its beauty and so gives us a swift but sharp poke when we succumb to ignorance.

When I started to really see winter, I saw brown as if for the first time. Suddenly I was seized by the inadequacy of the word. How could there be only one quiet syllable for what appeared to be countless shades? It started with dying bracken; I couldn’t stop noticing it – the warmth and depth of the colours that networked the lanes and fields, covering woodland floors. Then it was the ploughed soil itself, the mud that tenaciously clung to my boots as if to say ‘notice me!’. Soon every brown became a focus for my fascination, the contrasting tones rich and exotic to my newly educated eye.

I came also to appreciate how brown anchors the other colours of winter, giving our eye a more restful contrast to vivid sunsets, and yet strangely warming and energizing under the weight of grey cloud. In winter’s wet, earthy perfume, it is the base note that gives body and substance. Brown roots and grounds us, drawing our focus to that place of the dormant seed within; a colour of rest and patience and yet also the steady pulse -  muted but indomitable – beneath winter’s still surface.

Just recently, we were driving through the valley at the base of Chillerton Down, here on the Isle of Wight. As the road climbed southward, the setting sun crowned the downs. Small clouds passed swiftly over the rim of the hill, giving the sun a gauzy, cinematic light. The sky was vivid with the colours of sunset, the pale crescent of the new moon sharpening its outline as the sun descended. The browns in the fields, hedgerows and trees – not to be outdone – glowed burgundy.

The turning leaves never disappoint. It is easy to be swayed by the intensity of beech’s coppery orange – beech is one of my favourites throughout any season. And yet it has been the oak and its more subtle browning that has filled me with pleasure in recent years. Oak courageously holds onto its green longest; horse chestnut usually the most eager to transform. Oak is measured and takes its time. The colour brown knows and appreciates these qualities and so blesses this tree with one of its nicest shades.

And there is brown in me too – nature inside and out – my hair, the freckles on my skin, the birthmark on the back of my knee, even tiny flecks of it around my pupils. The words of Mary Webb speak well of brown: It is the deep, fertile tint of the earth itself; it lies hidden beneath every field and garden; it is the garment of multitudes of earth’s children, from the mouse to the eagle…It is dim with antiquity, full of the magic that lurks within reality…There is that in brown which surely speaks to all who are ever born into the world.

I am lucky enough to live only a short walk from Brading Roman Villa on the Isle of Wight. It is home to some very beautiful mosaics. One of the images that fascinates me is a stylised eye, earthy tones of tesserae, diamond shaped with a circle at the centre. The decorated floors radiate out from it; scenes of gods and goddesses of nature and the turning cycle of seasons. Some are vibrantly clear, others deeply faded or partially absent, each appearing to bleed through from the earth below as if the soil herself were a deep well of memory, her images rising up through the layers of matter and time.

The mosaics’ meanings appear puzzling and yet paradoxically familiar: the goddess Ceres hands her corn to Triptolemus; the nymph Ambrosia transforms into vines; a shepherd holds his crook and panpipes; a river nymph with reeds in her hair pours life – giving waters from her jar, while mermen cavort with mermaids. When viewing these images, the distant lives of the Romano-British seem remarkably close. This island still grows its corn, the vineyards still nestle on the slopes of its downs, the sheep graze, the River Yar meanders through the valley and the fishermen bring their catches to shore as they have always done. If by some means time were reversed and our ancestors could view mosaics of our lives, despite our technological advances, I am sure they would recognise much – for the foundations of living and surviving remain the same.

I can only speculate on the original meaning of the mosaic eye but the image draws me. Eyes are compelling symbols. When we meet another’s eyes, it is the circles of iris and pupil that we focus upon. The circle is an equally compelling shape. It possesses such great significance for modern Pagans. We worship within its enfolding boundary. We feel its cyclical flow and energy in the seasons of earth, moon, sun and life, travelling along its curved and eternal edge. We also stand at its still hub, enveloped by its peace as it holds us at the very centre of each moment. Within its beautiful shape we find equality – none standing in greater value than another – the hierarchical structure of the old Divine order brought down to earth. In the circle our hearts are open and accessible to all who stand with us; all aspects of life are valued and understood as an interconnected and interdependent whole. It is the shape of sanctuary; the shape of a deep, spiritual ecology. The fullest expression of the circle is the globe. Nature’s many and diverse parts interact to form a miraculously functioning whole and what more perfect a shape to articulate such wholeness then the globe? It is no accident that this is the shape of our beautiful planet; the shape of the eye also.

