I am so glad and grateful to be snug at home during these two darkest weeks of the year. At the Winter Solstice, the sun returns to the northern hemisphere and the days will become incrementally longer. So, the two following the solstice will be equally dark, but the energy will be different. We will be beginning to emerge from the dark. Right down we are descending ever further down into it.
In the stark dark of the season in the dark of the long night we are compelled to turn inward toward the center. Drawn by an irresistible magnetic force, we are pulled inside of ourselves, inside of our homes, inside of our relationships for the comfort, warmth, love, safety and peace that we seek.
Because it is difficult to see in the dark, our other senses are awakened and called into action to guide us through the gloom. If we pay careful attention, we can smell and taste the flavors of excitement, affection and creativity and. If we listen very carefully, we can hear the buzz of life that surrounds us and if we keep still enough, we can feel the energizing charge that radiates throughout the universe warming us from within.
But we need to dig deep to feel the heat just now. The sun is absent. The air is chilled. The Earth, Herself, is cold as death. The only heat left is locked deep inside the molten core in the middle of our deepest selves.
The heart is the center of our being. It is the buried treasure that rewards us when we dare to travel the dark tunnels that lead to the essence of our soul. It is the furnace from which radiates the heat, the power and passion of our lives. The heart is the most honest manifestation of our authentic self. The seat of our heart’s desire, the grace that lies at the heart of all that matters.
The hearth is the heart of the home. It is the high altar of the art and craft of living. Its central heat fuels the most basic and most profound daily rituals of nurturing, sustenance, support and cheer. The hearth stokes the healthy spirit that comes from physical ease and emotional fulfillment.
My home hearth calls me so insistently these days. “You are home with us,” it cries with joy. “Come cook!”
And cook I have. I made a surprisingly super-luscious coq au vin. Surprising, because I had never made this dish before and I just sort of made it up, guided by my longing for blissful candle-lit home-cooked dinners. I made zucchini in tomato sauce, which I froze in small containers in anticipation of future zucchini pastas and omelets and zucchini au gratin.
But I mainly made soup. Great pots of lentil, black bean, mushroom barley and cabbage soup. My freezer is full of single-and-double-portion-size jars of soup. And I am not souped out yet. Still on my to do list are chili, chicken ginger spinach, chicken vegetable, Scotch broth, cram of tomato, and gumbo. I am a kitchen goddess concocting potions and brews and spells of happy home and hearth and heart.
Let us all use this time of darkness well. Let us explore our hearts and souls for the insight, inspiration and enlightenment that we may find there. Let us worship at the domestic shrine and share the holy sacraments of soup and stew, mulled cider and cocoa. Let us open our hearts and our homes to all of the possibilities of love. Let us create peace in our hearts, in our homes and in the world.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: HARVESTS OF GRATITUDE
To all my dear ones,
When the going is good and the living is easy it seems only natural to be thankful. But what about all those times when nothing seems to flow? When energy is blocked and life flows like a river of glue.
When we are stuck in the rush hour traffic jam of dailiness and our bodies and souls start to feel like banged up bumper cars? When things seem so crazy and out of whack that we wonder what do we have to be thankful for?
“Well,” as my dear friend Daile once wisely and calmly commented in the midst of a work disaster that would normally have driven her mad, “at least nobody died.” That's it, exactly. Perspective.
The trick is to be able to maintain a healthy perspective. If we can manage to do that, we will automatically enjoy a perpetual attitude of gratitude.
People who have themselves been ill and those who caretake others have earned a certain understanding of this point of view. Everything is relative (in both senses of that word). For most of us, though, it is a daily, hourly, minutely learned lesson — one that we tend to forget in the flurry.
Here is a moving meditation to help us remember:
Take a walk someplace nice. Alone.
With each step you take, name one good thing that you have in your life. Say this aloud or silently.
Step.
My health.
Step.
My love.
Step.
My dog.
Step.
My network of circles.
Step.
The clouds.
Step.
The beautiful moon.
Step.
Trees.
Step.
A new friend.
Step.
That certain memory.
Step.
Not knowing war.
Step.
A secure home.
Step.
Two feet.
Step.
My heart, my soul, my spirit.
The list is endless.
Gratitude boundless.
Thank Goodness!
I am especially thankful for all the heartwarming support you showed me this year and expressed in so many wonderful ways. You bought my books. Thank you. You came to my workshops. Thank you. You forwarded my messages to your own circles of friends and family. Thank you. You wrote me amazing letters filled with spirit and soul. Thank you.
I would have to walk the entire length of the Great Wall of China in order to name each great gift that I received from you. Thank you all so, so much.
With bountiful blessings of fulfillment and peace,
xxQueen Mama Donna
When the going is good and the living is easy it seems only natural to be thankful. But what about all those times when nothing seems to flow? When energy is blocked and life flows like a river of glue.
When we are stuck in the rush hour traffic jam of dailiness and our bodies and souls start to feel like banged up bumper cars? When things seem so crazy and out of whack that we wonder what do we have to be thankful for?
“Well,” as my dear friend Daile once wisely and calmly commented in the midst of a work disaster that would normally have driven her mad, “at least nobody died.” That's it, exactly. Perspective.
The trick is to be able to maintain a healthy perspective. If we can manage to do that, we will automatically enjoy a perpetual attitude of gratitude.
People who have themselves been ill and those who caretake others have earned a certain understanding of this point of view. Everything is relative (in both senses of that word). For most of us, though, it is a daily, hourly, minutely learned lesson — one that we tend to forget in the flurry.
Here is a moving meditation to help us remember:
Take a walk someplace nice. Alone.
With each step you take, name one good thing that you have in your life. Say this aloud or silently.
Step.
My health.
Step.
My love.
Step.
My dog.
Step.
My network of circles.
Step.
The clouds.
Step.
The beautiful moon.
Step.
Trees.
Step.
A new friend.
Step.
That certain memory.
Step.
Not knowing war.
Step.
A secure home.
Step.
Two feet.
Step.
My heart, my soul, my spirit.
The list is endless.
Gratitude boundless.
Thank Goodness!
I am especially thankful for all the heartwarming support you showed me this year and expressed in so many wonderful ways. You bought my books. Thank you. You came to my workshops. Thank you. You forwarded my messages to your own circles of friends and family. Thank you. You wrote me amazing letters filled with spirit and soul. Thank you.
I would have to walk the entire length of the Great Wall of China in order to name each great gift that I received from you. Thank you all so, so much.
With bountiful blessings of fulfillment and peace,
xxQueen Mama Donna
Friday, November 16, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: HOME SWEET HOME
I’m home. I’m HOME. I’M HOME!!!
I have been on the road on and off for the past three years. Never home for more than six weeks at a time. Always off to another talk, another bookstore appearance, another workshop.
Mind you, I am not complaining. I have been to some great places and met thousands of incredible women. I’ve seen lots of lovely sights, had many amazing conversations and shared the spirit in some extraordinary rituals.
But I have packed and unpacked and repacked one bag too many!
Now I am home for the entire winter. I don’t have any travel plans until late March when my spring schedule intensifies and takes me to Pennsylvania and then Massachusetts, Northern California, and the Pacific Northwest. Which means that I will be home for almost five months until then. Which is perfect, as I hate to travel in winter and I love to hibernate and nest. What bliss!
All I want to do for a while is cook and clean and transplant my plants. Putter around my house and dance to my favorite CDs. File all the loose papers in the piles on my desk. Write in my journals and do some creative work. Take long walks and longer baths.
I used to do these things all the time as a matter of course. But my travel schedule came to dominate my existence. I was always either away, preparing to go away or recovering from having been away.
This made having a balanced, relaxed life here in NYC very difficult. Let alone having a social life like a normal person.
But now that I am back, I am reconstructing a life rich with the pleasures of communion and conviviality. Already this week I found time to have tea with two lovely women. Tomorrow I will host a small party for my dear Blessing Band. And Sunday I will make a beautiful brunch for eight.
Is life paradise or what? I am so happy to be home.
I have been on the road on and off for the past three years. Never home for more than six weeks at a time. Always off to another talk, another bookstore appearance, another workshop.
Mind you, I am not complaining. I have been to some great places and met thousands of incredible women. I’ve seen lots of lovely sights, had many amazing conversations and shared the spirit in some extraordinary rituals.
But I have packed and unpacked and repacked one bag too many!
