Spring Equinox Labyrinth

In a dimly candlelit room fragrant with sage, we walked the labyrinth one by one. Six women, each preparing by silently meditating on those things she wishes to shed from her life, then focussing them into a thread of yarn, to be carried into the labyrinth with her.
When the first was ready she stood by the entrance and was smudged with sage as a cleansing. She began to walk the coiling paths slowly, mindfully, reverently. There is only one way in, and one way out of a labyrinth (unlike the trickster-ish maze with its false leads and dead ends) and yet as the winding paths take you closer in to the centre then further away, then closer, further... you lose track of where you are, where you've been, and relinquish control of the journey to the labyrinth, focussing on the simple magic of one foot in front of another. Then suddenly - and it is always a surprise - you are There. At the centre of the labyrinth, the knife's edge, the place of transformation, mystery, paradox, where inward journey becomes outward journey.

At the centre of our labyrinth was a cauldron, in which to dispose of the 'things we wish to shed' yarn, which would later be burned. There was also a gorgeous Goddess altar with a beautiful Phillipa Bowers statue holding in Her lap an array of gifts for us. These were pretty little sparkly eggs in a rainbow of colours, each mounted on a stick, tied to which was a piece of card with a few words of wisdom from Her.

A few moments to be well and truly rid of the yarn and what it symbolises, some time communing with the Goddess and receiving your gift. And then back retracing your steps around and about the twists and turns, this time focussing on what you would like to draw into your life, what you are thankful for.

One by one we took our turn, and for once I had plenty to put into the cauldron. Money worries, fear, self-doubt, anxiety, dead-end job - I twisted it all almost savagely into my piece of yarn. I was eager to start, sure of myself and what I wanted. But the labyrinth has a strange way of... not so much taking over, but showing you, giving you, what you need. To start with, I was certain that I wanted drumming to accompany my journey, but I forgot to ask for it before I began, and strangely knew almost immediately that actually this was right for me. I needed to make this journey in silence.

I have walked many labyrinths, but on this occasion I found myself stumbling, even though the paths were smooth and easy to walk. My hips were stiff, my ankles felt weak, my back ached, my balance was off. What was wrong? I wanted to make this journey, I wanted to dump this stuff in the cauldron... didn't I?

And that was it, I realised. A part of me was very, very resistant to letting some of this stuff go. I slowed my pace, breathed, focussed. One foot in front of the other. Concentrate on what you're doing.

It came to me that my fear and self-doubt have been there so long, are so deep-rooted that they were not going to leave without a struggle. And some part of me was invested in keeping them there because they give me an excuse to hide, to not try too hard, to not take risks. It may not be a comfortable place to be but it's not as scary as putting yourself out there. I had a mental vision of a big root being pulled out of the soil by great effort and persistence, a root so big and solid that it leaves a hollow imprint of itself in the ground when it is gone. I was determined to grub that root out.

I felt it coming. I felt that plug of fear and self-doubt being pulled out of me, out of the top of my head from all the way down to the soles of my feet. I felt strangely empty, strangely clean. And a little queasy.

But then I could walk OK again. And suddenly I was there, at the centre of the labyrinth. I twisted the yarn in my fingers again, concentrated on focussing all those negatives into it once and for all. Goodbye self-doubt. Goodbye fear. Goodbye money worries, dead-end job, goodbye anxiety. I lifted the yarn to my mouth and blew it all in there. And then I let it drop into the cauldron, gone.

I knelt before the Goddess. At the start of the evening, I had been sure that at this point I would collapse in a weeping heap at Her feet. But the tears in my eyes were of fierce joy, and they did not fall. I thanked Her from my very heart. And took the egg that called to me.

As I walked back out my steps were sure, and I smiled. I kept repeating to myself a new mantra: "I am strong. I am resourceful. I am capable. I will start my own business. I can DO this!". And I knew it was true. As I left the labyrinth I was beaming.

As the others completed their own journeys, I held the space and helped drum for those who wanted it. When we were all done, we looked at each other in wonder. It had been a powerful and moving experience for everyone.

With the lights turned back on and the kettle put to boil for some much needed tea and coffee, we read our messages from the Goddess to each other. Every one was completely right for the woman who had taken it. Mine read, "Every accomplishment starts with the decision to try". And of course, every decision to try starts with overcoming fear and self-doubt. I have shed a long-carried burden. I have been given instructions for the next part of the journey. And it's OK, because "I am strong. I am resourceful. I am capable. I will start my own business. I can DO this!".
(Thank you to the ladies of the Carmarthen Moonlodge for their facilitation and sharing of this journey.)