It occurs to me that what I find compelling about the mosaic eye at Brading Villa is that it speaks to me something of nature’s mystery. Mosaics are made up of individual pieces; when we focus on a single square, its meaning remains obscure. When we expand our perspective – allowing our eyes to order the seemingly chaotic and scattered tessera into a pattern – we begin to appreciate the meaning of the wider picture. Similarly, when we perceive of ourselves as one part of nature’s complex totality, our eyes can open to its beauty and value.

In truth, our connections to those that have been, those that are and those yet to be born are closer than we might at first imagine; we each exist on different curves of the same spiralling thread. This thread holds all that has ever been or ever will be in a complex web of relationship and connection. We rest upon its lines, each at our own special point in history, quivering like notes upon a stave, the sounds of our living rippling back and forth in time.

As Philip has kindly invited me to contribute a word or two to the blog I thought I’d offer something that links together both sides of my spiritual pilgrimage – my Christian Priesthood and my Druidry. This is a piece that attempts to express the spine tingling enchantment of a Druidic initiation rite. Mine occurred a few months ago now but its magic will last forever!

The sword’s sharp end dug into my shoulder blade and jagged stones indented my knees. The discomfort was intense and my heart pounded as I awaited the next instructions. I’d been warned that such rituals were demanding! But as I knelt in the dark, wet cave I felt like I’d been plugged into an electric socket, such was the energy of the place.
All was silent, save for the occasional droplets of water that fell from above, splashing into the pool below. I raised my head and caught a few drops in my mouth. I wasn’t thirsty; I just wanted to taste the enchantment of the moment. I wanted to suck the magic marrow out of the very ‘bones’ of Gaia.
‘You’ve entered the womb of the earth Mother,’ the Druid Chief whispered, ‘now prepare to be re-born into a magical new universe.’
He gave a few more instructions and then left me.
I stayed for some time, knees sore and back aching, but it didn’t matter. The pain was worth the experience. The Druids had prepared the place earlier, while I’d been sat in solitude a little way down the hill. As I absorbed the breath-taking beauty of the Welsh mountain valley, so they transformed the cave into an exquisite grotto with candles, symbolic objects and incense.
There I knelt, gazing at the animal skull, left as a symbol of the death of my old life, and illuminated by orange flickering light. Were it not for the physical discomfort I think I could have stayed there for ever. I felt safe, held, loved and at one with the heartbeat of the universe. But now I had to make my way out.
As I approached the light, the Druid Priestess greeted me and gave me symbolic gifts of the rite of passage. Her words were comforting and she seemed to personify the Goddess herself.

It was an awesome experience – my initiation into the bardic grade of the Druid Order – and the more I think about it, the deeper the parallels become between it and other ceremonies of my past – of my Christian past.
Almost a decade before, while still working as a Priest of the Church of England, I underwent a magical and, at times, gruelling Vision Quest in the New Mexican Desert. It was a Male Rite of Passage, modelled on the tribal initiation rites of the world’s various native cultures. It was Catholic yet Pagan and, like my bardic initiation it, was also a ritual of death and re-birth. Lasting for five long days and forcing me to dig deep into the hidden resources of my own soul, this process challenged body, mind and spirit. Only recently have I begun to realise what it did for me. During the period I spent researching for my new book it became clear how this New Mexican trial was a pivotal event in my life – like a detonator which, when triggered, released a fuse that could not be stopped. It was only a matter of time before there would be an explosion!
The fuse wire’s sparks finally reached the dynamite in the early summer of 2007… but that is far too big a story to tell here!

‘Mark’s latest book tells the full story of the ‘explosion’ he mentioned. It is to be published very soon: The Path of The Blue Raven’, O Books.’  Damh

The dead leaves rustled: the leaf litter stirred. Wit h the eyes of a weasel, I missed nothing. Gwion Dubh, Druid Investigator. Still here and still true to the mission; plumbing the secrets at the heart of the deep forest.

Samhain time, and I’m hunkered down back in the ol’ grove after the last case. Nothing to do but check the thatch on the hobbit hole, booby trap the nut store against the pesky squirrels and croon dryad lullabies like a druid Bing. So plenty of the ticking stuff available to disseminate a bit of seasonal wisdom…

Here we are at the Celtic New year, the gestating time. If you couldn’t see the woods for the trees in lush summer, you surely can now, so let’s take a walk and have a chat to the local flora and fauna. Learn nature’s lessons, and bring them into your home, translating the wisdom of the woods into the health of the hearth: like thisaway…

Gwion’s ten tips from a Samhain stroll:

:

1. We’ll start through that tiny path the deer have made, and we’ll stay sharp! The earth is quiet under the leaves; the beating heart of all life. As we walk, keep sending out gratitude, keep noticing, keep the connection going. Then take that feeling home to communicate with your loved ones on a different level.