Now I am home for the entire winter. I don’t have any travel plans until late March when my spring schedule intensifies and takes me to Pennsylvania and then Massachusetts, Northern California, and the Pacific Northwest. Which means that I will be home for almost five months until then. Which is perfect, as I hate to travel in winter and I love to hibernate and nest. What bliss!
All I want to do for a while is cook and clean and transplant my plants. Putter around my house and dance to my favorite CDs. File all the loose papers in the piles on my desk. Write in my journals and do some creative work. Take long walks and longer baths.
I used to do these things all the time as a matter of course. But my travel schedule came to dominate my existence. I was always either away, preparing to go away or recovering from having been away.
This made having a balanced, relaxed life here in NYC very difficult. Let alone having a social life like a normal person.
But now that I am back, I am reconstructing a life rich with the pleasures of communion and conviviality. Already this week I found time to have tea with two lovely women. Tomorrow I will host a small party for my dear Blessing Band. And Sunday I will make a beautiful brunch for eight.
Is life paradise or what? I am so happy to be home.
Monday, November 5, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: BLESSINGS OF PEACE AT HALLOWEEN AND BEYOND
This year I was invited to lead the world famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade with blessings. As the Grand Marshall it was my duty and privilege to walk ahead of the parade and bless the streets, transforming them from their secular purpose into spiritual pathways. In addition, I was called upon to bless the participants of the parade as well as the inhabitants of the city.
This was an amazing opportunity to spread positive energy on an extremely large scale. About 30,000 people walked in the parade and two million more lined the parade path. The NYC Halloween Parade is one of the 10 biggest tourist events in the world! And of course, about eight million folks actually live here.
Joining me in this honorable endeavor was my magnificent Blessing Band of 30 wonderful individuals who are deeply earnest in their desire to extend blessings of peace and positive community spirit to New York City and beyond every chance we get.
We walked ahead of the parade for the entire route, blessing as we went. We were dressed entirely in white and silver to emphasize the purity of our intentions. Since this was not a performance, but a real ritual, we were not wearing masks or elaborate face paint, as we wanted our eyes and facial expressions to convey the sincerity of our serious, yet joyous, mission.
Our blessings were offered with smudge, or burning sacred herbs, which I call, “holy smoke.” In addition, we used bells, bubbles, glitter, and energetic chanting to spread our blessings. We shared blessings of peace, blessings of good will, blessings of community relationships, blessings of safety, blessings of protection, blessings of peace, and blessings of love.
The experience was amazing. As we passed by chanting “Blessings!” folks along the sidelines reached out their hands and bowed their heads so we could bless them! Monsters and devils, nurses and cartoon characters, ghosts and super heroes, alike, thanked us for the blessings and offered theirs back to us in the hundreds of languages and dialects spoken in New York. I blessed all the police in the street for their patience and good humor and was duly rewarded by hundreds of grins.
Such an enormous crowd. And so incredibly diverse. Yet there was only laughter and smiles and blessings and joy. Not one drunk or belligerent person. Not one incident. Not one disturbance of the peace. The only wild behavior was evidenced as creativity and ecstatic good humor. But that is typical here in the Big Apple.
When ever I am away somewhere lecturing or leading workshops, someone will inevitably ask me why I choose to live in New York City where “there is no nature.” I always respond by saying that in New York, the wildlife is the people. And I mean that in every sort of respectful, positive way. Think of the mouth-watering variety of food, music, costume, and custom here. I just adore riding the subway, watching the folks read their newspapers and realizing that every paper along the line is in a different language!
People from nearly 200 counties, having a full palette of beliefs and backgrounds, manage to live and work together in New York City in admirable peace. As huge and diverse and broken down as it is here, everybody pretty much gets along. And I am pleased as punch and very proud to be part of it.
I have given programs on multicultural ritual celebrations in schools where there are 65 nationalities represented in the student body. In a typical classroom an Egyptian boy sits next to a Korean girl who sits next to a Guatemalan boy who sits next to a pretty girl from Azerbaijan who was wearing a veil just months before. And they all get along very well. Their mutual immigrant experience connects them together and they relate.
And when they are old enough, they date. Those segregationists in the 1960’s were right when they said that if kids go to school together they will inevitably fraternize and worse. Hormones are color blind, you see, and they are responsible for a beautiful, brave new world that is developing right in font of our eyes. Living New York City is an experiment in the future. And it works. What is more, if we can do it here, it can be done anywhere.
There is still a chance for peace on this poor beleaguered planet.
This was an amazing opportunity to spread positive energy on an extremely large scale. About 30,000 people walked in the parade and two million more lined the parade path. The NYC Halloween Parade is one of the 10 biggest tourist events in the world! And of course, about eight million folks actually live here.
Joining me in this honorable endeavor was my magnificent Blessing Band of 30 wonderful individuals who are deeply earnest in their desire to extend blessings of peace and positive community spirit to New York City and beyond every chance we get.
We walked ahead of the parade for the entire route, blessing as we went. We were dressed entirely in white and silver to emphasize the purity of our intentions. Since this was not a performance, but a real ritual, we were not wearing masks or elaborate face paint, as we wanted our eyes and facial expressions to convey the sincerity of our serious, yet joyous, mission.
Our blessings were offered with smudge, or burning sacred herbs, which I call, “holy smoke.” In addition, we used bells, bubbles, glitter, and energetic chanting to spread our blessings. We shared blessings of peace, blessings of good will, blessings of community relationships, blessings of safety, blessings of protection, blessings of peace, and blessings of love.
The experience was amazing. As we passed by chanting “Blessings!” folks along the sidelines reached out their hands and bowed their heads so we could bless them! Monsters and devils, nurses and cartoon characters, ghosts and super heroes, alike, thanked us for the blessings and offered theirs back to us in the hundreds of languages and dialects spoken in New York. I blessed all the police in the street for their patience and good humor and was duly rewarded by hundreds of grins.
Such an enormous crowd. And so incredibly diverse. Yet there was only laughter and smiles and blessings and joy. Not one drunk or belligerent person. Not one incident. Not one disturbance of the peace. The only wild behavior was evidenced as creativity and ecstatic good humor. But that is typical here in the Big Apple.
When ever I am away somewhere lecturing or leading workshops, someone will inevitably ask me why I choose to live in New York City where “there is no nature.” I always respond by saying that in New York, the wildlife is the people. And I mean that in every sort of respectful, positive way. Think of the mouth-watering variety of food, music, costume, and custom here. I just adore riding the subway, watching the folks read their newspapers and realizing that every paper along the line is in a different language!
People from nearly 200 counties, having a full palette of beliefs and backgrounds, manage to live and work together in New York City in admirable peace. As huge and diverse and broken down as it is here, everybody pretty much gets along. And I am pleased as punch and very proud to be part of it.
I have given programs on multicultural ritual celebrations in schools where there are 65 nationalities represented in the student body. In a typical classroom an Egyptian boy sits next to a Korean girl who sits next to a Guatemalan boy who sits next to a pretty girl from Azerbaijan who was wearing a veil just months before. And they all get along very well. Their mutual immigrant experience connects them together and they relate.
And when they are old enough, they date. Those segregationists in the 1960’s were right when they said that if kids go to school together they will inevitably fraternize and worse. Hormones are color blind, you see, and they are responsible for a beautiful, brave new world that is developing right in font of our eyes. Living New York City is an experiment in the future. And it works. What is more, if we can do it here, it can be done anywhere.
There is still a chance for peace on this poor beleaguered planet.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: BLESSING HALLOWEEN
Tonight I will be leading the famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade with blessings. This is an amazing opportunity to spread positive energy on a very large scale. About 30,000 people walk in the parade and two million will line the parade path. The NYC Halloween Parade is one of the 10 biggest tourist events in the world!
Joining me in this honorable endeavor is my marvelous Blessing Band of wonderful individuals who are deeply earnest in their desire to extend blessings of peace and positive community spirit to New York City.
We will be walking ahead of the parade for the entire route, blessing as we go. We will be dressed all in white an silver to emphasize the purity of our intentions. Since this is not a performance, but a real ritual, we will not be wearing masks or elaborate face paint, as we want our eyes and facial expressions to convey the sincerity of our mission.
Our blessings will be with smudge, or holy smoke, as well as bells, bubbles, glitter and spirited chanting. We will share blessings of peace, blessings of good will, blessings of community, blessings of safety, blessings of protection, and blessings of love.
Please join us in sending out blessings to those who will be in attendance, to all our loved ones, to our cities, to our country, to our world community, and to our precious planet.