*****

Post script: The very next day I went down with an absolutely horrendous cold which has completely knocked me for six. I suspect this may be a physical manifestation of rooting out those negative emotions. That was a very powerful labyrinth!


*****

There is just about everything you could want to know about labyrinths on Sig Lonegren's geomancy.org page. His books are also excellent, and I recommend going to hear him speak if you get the chance.

March Tree of Life

The March issue of Pagan Pages e-magazine is now up, and you can read my latest 'Tree of Life' column here.

Today

Chopping wood in the sunshine while the kittens play tag.

Watching the chickens through the kitchen window while I wash the dishes, elbow deep in suds.

The smell of woodsmoke from the range, sweetened by the hyacinths on the windowsill.

Upstairs, the older cats sprawl in patches of sunlight on the bedspread.

Snowdrops and crocuses brighten the world. There is birdsong.

Water drips from the roof. It will rain again soon.

Time for another cup of Earl Grey. Then lunch. Then off to work.

Today is unique, yet full of the familiar. Today is a day like and unlike every other day. Today is the one and only today. Just like yesterday, and tomorrow, and all the days to come...
 

Sun and Rain, Hope and Sorrow at Imbolc

Sunday 2nd February

After seemingly endless weeks of wind and rain, the morning of Imbolc was calm and bright. I donned a waterproof jacket and packed a small rucksack with a bottle of water, some snacks and a torch, just in case. I was on a mission.

Two days earlier, our two kittens, Mandrake and Woodruff had gone missing. We were beside ourselves with worry. Although by now 6 months old, it was very unusual for them to disappear for any length of time. And with the weather being so awful it didn't seem likely they were off adventuring when they could be warm and dry by the fire and the food bowl. We spent all day Saturday searching and asking neighbours to check their garages and outbuildings, but without any luck. We ended the day despondent and worried the boys may have been taken by someone. It seemed unlikely, but as they had both disappeared at the same time it seemed a possibility.

On Sunday morning - Imbolc - however, that possibility seemed remote, as Woodruff returned. Unfortunately he returned alone. After some discussion, we decided that IB would continue searching the immediate area around Halfway Up A Hill, while I would walk a circular route around the valley, calling for Mandrake in hopes he had merely wandered off away from familiar surroundings and got lost in the area.

Although there was a light shower of rain as I left the house, by the time I had walked to the end of the lane and begun climbing the first hill, the sky was blue and the sun reflected dazzlingly off the wet road surface. At the top of the first hill I had to stop to take off my rainproof jacket. Everywhere there was birdsong and the sound of running water. It felt like spring. Where the hill levelled out, water running off the fields covered the road and even the grass verges, and I had to tiptoe like a tightrope walker along the centre of the roadway where the water was shallowest in an attempt to keep my feet dry.

As I walked, I called 'Mandrake! Mandrake!' hoping each time that I'd catch sight of his sweet, quizzical face peering from a hedgerow or thicket, but instead I was regarded only by stoical sheep and scornful crows.

Pausing every now and then, I listened intently for an answering miaow. Sometimes my ears would catch a faint sound and I'd freeze, listening hard, only to realise it was not a cat's miaow but the mew of a buzzard, not the chink of the bell on a cat collar but the dripping of water down a drain.

The road dipped down again into a shady, steeply moss-walled part of the valley where cascading waterfalls hurled themselves into the river below. By the time the road turned back uphill again and I emerged back into daylight, thick grey clouds were threatening the sun. 

'Mandrake! Mandrake!'. No sound, save the outraged barking of a distant farm's dog, and the harsh 'Cronk! Cronk!' of courting ravens wheeling in the sky above me.

As I took the turning that would allow me to cross back again to 'my' side of the valley, the horizon turned misty and I hastily pulled on my waterproof jacket, knowing the rain would soon reach me. It did, propelled almost horizontally by a sudden, fierce wind. I sheltered under some evergreens by a thick hedge but even so I was thoroughly soaked by the time the squall had passed. If Mandrake was around I hoped he was sheltering somewhere out of the elements.

The sun and blue skies and birdsong returned so astonishingly quickly that only the clamminess of rain-soaked denim against my legs confirmed that I hadn't in fact imagined the storm.

Another turning took me that little bit closer to home and my heart quickened. Surely this was where I'd find him. Close enough to home to be feasible, far enough away for him to have got confused and lost his bearings.

'Mandrake! Mandrake!'. But still nothing, and my pace began to slow as the possibility that I may not find him after all started nibbling at the edge of my mind.

