JOURNAL: brick by brick

The cottage is fertile, within its womb grows a basement room, a little cave where energy is stored, where memories linger, where layers between realities are thin. The shelves on two walls are lined with books, the kind of books visiting relatives are not meant to see, oils with little labels and dates. A small table bears an egyptian shrine, as it used to before in another place. Isis and her crown have pride of place. On the floor, rugs which remember the shapes of two bodies united in a quest of the spirit across time, across space. A tiny window at ceiling height lets in some air, a few stray sun beams which just manage entry past its metal bars. On the ground, strewn rosemary for remembrance and lavender for blessed sleep.

I wonder where hobbits do go in the dark of winter, their slow, heavy bodies well covered against the cold. Perhaps they too dwell in dark warm places lit by candles.

Poem: riding night mares

In the dark, in the dark which is inviting and full-scented
my body lies prone, a freedom of sorts, to abandon it

you enter, by what path I know not
since I blocked the paths with quarried stone
and the river of feeling that led here
I let it bleed dry
so that you might never sail its waters in the warmth of the night

before thought, before awareness of myself
there is awareness of you, of scent and skin
of flesh different to mine
and of blood which makes my heart beat fast

your unique signature: that the blood in your veins
makes my heart beat as my blood makes your heart beat
the occult significance of blood in a neat resume

neater than jagged piercing

JOURNAL: The earth

Soil. Clay in places, overly dry in others, moist and dark. Even the earth seeks balance in my life. Balance it shall find. The garden prospers and soon another set of hands to prepare the place and to plant the new trees chosen for shade and for healing. Among them, quercus ilex, an evergreen oak with its male and female flowers and perennial leaves. It shall be the centrepiece of my little grove of sacred trees, together with drimys winterii (Canelo o Foye). The tree of peace among the Mapuche and the tree from which the kultrun is made, the sacred drum of the Machis. A meeting of European and Mapuche trees, to provide a space in which to retreat and listen to the voices of ancestors, by and by. When I am an old woman I will find shade there. There my ashes shall be spread.

JOURNAL: The garden

The herbs gathered at Litha hang now dry from the oak log which holds up my worksurface in the kitchen. Soon to be put away properly labelled for winter use. The herbs are flourishing in the garden since their trimming, the mint particularly fine and in full bloom. They shall be used for magical workings rather than health, not enough to go round.

Tonight before sunset I cut some and also some malvarosa and rosemary for a posy for a love altar, crowned by two very fine pink hortensia heads. Placed in my bedroom, by a window, and accompanied by some hand-rolled pure wax candles made by a former love, they should be very effective in bringing the joy of summer into my little abode. Now the exact shape is a matter for the powers that be.

Today a day of high, warm winds that swept the garden and entered into my bedroom all day long until sunset. Then calm set in.

JOURNAL: pain

Blue to counter the fiery red of pain.....nothing as exhilarating as the feeling of being pain-less after great physical pain.

JOURNAL: of the beloved

A dream came to me which was more a visitation, the beloved came and wore a known face, one that would not be denied in its urgency to enter my life again, to be accepted once again in spite of much grief and loss. I think it was the poem to Inanna which brought me the happiness of seeing the much loved being again before me, of hearing all the words so tenderly spoken before and new ones asking to return. The hair swung as it once did, to be caught in my hand. The arms held me and conveyed the longing of ages past, until the painful memories were erased and I realised that opening ones heart is not only possible but inevitable. Blessed Inanna, timely and wise. You know the unspoken hunger of the heart and the exact shape and scent of the beloved of each heart. The season will come once again and we shall be trees in full bloom. A testimony to Your might and to Your healing.

Poem: Inanna

Innana, beloved
your very name brings creation
sweetness to the heart that hears the sacred sound
of the Goddess who loves beyond death unto immortal life
Inanna to whom all libation is poured in an endless river
as honey, as sweetly scented perfume
Inanna of the sacred hips that dance the cosmos into pleasure
Inanna of the voice that sings at dawn over the sleeping form of her Beloved,
He who was made sacred through knowing Her
he who was made immortal through the joy of knowing Her
all bounty and all joy flow from Inanna, the Goddess of the tender eyes and proud gaze
the Goddess who through the night watched over her beloved
knowing what he had to give in exchange for Her love
proud the Goddess of her choice

Poem: the ancestors

Forests with dew and deep green trees
scent of earth newly washed by rain
sitting, we two, on ground new to us
our eyes locked into the past
your beloved shape shimmers and changes
eyes become deeper, brow thicker
shape of bone, shade of skin
even the very smell of you
change until another man is before me
the ancestor within you, the soul
whose body was stolen by the enemy
greets me with a look that would chill the bone
if he did not know me or deemed me enemy or unworthy

My eye stands the gaze that sears
my soul opens with nothing to hide
and nowhere to hide it
the silent exchange begins, your ancestor greets me
and my ancestor awakens to the greeting
the me now and the you then and the me then
only the you now is strangely absent or perhaps dormant
the weak link that we must stregthen least the enemy triumph again

(weeks later, triumph he did)

JOURNAL: gregorian new year 2007

Lords, ladies and gentlefolk, a new year by any other name is more of the same, time being elliptical and each event being somewhere connected to every other event in time-space. I sit at my kitchen table, looking out of a lead panelled window with new vitraux courtesy of a kind aunt and of a former love, who together set off a chain of events leading to my trying a new leisure interest. Winter is a good time of year to expand skills as long as it doesnt require stepping out of doors too often.

I think that in the distance to the right of my door there must be a city, for at midnight the far glimmer of fireworks interfered with the light of the near-full moon. The beech tree in my front garden awoke and its leaves shimmered and shook. I suspect it is home to a dryad who is as shy as any other of the tree spirits. I must think of a gift to introduce myself to her or him.

I smell the lavender oil in the wax that the kitchen table has been polished with. A lit white candle brings gentle light which highlights the shades of the newly painted glass panes. I wonder where my beloved has strayed, no message in so long, only dreams which speak of presence and also of absence that continues for too long. What holds her away for so long, I dont know but soon may,when the winds turn and a gentler time arrives. Sometimes though it is the storm which brings news when someone has gone too far or too long. Whichever, I wish her home soon even if for a few nights, to warm this winter which brings in early nights and cold awakenings. So many additions to welcome her home and the light over the door nightly lit may guide her here.