Read about this:
http://gothamist.com/2007/10/31/donna_henes_urb.php
http://www.thevillager.com/villager_234/urbanshaman.html
Be blessed!
Joining me in this honorable endeavor is my marvelous Blessing Band of wonderful individuals who are deeply earnest in their desire to extend blessings of peace and positive community spirit to New York City.
We will be walking ahead of the parade for the entire route, blessing as we go. We will be dressed all in white an silver to emphasize the purity of our intentions. Since this is not a performance, but a real ritual, we will not be wearing masks or elaborate face paint, as we want our eyes and facial expressions to convey the sincerity of our mission.
Our blessings will be with smudge, or holy smoke, as well as bells, bubbles, glitter and spirited chanting. We will share blessings of peace, blessings of good will, blessings of community, blessings of safety, blessings of protection, and blessings of love.
Please join us in sending out blessings to those who will be in attendance, to all our loved ones, to our cities, to our country, to our world community, and to our precious planet.
Read about this:
http://gothamist.com/2007/10/31/donna_henes_urb.php
http://www.thevillager.com/villager_234/urbanshaman.html
Be blessed!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: THE QUEEN’S ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH
I am just back from a two-week trip Through Virginia and North Carolina with The Queen of My Self.
I started with a wonderful workshop at The Creative Healing Institute in Fairfax, VA. Thanks so much to Queen dava money who organized the event and proved herself to be a wonderful hostess. It was an intensely layered day with a group of women who were open and so honest in their sharing.
Then I went on to tour Yogaville with my guides, the lovely Letitia and William Swain. What an amazing spiritual community this is with an extraordinary Lotus Shrine to all the religious faiths in the world. This multicultural, nondenominational tribute was very inspiring and fed my devotion to such eclectic, ecumenical spirituality. Thanks to the Swains for their generous hospitality.
On to the mountains in west of North Carolina. A quick stop in Asheville to sign some books at Malaprop’s Bookstore, then I was back on the road. When I left home, the trees in New York hadn’t started to change yet, but as I climbed into the mountains, I drove right into a Technicolor fall. How gorgeous. The elevation was just high enough to produce fantastic foliage. I followed the winding mountain roads as they snaked in and out of North Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia. Each hairpin turn took me further into the color.
I spent two delightful days with nearly 50 women at their Unitarian Universalist WomenSpirit Institute at The Mountain Retreat Center in Highlands, NC. I was proud to have been chosen the special guest presenter for this, their 20th anniversary gathering. We had an amazing all day workshop, which ended by crowning lots and lots of new Queens, each Queen wearing a crown of her own making. Each woman was more lovely and spirited than the next, and once again I was overwhelmed with just how wonderful we women are.
The last Queen event was in New Bern, NC where Queen Nancy Pocklington hosted a workshop at her massage center. Not only did she gather a great group of women, she served us a fantastic homemade vegetarian banquet. Thanks so much, Nancy. How wonderful to end the trip with this bunch of gals who were profound and piquant and lots of fun.
The trip ended in Washington, DC where I met my collaborator, Daile Kaplan and we spent a day hanging the exhibit that we co-curated called, Daring Dames: A Century of Photographs of Adventurous Women. The show opens on Saturday, November 3 and will be up until June. If you will be in Washington during the next months, do make sure to see it at the National Headquarters of the Society of Woman Geographers at 415 East Capitol Street SE, Washington, DC 20003.
For information and reservations, call 202-546-9228.
So now I am back just in time to lead the world famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade tomorrow night. I was invited to lead the parade with blessings, which I am delighted and honored to do.
But that is another story…
I started with a wonderful workshop at The Creative Healing Institute in Fairfax, VA. Thanks so much to Queen dava money who organized the event and proved herself to be a wonderful hostess. It was an intensely layered day with a group of women who were open and so honest in their sharing.
Then I went on to tour Yogaville with my guides, the lovely Letitia and William Swain. What an amazing spiritual community this is with an extraordinary Lotus Shrine to all the religious faiths in the world. This multicultural, nondenominational tribute was very inspiring and fed my devotion to such eclectic, ecumenical spirituality. Thanks to the Swains for their generous hospitality.
On to the mountains in west of North Carolina. A quick stop in Asheville to sign some books at Malaprop’s Bookstore, then I was back on the road. When I left home, the trees in New York hadn’t started to change yet, but as I climbed into the mountains, I drove right into a Technicolor fall. How gorgeous. The elevation was just high enough to produce fantastic foliage. I followed the winding mountain roads as they snaked in and out of North Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia. Each hairpin turn took me further into the color.
I spent two delightful days with nearly 50 women at their Unitarian Universalist WomenSpirit Institute at The Mountain Retreat Center in Highlands, NC. I was proud to have been chosen the special guest presenter for this, their 20th anniversary gathering. We had an amazing all day workshop, which ended by crowning lots and lots of new Queens, each Queen wearing a crown of her own making. Each woman was more lovely and spirited than the next, and once again I was overwhelmed with just how wonderful we women are.
The last Queen event was in New Bern, NC where Queen Nancy Pocklington hosted a workshop at her massage center. Not only did she gather a great group of women, she served us a fantastic homemade vegetarian banquet. Thanks so much, Nancy. How wonderful to end the trip with this bunch of gals who were profound and piquant and lots of fun.
The trip ended in Washington, DC where I met my collaborator, Daile Kaplan and we spent a day hanging the exhibit that we co-curated called, Daring Dames: A Century of Photographs of Adventurous Women. The show opens on Saturday, November 3 and will be up until June. If you will be in Washington during the next months, do make sure to see it at the National Headquarters of the Society of Woman Geographers at 415 East Capitol Street SE, Washington, DC 20003.
For information and reservations, call 202-546-9228.
So now I am back just in time to lead the world famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade tomorrow night. I was invited to lead the parade with blessings, which I am delighted and honored to do.
But that is another story…
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES PART 4
The rocks were the central theme of this trip and although I loved them desperately, there were also other inspiring spiritual sites that moved me deeply.
We went to a Maize Maze on the Gower. Though this was not a spiritual site, it was a spiritual experience. We walked up and down paths cut through acres of corn stalks trying to find our way to the center and then back out again. Easier said than done. Blind byways and alleys always led to dead ends. Turn around and try again. Turn around and try again. And again. And again. Until we were completely turned around and disoriented.
I am usually a very patient person, but after a half hour of this, I got very antsy and had a momentary doubt that we’d ever get out. I had never felt claustrophobic before and so I really surprised myself when I panicked. But that is what a spiritual experience does: it allows you to see yourself in new ways.
That night, at the end of a very long day, we walked into a minor miracle. We had driven through several towns and villages looking for a good place to sleep, but we did not find anything very tempting, so we just kept going on hoping to find the perfect B&B. The last town we came to was Burry Port, which was skuzzy and unappealing, but it was getting dark and we were bushed, so we went to the pub that advertised B&B accommodations.
In the bar, I noticed a life size painting of Amelia Earhart and commented on it. Well! It turns out that on her famous transatlantic flight she was supposed to land in Ireland, but she was off course and landed her seaplane in the harbor of this town. She then stayed over in this same pub! The breakfast room was a museum/shrine celebrating her feat and stay in Burry Port. This seemed like such a lucky coincidence. Amelia and I, after all, were/are both members of the esteemed Society of Woman Geographers.
Another place that moved me deeply was Dylan Thomas’ home at Laugharne. His writing studio was in a tiny boathouse the size of a one-car garage, which perched on the edge of a hill overlooking marshland with gorgeous tall fronds of water grass and graceful wading birds. Even though I had never seen pictures of it, I had actually dreamt of this very place the night before. Except in my dream it was my writing studio.
Yet another place that was not a spiritual site inspired my spirit. Castell Henlleys is an archeological dig and reconstruction of an Iron Age settlement from the 6th Century BC. It was so well done and evocative that it was easy to imagine life 8000 years ago and realize how sophisticated it was in its creativity and skilled mastery of material, tool, and technique. Another spot where I felt oddly at home.
Several people suggested that I visit the church at Nevern and I am so glad that I did. Nevern is basically a sign on the road. A pub/inn. A social hall. A house or two. A good salmon fishing river. And the church. The church is early Norman and has a 1000-year old Celtic Cross in the churchyard. The gravestones are grey, worn and covered in lichen. There was a particularly touching tombstone for the 64-year old school marm.
Inside the church, each kneeling bench was covered with a colorful hand-stitched tapestry pillow with a different design drawn from Celtic iconography, made by the church ladies. There were at least 100 of them and they made for a really cheerful, cheer-filled sanctuary.