2. You hear that bird trill? Whenever one whistles, remember Rhiannon and the messages that might be pouring from Annwn, the inner realm.  Look for the spiritual message beyond the mundane events in your life.

3. Look at that sunset – and prepare to salute the great hunter later! Orion will be striding through the sky this winter, protective and strong.  Strengthen yourself with good food, enough sleep and a sense of inner contentment.

On we go now…

4. Let’s pause here and have a moment with a tree. Those dryads might be somnolent, but they’re still in there. Think about sustainable ways to heat your home.

5. See that fungus? Next time, bring a camera or sketchbook, and appreciate the sheer range and beauty of its various forms. Celebrate diversity and difference in your own life.

6. Stop here to scoop up a handful of leaf litter and loam and smell it. See how it cloaks the ground; resolve to buy new woolly socks and lag your pipes!

7. And here we are at a secret treasure; a stream, bubbling out of the ground, clear as crystal. Throw a mental message in a virtual bottle to be carried down to the sea, sending greetings to the minnows, the shrimps, the nyads. Conserve water at home.

8. If you fancy taking that branch for your wand, work out which tree it’s come from. Reciprocate with a gift: leave a little (natural, biodegradable!) something – or just a thank you. When you get home, send a letter or card, or make a phone call that’s overdue.

We’re on the homeward trail now…

9. Collect some woodland fruits for your nature table; go home and resolve to eat seasonally and from local sources, where possible.

10. Look for signs of burrows and think about the hibernating under-earthers. It’s winter; dance with the earth’s rhythm. Go home, forget the parties and slowwwwwww downnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

And here we are, back at the grove. A quick blackberry leaf tea for me, and then off for the nightly badger/druid philosophical discourse – if the tail-biting juniors will leave us in peace that is! It’s dark now, so, fellow druids, be safe out there. As you wend you way home, let nature do the talking: walk gently on the mother, who is all quiet and sereno on top, but busy, busy, busy underneath.

I’m in hibernation mode until Imbolc – unless the big Boss pipes me off on another case. But until then it’s the hammock and the wooden flute. And, just maybe, a quick teal telegram to a certain tame biographer to get her quill here pronto for some note taking.

Nothing like tall tales to while away the long, dark nights…and what about that last poisoning case at the spiritual retreat?  ‘The elves and the stewmaker’ – that one’s just too good to keep to myself…

But for now……….Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!

*******

Gwion’s biographer, Penny Billington, is an OBOD druid, Touchstone magazine editor and author. Find out more about her and the world’s first Druid Investigator at www.druidauthors.com

Without hope we live in desire.
Dante

Away for 10 days in France, but watch out for the guest blogs!

Anyone know the author of this quote?
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming “WOO HOO what a ride!”
My goal is to do this but not ‘totally worn out’ – quite the reverse!

Druids, Wiccans and Pagans are preparing to celebrating the festival of Samhain over the three days of 31st October to 1st November. One year comes to an end a New Year is born. This same theme is repeated at the Winter Solstice on December 21st/22nd, with a candle being lit after a period of time in contemplation in darkness. In some ways the gap between Samhain and the solstice is like the journey between lives, with the death of the year occurring at Samhain, only to be reborn at the solstice. In another way, though, the New Year begins on 1st November, and then on the morning after the solstice there’s another sense of beginning. Since many of us will celebrate Guy Fawke’s night or Thanksgiving and then Christmas with our families and then the secular New Year celebrations, the season we are entering now really is one of festivities and celebrations. I know for us here it feels as if the new year takes forever to take off – starting 1st November like a jumbo trundling down the runway and then finally lifting off on January 1st.

On the other side of the Indo-European arc the festival of Diwali this weekend, on 17/18 October, has some resonances with Samhain, particularly in Jainism, where it is celebrated for three days and marks the ending of one year and beginning of the next. Whereas Samhain is associated in Europe with the death of vegetation as Winter sets in, in Jainism it marks the time of the death and attaining of liberation (moksha) of Mahavira, the last of the 24 founders or illumined spiritual teachers known as Tirthankaras.

Here is President Obama giving a Diwali message. He talks about cultivating a habit of empathy – a great idea!

Cae Mabon – A low impact retreat centre in North West Wales from Alive in Creation on Vimeo.