A river, the Nevern, runs through the churchyard. Along one side of the yard is a stone wall where you can sit and watch the river go by. The churchyard is planted with an amazing variety of some 100 different kinds of flowers and surrounded with ancient holy yew trees. Among these is the famous Nevern Weeping Yew that oozes a bloody red-colored sap. I collected some in a film canister to use in some appropriate future ritual. All in all, this was a very special spiritual site.
We didn’t really see much wild life. Some interesting birds, and that’s all. But there were sheep everywhere. And cows. And some horses, all domesticated. But one day on the moors we came across a pack of wild horses that belonged to nobody. They roamed free. They danced and pranced and scuffled and played on the open moor. They must have been used to people feeding them, because they were quite approachable, though skitterish. The most amazing thing about them was their mane, which was extremely long and wavy. They looked like so many equine Veronica Lakes.
I had been told about a special site called Ty Canol. One woman wrote me that in her opinion it was the most sacred spot on Earth. Well, I had to see this for myself. But that was not easy. I had to find it first. Everyone from the B&B keeper to the post office keeper to the tourist bureau clerk to the park ranger had heard of it. Most had been to it. But everyone told us that they got lost every time they tried to find it. It began to take on a Shangri-La/Brigadoon quality that only made me more dogged in my pursuit. For three days we tracked down leads and faulty directions, to no avail. But I was determined. There is always a test of faith before one is allowed to partake of the sacred.
On our last day in the area we drove up and down and around the maze of roads and dirt tracks that somehow kept us going in circles around where we knew it had to be. Finally a farmer carrying the cutest terrier in his arms came up to the car to ask if we were lost. He told us we were five minutes away and gave us very explicit directions. As soon as I saw the dog, which was the reincarnate spirit of my beloved bud terrier, I knew that this would be it, and that we would get to Ty Canol.
Which we did. In five minutes, just as he said. We parked the car and entered a cattle gate and followed the path up a rise and onto the moor. We walked for quite a distance and passed three large natural rock formations before we got a glimpse of the magic wood. Ty Canol, which means “little house” is the oldest oak forest in Europe.
I always think of oak trees as being mammoth, but these were small and knarled . They looked like giant bonsais. The oak leaves were tiny, only about an inch and a half long. Entering the woods was like crossing into another world, universe, dimension. The floor of the forest was rock strewn and sculptural with crevices, outcroppings, and exposed root systems, all of which was completely covered with a thick carpet of moss. The filtered light reflected the acid green of the moss and permeated the air all around. It was like being in a terrarium. The moss absorbed all sound. The silence was profound.
The ground called to me and I laid down upon it, luxuriantly comfortable on the deep moss mattress. I scattered some of my dear friend Jimmy’s ashes around and thought that this would be the nicest place possible to spend eternity. If ever there was a sacred grove, this was it. And there I was, in this impossibly, breathtakingly gorgeous place, basking in its beauty and power. Soaking up as much of the serene majestic energy of this holy wood as I possibly could.
I did bring back the feeling of that place and a certain longing for it. And also a certain nostalgia for all of the spirit sites and stones, which is why it has been so important to me to document this journey before it fades. Which I have now finally accomplished! I am satisfied and relieved. I have saved my memories from extinction.
And so now, having done so, I can turn my attention once again to the here and now.
We went to a Maize Maze on the Gower. Though this was not a spiritual site, it was a spiritual experience. We walked up and down paths cut through acres of corn stalks trying to find our way to the center and then back out again. Easier said than done. Blind byways and alleys always led to dead ends. Turn around and try again. Turn around and try again. And again. And again. Until we were completely turned around and disoriented.
I am usually a very patient person, but after a half hour of this, I got very antsy and had a momentary doubt that we’d ever get out. I had never felt claustrophobic before and so I really surprised myself when I panicked. But that is what a spiritual experience does: it allows you to see yourself in new ways.
That night, at the end of a very long day, we walked into a minor miracle. We had driven through several towns and villages looking for a good place to sleep, but we did not find anything very tempting, so we just kept going on hoping to find the perfect B&B. The last town we came to was Burry Port, which was skuzzy and unappealing, but it was getting dark and we were bushed, so we went to the pub that advertised B&B accommodations.
In the bar, I noticed a life size painting of Amelia Earhart and commented on it. Well! It turns out that on her famous transatlantic flight she was supposed to land in Ireland, but she was off course and landed her seaplane in the harbor of this town. She then stayed over in this same pub! The breakfast room was a museum/shrine celebrating her feat and stay in Burry Port. This seemed like such a lucky coincidence. Amelia and I, after all, were/are both members of the esteemed Society of Woman Geographers.
Another place that moved me deeply was Dylan Thomas’ home at Laugharne. His writing studio was in a tiny boathouse the size of a one-car garage, which perched on the edge of a hill overlooking marshland with gorgeous tall fronds of water grass and graceful wading birds. Even though I had never seen pictures of it, I had actually dreamt of this very place the night before. Except in my dream it was my writing studio.
Yet another place that was not a spiritual site inspired my spirit. Castell Henlleys is an archeological dig and reconstruction of an Iron Age settlement from the 6th Century BC. It was so well done and evocative that it was easy to imagine life 8000 years ago and realize how sophisticated it was in its creativity and skilled mastery of material, tool, and technique. Another spot where I felt oddly at home.
Several people suggested that I visit the church at Nevern and I am so glad that I did. Nevern is basically a sign on the road. A pub/inn. A social hall. A house or two. A good salmon fishing river. And the church. The church is early Norman and has a 1000-year old Celtic Cross in the churchyard. The gravestones are grey, worn and covered in lichen. There was a particularly touching tombstone for the 64-year old school marm.
Inside the church, each kneeling bench was covered with a colorful hand-stitched tapestry pillow with a different design drawn from Celtic iconography, made by the church ladies. There were at least 100 of them and they made for a really cheerful, cheer-filled sanctuary.
A river, the Nevern, runs through the churchyard. Along one side of the yard is a stone wall where you can sit and watch the river go by. The churchyard is planted with an amazing variety of some 100 different kinds of flowers and surrounded with ancient holy yew trees. Among these is the famous Nevern Weeping Yew that oozes a bloody red-colored sap. I collected some in a film canister to use in some appropriate future ritual. All in all, this was a very special spiritual site.
We didn’t really see much wild life. Some interesting birds, and that’s all. But there were sheep everywhere. And cows. And some horses, all domesticated. But one day on the moors we came across a pack of wild horses that belonged to nobody. They roamed free. They danced and pranced and scuffled and played on the open moor. They must have been used to people feeding them, because they were quite approachable, though skitterish. The most amazing thing about them was their mane, which was extremely long and wavy. They looked like so many equine Veronica Lakes.
I had been told about a special site called Ty Canol. One woman wrote me that in her opinion it was the most sacred spot on Earth. Well, I had to see this for myself. But that was not easy. I had to find it first. Everyone from the B&B keeper to the post office keeper to the tourist bureau clerk to the park ranger had heard of it. Most had been to it. But everyone told us that they got lost every time they tried to find it. It began to take on a Shangri-La/Brigadoon quality that only made me more dogged in my pursuit. For three days we tracked down leads and faulty directions, to no avail. But I was determined. There is always a test of faith before one is allowed to partake of the sacred.
On our last day in the area we drove up and down and around the maze of roads and dirt tracks that somehow kept us going in circles around where we knew it had to be. Finally a farmer carrying the cutest terrier in his arms came up to the car to ask if we were lost. He told us we were five minutes away and gave us very explicit directions. As soon as I saw the dog, which was the reincarnate spirit of my beloved bud terrier, I knew that this would be it, and that we would get to Ty Canol.
Which we did. In five minutes, just as he said. We parked the car and entered a cattle gate and followed the path up a rise and onto the moor. We walked for quite a distance and passed three large natural rock formations before we got a glimpse of the magic wood. Ty Canol, which means “little house” is the oldest oak forest in Europe.
I always think of oak trees as being mammoth, but these were small and knarled . They looked like giant bonsais. The oak leaves were tiny, only about an inch and a half long. Entering the woods was like crossing into another world, universe, dimension. The floor of the forest was rock strewn and sculptural with crevices, outcroppings, and exposed root systems, all of which was completely covered with a thick carpet of moss. The filtered light reflected the acid green of the moss and permeated the air all around. It was like being in a terrarium. The moss absorbed all sound. The silence was profound.
The ground called to me and I laid down upon it, luxuriantly comfortable on the deep moss mattress. I scattered some of my dear friend Jimmy’s ashes around and thought that this would be the nicest place possible to spend eternity. If ever there was a sacred grove, this was it. And there I was, in this impossibly, breathtakingly gorgeous place, basking in its beauty and power. Soaking up as much of the serene majestic energy of this holy wood as I possibly could.
I did bring back the feeling of that place and a certain longing for it. And also a certain nostalgia for all of the spirit sites and stones, which is why it has been so important to me to document this journey before it fades. Which I have now finally accomplished! I am satisfied and relieved. I have saved my memories from extinction.
And so now, having done so, I can turn my attention once again to the here and now.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES PART 3
Heading further west, we spent four days in the town of Newport on the Pembrokeshire coast. Right on a backstreet of the town in a small lot cordoned off behind a fence there was another, bigger, capstone cairn, or dolmen called Carreg Coetan. This one — which was actually balanced on only two of the four standing stones supporting it — stood way taller than me, perhaps nine feet tall. For some reason, I really liked this one the best. I liked the energy. The privacy. The casual demeanor of the place despite its being so close to civilization. There was just something very sweet about it.
The big, famous cromlech, Pentre Ifan, was about 3 miles outside of town. The scale is astounding. And the audacity, skill, and strength of the folks who made it are mind-boggling. The word “big” does not begin to cut it. This thing was, as they say, ginormous. A huge, towering monument. The capstone alone is16-feet long, 8-feet high, and weighs 16 tons. And it is lightly perched on the fist-sized edges of three stones, each about twelve or so feet tall. It takes your breath away.
But, as I said, this site was famous, and a steady stream of people from all over came and went constantly. It was so hard to have to share this experience. I would have wanted some time to be there alone and quiet. What was worse, were the tourist families with kids who made a racket and attempted to climb the steep standing stones. Aaaarggh! “Come on,” I wanted to say. “This is a burial ground. You wouldn’t let your kids run wild and jump all over the tombstones in a cemetery.” But I swallowed my tongue.
Also nearby — well, nearby is a very relative word in Wales. It was nearby on the map. But on the twisting maze of Welsh backcountry lanes, it took forever. Lost again, looking for an ancient stone circle that I knew was hidden in a field right around there somewhere, we tried to find someone to ask but there was no one about. I finally saw a sign for a pottery studio and assuming someone would be there, we turned off the road to inquire. I found someone and don’t you know that the very site we were searching for was right there in the field behind the house!
Gors Fawr, a circle about 70 feet in diameter, is composed of16 low stones. It was way off in the field and hard to see because the stones are so small, only a couple of feet high, and the grass was so high. Not to mention the sheep wandering all about. It was a perfect stone circle day — grey, misty, foggy, drizzly, moody weather. The precipitation made everything seem so intimate plus it insured that there would be no other visitors. That, alone, was a majorly great thing.
On one of the rocks I found an offering made from a y-shaped stick wrapped in sheep wool. It looked very like the yoni amulets that I make.
How strange and how familiar. There was also a scorched circle fire pit in the center. Clearly this ancient ceremonial site is still used for ceremonies. Though much less dramatic than the giant cromlechs, the
energy in this large circle of small stones was palpably sacred.
Just down the road the landscape turned into wild moors. These wide open spaces were wild and windy. In the distance were the Priseli Peaks where the bluestone for Stonehenge was quarried. Imagine that feat. Cutting huge slabs of rock. Hauling them down from the mountains. Carrying them overland and across water for 200 miles — all by hand and back. Then setting them up. How the hell did they manage?
I’ll tell you, all those stones are so energetic that I bet they just walked themselves over to Wilshire County and arranged themselves in a ceremonial sister circle. And whenever no one is looking, they dance!
To be continued…
The big, famous cromlech, Pentre Ifan, was about 3 miles outside of town. The scale is astounding. And the audacity, skill, and strength of the folks who made it are mind-boggling. The word “big” does not begin to cut it. This thing was, as they say, ginormous. A huge, towering monument. The capstone alone is16-feet long, 8-feet high, and weighs 16 tons. And it is lightly perched on the fist-sized edges of three stones, each about twelve or so feet tall. It takes your breath away.
But, as I said, this site was famous, and a steady stream of people from all over came and went constantly. It was so hard to have to share this experience. I would have wanted some time to be there alone and quiet. What was worse, were the tourist families with kids who made a racket and attempted to climb the steep standing stones. Aaaarggh! “Come on,” I wanted to say. “This is a burial ground. You wouldn’t let your kids run wild and jump all over the tombstones in a cemetery.” But I swallowed my tongue.
Also nearby — well, nearby is a very relative word in Wales. It was nearby on the map. But on the twisting maze of Welsh backcountry lanes, it took forever. Lost again, looking for an ancient stone circle that I knew was hidden in a field right around there somewhere, we tried to find someone to ask but there was no one about. I finally saw a sign for a pottery studio and assuming someone would be there, we turned off the road to inquire. I found someone and don’t you know that the very site we were searching for was right there in the field behind the house!
Gors Fawr, a circle about 70 feet in diameter, is composed of16 low stones. It was way off in the field and hard to see because the stones are so small, only a couple of feet high, and the grass was so high. Not to mention the sheep wandering all about. It was a perfect stone circle day — grey, misty, foggy, drizzly, moody weather. The precipitation made everything seem so intimate plus it insured that there would be no other visitors. That, alone, was a majorly great thing.
On one of the rocks I found an offering made from a y-shaped stick wrapped in sheep wool. It looked very like the yoni amulets that I make.
How strange and how familiar. There was also a scorched circle fire pit in the center. Clearly this ancient ceremonial site is still used for ceremonies. Though much less dramatic than the giant cromlechs, the
energy in this large circle of small stones was palpably sacred.
Just down the road the landscape turned into wild moors. These wide open spaces were wild and windy. In the distance were the Priseli Peaks where the bluestone for Stonehenge was quarried. Imagine that feat. Cutting huge slabs of rock. Hauling them down from the mountains. Carrying them overland and across water for 200 miles — all by hand and back. Then setting them up. How the hell did they manage?
I’ll tell you, all those stones are so energetic that I bet they just walked themselves over to Wilshire County and arranged themselves in a ceremonial sister circle. And whenever no one is looking, they dance!
To be continued…
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES Part 2
Continuing on through southern Wales to the Gower Peninsula... This area had been widely recommended to me, Many thanks to those who sent me there. This area is wilder and less populated than what we had seen so far. But as beautiful as the land was, it was impossible to sightsee from the car. The roads are barely one lane wide and extremely twisty plus we had to drive on the left side, so it was hard to divert attention from the road ahead.
And anyway it would have been impossible to see anything because the roads are all bordered by high hedges that block any view. Now that I write this, I wonder if that was an intentional safety consideration, since it really is crucial to keep your eyes glued straight ahead — or as straight as possible on those pretzel roads.
We found a 5000-year old burial mound, which was about a 20-minute walk from the road. Unfortunately, there was a park ranger taking a cigarette break and his truck was marked right next to the mound, which ruined it both visually and energetically for me. We saw what we could see, but it wasn’t spectacular.
Roselli is a tiny village at the very end of the Gower peninsula. There on a high spot overlooking the sea was St. Mary’s cemetery with an old weathered grey stone cemetery. Of all the places I visited, this one was the most evocative of some long lost memory.
I was so happy wandering around in there. So contented and centered. Was my old past life body buried under the ground there?
At Roselli there is a spectacular walk that snakes along the cliffs on the edge of the peninsula. Every step forward offers a different and more dramatic view of the rocks and the sky and the sea. Sure-footed sheep were grazing the grass up and down and around the steep precipices. The wind was wild and it was quite chilly. It was all quite primal. Elemental.
Another site on Gower was what the locals call King Arthur’s Stone. Again, despite it’s being on the map, there was no way to find it. Finally we stopped in a little post office/liquor store and asked. No one seemed to know where it was, but, of course, someone eventually did. And we there — a pull off of the tiny road, which was busy with loose horses and sheep crossing back and forth and hanging out in the middle.
There were several cars and a few caravans parked right in the middle of a cow pasture. Folks were sitting outside on camp chairs reading the evening paper surrounded by large grazing animals strolling about. One of these guys showed me how to find the stones. They were straight ahead across fields filled with stones and cows and cow paddies and mud puddles.
After a walk of about 15 minutes, the pasture ended suddenly at an overlook. We have reached the end of the world — the edge where rock meets sea. There, just to the left, is a huge egg-shaped rock pile, another ancient burial mound. How beautifully situated as a final resting place. And there, just 100 yards or so away, was the first and smallest of three mushroom-like cromlechs we were to see.
This was a burial chamber, as well, but constructed very differently. Balanced about four feet above the ground — seemingly impossibly — on the tips of three vertical standing stones was an oblong oval capstone as large as a queen size bed. Really, just balanced on three small points. And has stayed balanced for 5500 years. Remarkable. Like all cairn of this type, the whole thing was once covered in earth, the rocks being an armature.
What a wonderful site. Two completely different stone monuments, each incredible in its own way. Wonderful ocean views. Just one group of German tourists who left soon after we arrived. Only a couple of curious cows to interrupt my reverie.
To be continued…
And anyway it would have been impossible to see anything because the roads are all bordered by high hedges that block any view. Now that I write this, I wonder if that was an intentional safety consideration, since it really is crucial to keep your eyes glued straight ahead — or as straight as possible on those pretzel roads.
We found a 5000-year old burial mound, which was about a 20-minute walk from the road. Unfortunately, there was a park ranger taking a cigarette break and his truck was marked right next to the mound, which ruined it both visually and energetically for me. We saw what we could see, but it wasn’t spectacular.
Roselli is a tiny village at the very end of the Gower peninsula. There on a high spot overlooking the sea was St. Mary’s cemetery with an old weathered grey stone cemetery. Of all the places I visited, this one was the most evocative of some long lost memory.
I was so happy wandering around in there. So contented and centered. Was my old past life body buried under the ground there?
At Roselli there is a spectacular walk that snakes along the cliffs on the edge of the peninsula. Every step forward offers a different and more dramatic view of the rocks and the sky and the sea. Sure-footed sheep were grazing the grass up and down and around the steep precipices. The wind was wild and it was quite chilly. It was all quite primal. Elemental.
Another site on Gower was what the locals call King Arthur’s Stone. Again, despite it’s being on the map, there was no way to find it. Finally we stopped in a little post office/liquor store and asked. No one seemed to know where it was, but, of course, someone eventually did. And we there — a pull off of the tiny road, which was busy with loose horses and sheep crossing back and forth and hanging out in the middle.
There were several cars and a few caravans parked right in the middle of a cow pasture. Folks were sitting outside on camp chairs reading the evening paper surrounded by large grazing animals strolling about. One of these guys showed me how to find the stones. They were straight ahead across fields filled with stones and cows and cow paddies and mud puddles.
After a walk of about 15 minutes, the pasture ended suddenly at an overlook. We have reached the end of the world — the edge where rock meets sea. There, just to the left, is a huge egg-shaped rock pile, another ancient burial mound. How beautifully situated as a final resting place. And there, just 100 yards or so away, was the first and smallest of three mushroom-like cromlechs we were to see.
This was a burial chamber, as well, but constructed very differently. Balanced about four feet above the ground — seemingly impossibly — on the tips of three vertical standing stones was an oblong oval capstone as large as a queen size bed. Really, just balanced on three small points. And has stayed balanced for 5500 years. Remarkable. Like all cairn of this type, the whole thing was once covered in earth, the rocks being an armature.
What a wonderful site. Two completely different stone monuments, each incredible in its own way. Wonderful ocean views. Just one group of German tourists who left soon after we arrived. Only a couple of curious cows to interrupt my reverie.
To be continued…
Friday, October 5, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES
Even though my trip to Wales was two months ago, I feel compelled to complete the report of what I saw and felt. This is partly to share my amazing experiences and partly to savor and luxuriate in them once more before I am completely swept away by my current involvements and these precious memories begin to fade.
I went to Wales to try to glimpse a past life that a seer had told me that I had had there and also to see the spirit sites. Although I felt exceedingly comfortable and at home in Wales, I did not experience any intense déjà vu moments. I did not recognize any particular person, place or thing, but everything seemed very familiar to me and many people thought that I was Welsh.
This trip was largely about rocks. I had already made several trips to visit the famous standing stone sites in England, Scotland, and Brittany was looking for more amazing megalithic monuments. And I found them! — with a little help from my far flung email friends who sent me many suggestions to pursue.
First stop, Tintern Abbey. These stone ruins are quite impressive. The grounds are extensive and there are many sections of pathways, walls, arches, chimneys, and courtyards scattered about.
The main cathedral is roofless and floorless, but, by far, the best-preserved abbey ruins that I saw anywhere. Light filtered in through sweeping windowless arches. Birds flew about overhead. The grass inside was a vivid green, thick and soft. The energy was serene and embracing. This is a place to exhale. To release pent up stress and let go of all residual tension. A place of peace.
Even thought the megalithic stone sites are marked on the maps, they are not marked on the roads, so the search for them was truly a magical mystery tour, following the directions of locals and my own instinct. Allowing the stones to pull me in to their world.
The map showed a stone site in the Wye Valley. When we got to the village indicated, I asked directions from an old man who was raking the graves in the churchyard. He was stone deaf, but with some shouting and lots of gesturing, he understood my request and gave me great directions.
And just where he said they would be in the middle of a field hidden behind hedges, were the Three Stones of Trellich. Those three crone stones were just standing patiently where they have stood for millennia, each one leaning toward the others. I was particularly drawn to the middle one and stood with my entire body against her length, my face resting against her surface, which was rough with lichens. She towered over me and emitted a great heat that1 was healing in the extreme.
That was a great site, hidden from the world. No tourists. No people at all. Just the sky and earth and stones. Just steady ancient energy, and a feeling of being weighted, rooted, connected to what really matters.
To be continued…
I went to Wales to try to glimpse a past life that a seer had told me that I had had there and also to see the spirit sites. Although I felt exceedingly comfortable and at home in Wales, I did not experience any intense déjà vu moments. I did not recognize any particular person, place or thing, but everything seemed very familiar to me and many people thought that I was Welsh.
This trip was largely about rocks. I had already made several trips to visit the famous standing stone sites in England, Scotland, and Brittany was looking for more amazing megalithic monuments. And I found them! — with a little help from my far flung email friends who sent me many suggestions to pursue.
First stop, Tintern Abbey. These stone ruins are quite impressive. The grounds are extensive and there are many sections of pathways, walls, arches, chimneys, and courtyards scattered about.
The main cathedral is roofless and floorless, but, by far, the best-preserved abbey ruins that I saw anywhere. Light filtered in through sweeping windowless arches. Birds flew about overhead. The grass inside was a vivid green, thick and soft. The energy was serene and embracing. This is a place to exhale. To release pent up stress and let go of all residual tension. A place of peace.
Even thought the megalithic stone sites are marked on the maps, they are not marked on the roads, so the search for them was truly a magical mystery tour, following the directions of locals and my own instinct. Allowing the stones to pull me in to their world.
The map showed a stone site in the Wye Valley. When we got to the village indicated, I asked directions from an old man who was raking the graves in the churchyard. He was stone deaf, but with some shouting and lots of gesturing, he understood my request and gave me great directions.
And just where he said they would be in the middle of a field hidden behind hedges, were the Three Stones of Trellich. Those three crone stones were just standing patiently where they have stood for millennia, each one leaning toward the others. I was particularly drawn to the middle one and stood with my entire body against her length, my face resting against her surface, which was rough with lichens. She towered over me and emitted a great heat that1 was healing in the extreme.
That was a great site, hidden from the world. No tourists. No people at all. Just the sky and earth and stones. Just steady ancient energy, and a feeling of being weighted, rooted, connected to what really matters.
To be continued…
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: FULL HARVEST MOON
Today is the Full Harvest Moon. Let us take a moment to align ourselves with that lunar energy and contemplate the harvest of our lives. What have we learned? How have we grown? What seeds have we sown and nurtured? What are the rewards of our labors? What bounty have we collected? What resources have we preserved? What stores have we prepared for the future? What abundance have we freely shared? What gratitude, appreciation, and reverence have we displayed? What wonder and joy of living?
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: GLASTONBURY SPIRIT - PART 2
After descending from the Tor, we headed directly to the Chalice Well and gardens. What an oasis of tranquility and peace after the steep, sweaty climb up and down the Tor.
Since ancient times, the waters that bubble up from the depths of the Earth have been regarded as sacred. These waters are the essence of the source of life and are still revered as such.
The spring that feeds Chalice Well has never been known to fail, so it has been, and still is, venerated as a symbol of the continuous and ever-flowing nature of the life force.
This holy healing water emerges from the Earth at its source and pours out of the mouth of a sculpted lion’s head. It runs red, rich in iron, and collects in the well and streams through a series of pools, channels, fountains, and waterfalls that snake through the gloriously gorgeous gardens.
The water leaves a rusty tinge on everything that it touches, so the stones are tinted with a terra cotta color. Because of this, it has been known as the Blood Spring. And so it is. The blood waters of the Goddess’s sacred flow, the source, the pulsing force of life.
The temperature of this carmine spring water is a constant 52 degrees Fahrenheit, which was, on such a horribly hot day, delightfully refreshing, despite its metallic taste.
There is a rectangular pool where you can sit with your feet in the water so you can soak up its spirit, but 52 degrees is quite cold to the touch, especially when the air is steamy. Yet folks sat there with their feet immersed, meditating for the longest time.
I sat in the shade of the ancient yew trees listening to the constant gurgle and was tranceported to a state of serene bliss. I could have sat there in silence and peace forever. The rustling trees, the bird songs, the water sparkling with sunlight all lulled me and erased any niggly thoughts of stress or worry. Now this was truly a powerful place.
As it was Lammas Day, the First Harvest Festival, the Summer Midpoint, there was an extraordinary altar set up on the cover of the well: beautiful breads and blossoms, orange and gold arranged in perfect ceremonial order. What a gift to discover this sacred offering. What a miracle to happen to be there on the right day.
The old Celtic ways are still so deeply imbedded in England. They are still alive in the memories and daily lives of many people. That morning the cleaning woman at the B&B where I was staying gave me special wishes for August 1. Lammas in Glastonbury was not a New Age or pagan or Wiccan celebration. It was the authentic local tradition.
To be continued…
Since ancient times, the waters that bubble up from the depths of the Earth have been regarded as sacred. These waters are the essence of the source of life and are still revered as such.
The spring that feeds Chalice Well has never been known to fail, so it has been, and still is, venerated as a symbol of the continuous and ever-flowing nature of the life force.
This holy healing water emerges from the Earth at its source and pours out of the mouth of a sculpted lion’s head. It runs red, rich in iron, and collects in the well and streams through a series of pools, channels, fountains, and waterfalls that snake through the gloriously gorgeous gardens.
The water leaves a rusty tinge on everything that it touches, so the stones are tinted with a terra cotta color. Because of this, it has been known as the Blood Spring. And so it is. The blood waters of the Goddess’s sacred flow, the source, the pulsing force of life.
The temperature of this carmine spring water is a constant 52 degrees Fahrenheit, which was, on such a horribly hot day, delightfully refreshing, despite its metallic taste.
There is a rectangular pool where you can sit with your feet in the water so you can soak up its spirit, but 52 degrees is quite cold to the touch, especially when the air is steamy. Yet folks sat there with their feet immersed, meditating for the longest time.
I sat in the shade of the ancient yew trees listening to the constant gurgle and was tranceported to a state of serene bliss. I could have sat there in silence and peace forever. The rustling trees, the bird songs, the water sparkling with sunlight all lulled me and erased any niggly thoughts of stress or worry. Now this was truly a powerful place.
As it was Lammas Day, the First Harvest Festival, the Summer Midpoint, there was an extraordinary altar set up on the cover of the well: beautiful breads and blossoms, orange and gold arranged in perfect ceremonial order. What a gift to discover this sacred offering. What a miracle to happen to be there on the right day.
The old Celtic ways are still so deeply imbedded in England. They are still alive in the memories and daily lives of many people. That morning the cleaning woman at the B&B where I was staying gave me special wishes for August 1. Lammas in Glastonbury was not a New Age or pagan or Wiccan celebration. It was the authentic local tradition.
To be continued…
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Queen’s Chronicles: GLASTONBURY SPIRIT PART 1
I played hooky from the Goddess Conference twice. On August 1, Lammas, the Summer Cross-Quarter Day, I went to the sacred sites in Glastonbury. I needed to be outside and in nature. So with my partner-in-crime, I hiked over Chalice Hill and on to the Tor, which we climbed on a rare, much too hot day. The view from the top was vast and serene, gorgeously green due to the English summer of incessant rain.
The Tor, which means conical hill, was beautiful, and extremely powerful visually -- especially from a distance. An imposing mound, elevation: 158 M/518 FT squatting alone on a vast flood plain, topped by the remaining tower of a medieval church dedicated to St. Michael. The sight from afar was incredibly stirring. And beckoning.
We walked across fields alive with grass and sheep, climbed over stiles, trudged through muddy muck, lost our way, and backtracked to find the proper path that would take us closer and closer still to the Tor. And then,
after having seen the Tor in the distance -- as an apparition, as an inspiring vision, as a goal -- all of a sudden there it was right in front of us looking formidable and steep.
We climbed. It was steep. And it was horribly hot. And crowded. There were families with dogs, tourists with kids, and pagan pilgrims with crystals and pendulums puffing up the Tor, sweating and panting and joking about how out of shape they were. We soon reached the top and the shade
that the tower offered. I sank onto the stone ledge inside the ruin where it was divinely cool, and stank to high heaven of piss. Charming.
One upon a time, pilgrims ascended the Tor in a statelier manner. Rather than struggling up the vertical slope, they circled it in a labyrinthine spiral, winding up and around in a meditative state. You can still see the subtle, terraced trails. Today, however, the Tor’s grassy sides are eroding and it is important not to walk on it, but to stay on the designated trail. Too bad.
Everyone settled down when they reached the peak. The energy on the hilltop was easy. People sat quietly in pairs and small groups, enjoying the spectacular view and the peaceful ambiance. For me, the Tor did not possess the mighty, in-your-face, obvious power that it is reputed to. Perhaps that, too, had been eroded over the millennia. While I was there, the land under my feet felt bereft of spirit. I now realize that there was, indeed a strong power there, but it was a more subtle, silent, calm, and comforting energy at work that emanated from the earth, and was trancemitted through the people.
On the climb back down, I was moved to touch a particular boulder. It was buzzing with energy. My whole body vibrated in tune with it. I kept my left hand on the rock and I laid my right hand in Daile’s, which set her to vibrating, too. The spirit of the Tor was definitely, undeniably, present. But it was not underfoot. It was safely stored in the rocks, which still ripple with it.
To be continued…
The Tor, which means conical hill, was beautiful, and extremely powerful visually -- especially from a distance. An imposing mound, elevation: 158 M/518 FT squatting alone on a vast flood plain, topped by the remaining tower of a medieval church dedicated to St. Michael. The sight from afar was incredibly stirring. And beckoning.
We walked across fields alive with grass and sheep, climbed over stiles, trudged through muddy muck, lost our way, and backtracked to find the proper path that would take us closer and closer still to the Tor. And then,
after having seen the Tor in the distance -- as an apparition, as an inspiring vision, as a goal -- all of a sudden there it was right in front of us looking formidable and steep.
We climbed. It was steep. And it was horribly hot. And crowded. There were families with dogs, tourists with kids, and pagan pilgrims with crystals and pendulums puffing up the Tor, sweating and panting and joking about how out of shape they were. We soon reached the top and the shade
that the tower offered. I sank onto the stone ledge inside the ruin where it was divinely cool, and stank to high heaven of piss. Charming.
One upon a time, pilgrims ascended the Tor in a statelier manner. Rather than struggling up the vertical slope, they circled it in a labyrinthine spiral, winding up and around in a meditative state. You can still see the subtle, terraced trails. Today, however, the Tor’s grassy sides are eroding and it is important not to walk on it, but to stay on the designated trail. Too bad.
Everyone settled down when they reached the peak. The energy on the hilltop was easy. People sat quietly in pairs and small groups, enjoying the spectacular view and the peaceful ambiance. For me, the Tor did not possess the mighty, in-your-face, obvious power that it is reputed to. Perhaps that, too, had been eroded over the millennia. While I was there, the land under my feet felt bereft of spirit. I now realize that there was, indeed a strong power there, but it was a more subtle, silent, calm, and comforting energy at work that emanated from the earth, and was trancemitted through the people.
On the climb back down, I was moved to touch a particular boulder. It was buzzing with energy. My whole body vibrated in tune with it. I kept my left hand on the rock and I laid my right hand in Daile’s, which set her to vibrating, too. The spirit of the Tor was definitely, undeniably, present. But it was not underfoot. It was safely stored in the rocks, which still ripple with it.
To be continued…
THE QUEEN’S CHRONICLES: Home again, Home Again Jiggedy Jog
Dear everyone,
Great Goddess greetings from Exotic Brooklyn!
After years of urging by my readers as well as by participants in my ceremonial circles, the long-procrastinated day has finally arrived for me to step up to the blog.
This is a great time to start documenting the magical mystery tour that is my life. The Queen’s Chronicles will share the adventures and enterprises of The Queen of My Self as I travel along the path of my passion, my purpose, and my power — what I call “being on the miracle trail.”
I have just arrived back home from two splendid, magic-filled weeks in Goddess Land. Words can barely express my wonder and delight. The entire experience in England and Wales more than exceeded my very high hopes. I am renewed, inspired, centered, and empowered by the strength of my own spirituality.
Many of you have asked me to share my experiences and I shall. Here below, is a short report about the International Goddess Conference in Glastonbury, England where I was a keynote speaker and workshop presenter. Here is the first installment, to be followed by a spiritual travelogue of the holy sites that I visited in Glastonbury as well as in Wales. That is, IF I can find adequate words to trancemit the intimacy, the intensity, the sheer exuberance of this very special time!
For now,
Best blessings,
xxQueen Mama Donna
THE GODDESS CONFERENCE
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
My hostess in Glastonbury was a delight. We bonded immediately and the week I spent under her glorious B&B roof and in her delightful gardens was a perfect blend of comfort, hospitality, restoration, aesthetic glory, and jolly conviviality. Thanks for everything, Fay Hutchcroft.
The Goddess conference was attended by about 250 gorgeous women and several equally lovely men. Devout Goddess worshippers, all. The attendees were from everywhere in the UK, as well as Ireland, Australia, Argentina, Austria, France, Italy, India, Canada, and the United States - New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Colorado, California. And these are just those who I was able to have a conversation with. Who knows how many other places were represented?
Each day began with three or four keynote presentations to the entire gathered body. The afternoons were dedicated to a choice of 3-4 hour workshops, all dealing in some way with the Crone archetype of wisdom, darkness, decline, and death. And the evenings were given over to fabulous sacred pageantry, rich in visual and spiritual vision. The costumes, the decor, the profound words and moving music provided a tranceformative environment and hence, experience. Brava Kathy Jones, Impresario Supreme, and also to the sizzling spirited sisterhood of priestesses of the Goddess Temple of Glastonbury.
The presenters were all fascinating and quite skilled. The attendees were so open — eyes, ears, hearts, chakras, arms, voices — and so present in their participation. intent on absorbing the excellent energy. Everyone was immersed in the spirit, decked out in an amazing array of creative festive finery.
And the helpers, called “Melissas,” were so very, very helpful. Several of these Busy Bee Goddesses took me under their wings and helped me to do whatever I needed to do. Thank you so much. You know who you are! And a special shout out to the inimitable Jennifer Cooper and Nicky who handled the selling of my books — one less thing for me to think about — and a grand excuse to hang out with them.
I was honored to offer a presentation on my new archetype of the Full Spirited Four Fold Goddess and Her correspondences to the four elements, four seasons and directions, four quarters of the moon, and four stages of a woman's life: the Maiden, the Mother, The Queen, and the Crone. The response was stunning. There was an overwhelming enthusiasm from everyone there expressed through laughter, cheers, and heartfelt hugs of gratitude. “Of course! A Queen and not a Crone! Aha! Makes sense! It is about time!”
I also facilitated two workshops, one for a full day and the other for an afternoon. In all, 42 women went through the heady process of naming, claiming and proclaiming their sovereignty and were crowned as Queens of themselves.
Then on the penultimate day of the conference there was a huge ceremony to crown all the Crones and all the Queens. About ten women and two men chose to cover themselves with the mantle of the Crone or in the case of the men, the Sage. What Nearly 70 women declared themselves Queens including two septuagenarians and a 90-year old! What an affirmation of the Queen and the Four Fold Goddess. I was stunned to the bone and thrilled beyond measure!
What a confirmation of my invented new archetype! The creation of The Queen of My Self involved not only years of research, but also some serious soul searching and dogged instinct following. All of which led me to an authentic truth, widely shared, relevant, resonant, and thankfully warmly embraced.
If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally
transform one million realities.
—Maya Angelou
Long live the Queens!
To be continued...
Great Goddess greetings from Exotic Brooklyn!
After years of urging by my readers as well as by participants in my ceremonial circles, the long-procrastinated day has finally arrived for me to step up to the blog.
This is a great time to start documenting the magical mystery tour that is my life. The Queen’s Chronicles will share the adventures and enterprises of The Queen of My Self as I travel along the path of my passion, my purpose, and my power — what I call “being on the miracle trail.”
I have just arrived back home from two splendid, magic-filled weeks in Goddess Land. Words can barely express my wonder and delight. The entire experience in England and Wales more than exceeded my very high hopes. I am renewed, inspired, centered, and empowered by the strength of my own spirituality.
Many of you have asked me to share my experiences and I shall. Here below, is a short report about the International Goddess Conference in Glastonbury, England where I was a keynote speaker and workshop presenter. Here is the first installment, to be followed by a spiritual travelogue of the holy sites that I visited in Glastonbury as well as in Wales. That is, IF I can find adequate words to trancemit the intimacy, the intensity, the sheer exuberance of this very special time!
For now,
Best blessings,
xxQueen Mama Donna
THE GODDESS CONFERENCE
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
My hostess in Glastonbury was a delight. We bonded immediately and the week I spent under her glorious B&B roof and in her delightful gardens was a perfect blend of comfort, hospitality, restoration, aesthetic glory, and jolly conviviality. Thanks for everything, Fay Hutchcroft.
The Goddess conference was attended by about 250 gorgeous women and several equally lovely men. Devout Goddess worshippers, all. The attendees were from everywhere in the UK, as well as Ireland, Australia, Argentina, Austria, France, Italy, India, Canada, and the United States - New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Colorado, California. And these are just those who I was able to have a conversation with. Who knows how many other places were represented?
Each day began with three or four keynote presentations to the entire gathered body. The afternoons were dedicated to a choice of 3-4 hour workshops, all dealing in some way with the Crone archetype of wisdom, darkness, decline, and death. And the evenings were given over to fabulous sacred pageantry, rich in visual and spiritual vision. The costumes, the decor, the profound words and moving music provided a tranceformative environment and hence, experience. Brava Kathy Jones, Impresario Supreme, and also to the sizzling spirited sisterhood of priestesses of the Goddess Temple of Glastonbury.
The presenters were all fascinating and quite skilled. The attendees were so open — eyes, ears, hearts, chakras, arms, voices — and so present in their participation. intent on absorbing the excellent energy. Everyone was immersed in the spirit, decked out in an amazing array of creative festive finery.
And the helpers, called “Melissas,” were so very, very helpful. Several of these Busy Bee Goddesses took me under their wings and helped me to do whatever I needed to do. Thank you so much. You know who you are! And a special shout out to the inimitable Jennifer Cooper and Nicky who handled the selling of my books — one less thing for me to think about — and a grand excuse to hang out with them.
I was honored to offer a presentation on my new archetype of the Full Spirited Four Fold Goddess and Her correspondences to the four elements, four seasons and directions, four quarters of the moon, and four stages of a woman's life: the Maiden, the Mother, The Queen, and the Crone. The response was stunning. There was an overwhelming enthusiasm from everyone there expressed through laughter, cheers, and heartfelt hugs of gratitude. “Of course! A Queen and not a Crone! Aha! Makes sense! It is about time!”
I also facilitated two workshops, one for a full day and the other for an afternoon. In all, 42 women went through the heady process of naming, claiming and proclaiming their sovereignty and were crowned as Queens of themselves.
Then on the penultimate day of the conference there was a huge ceremony to crown all the Crones and all the Queens. About ten women and two men chose to cover themselves with the mantle of the Crone or in the case of the men, the Sage. What Nearly 70 women declared themselves Queens including two septuagenarians and a 90-year old! What an affirmation of the Queen and the Four Fold Goddess. I was stunned to the bone and thrilled beyond measure!
What a confirmation of my invented new archetype! The creation of The Queen of My Self involved not only years of research, but also some serious soul searching and dogged instinct following. All of which led me to an authentic truth, widely shared, relevant, resonant, and thankfully warmly embraced.
If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally
transform one million realities.
—Maya Angelou
Long live the Queens!
To be continued...
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