Downhill again, this time to the little chapel by the river. Now I was feeling anxious. What if I didn't find him? What if he wasn't just lost somewhere nearby?  Unpleasant possibilities began to seem frighteningly more likely.

Just the other side of the chapel in a sheltered spot I came across a bank of snowdrops, the first I'd seen. I remembered an old tale that if you 'rang' the bell of the first fully open snowdrop you saw, Brigid would grant your wish. I said a little prayer to Her, thanking Her for Her gift in this sacred place of bubbling springs and rushing water, and 'rang' a snowdrop, praying for his safe return. Then another, and another. Please, Brigid, please. Let him come back to us.

Back up from the valley floor on the road that leads to the ridge of the hill. Slower and slower now. I don't want to return without him. I don't want to allow the possibility that Mandrake may never return. Up along the ridge. Surely from here, he will hear my voice and come running. But he doesn't come, and now all I can do is begin descending back down from the top of the hill to Halfway Up A Hill.

I return alone, face streaked with more rain. Rain and tears. Where is he?

*******

Today, Wednesday 5th February

No Mandrake. Not on Sunday. Not on Monday. Not on Tuesday.

By Wednesday IB and I are depressed and exhausted. We have run out of places to look, people to ask for help. Neither of us have slept properly since Friday night, tossing and turning and fretting through each night, rising to fresh disappointment each morning.

We return from work and sit in disconsolate silence sipping tea at the kitchen table. Woodruff miaows and I turn to tell him to hush. And realise it is not Woodruff miaowing at all. It is the cat at the catflap, the cat miaowing to be let in. The cat who is Mandrake.

And then he is in, he is back, and we are all falling over each other, cats and humans alike in a frenzy of joy at this longed for yet unexpected reunion.

He is starving. He wants food and cuddles and cuddles and food. Woodruff jumps all over him in excitement at getting his brother back. We laugh, and cry, and laugh again, and shower him with kisses.

He is back, tired and hungry, but he is safe and he is home. I could ask for nothing more.

Thank you Brigid. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 

                      

   

February Tree of Life

The February issue of Pagan Pages online magazine is now available. You can find my 'Tree of Life' column here.

Happy Imbolc!

January Tree of Life

There was no December issue of Pagan Pages e-magazine due to technical problems, but the January issue is now online. You can read my latest 'Tree of Life' column for Pagan Pages here.

The 'C' Word, Part 5: Some Closing Thoughts on Closure

It's a brilliantly bright, sunny yet frozen morning as I step outside to tend to the chickens and Spike the gander. Fiercely blue skies over a landscape dusted sparkling white by frost. I tend to the animals and gather kindling for the fire, thinking about the coming end of the year.

I've never been a great one for New Year celebrations - parties and fireworks and Auld Lang Syne - yet in the last few years I have become very focussed on doing magic around the ending of the year. Cleaning away the old and outmoded both literally and metaphorically, and tying up loose ends, as in my Clean Start Soap Spell, making space. And then with clear intent, concentrating on what I need to draw into my life at this point in time, this new start. Somewhere in between these two I shall also be counting the many blessings that have come my way in the last twelve months, going through my Jar of Blessings and giving thanks for all those moments of joy and serendipity. I think it's important to keep a sense of balance about the good and the bad. Take an unflinching look at the bad so that you can do something about it - but acknowledge and give thanks for the good stuff too!

Of course the end of the year is just one end point of many. I could just as easily choose to do this kind of magic on my birthday, or at Imbolc, or Samhain or even monthly, at every moon cycle. Yet for me the end of year works very well - perhaps because the group mind is focussed on the end/beginning motif at this time, or perhaps the Yule/Christmas/New Year festivities give a bit of breathing space away from the normal routine of things and allow me time to mull over what needs to be mulled!

As I mentioned in an earlier post, this year seems to have been all about endings, or at least coming to terms with all kinds of different issues. Looking back, things this year have brought me face to face with issues encompassing all areas of my life - home/environment (new bathroom, new porch, decorating), health (torn ligament in my shoulder), family, friends and loved ones (wedding, birthday party and the ensuing fall out from that), and my spiritual community (Dragonrise Witchcamp).

Whilst trying to make sense of all this, I found out that it has coincided with my Chiron Return, which happens for us all around the age of fifty, when the mini-planet Chiron (named for the Greek God of Healing) returns to its original position in our birthchart and forces us to take stock and address those areas of our lives which need healing. This may sound a bit crazy, but having experienced a similar - and far more emotionally jarring - period of upheaval and chaos during my Saturn return in my late 20's it makes sense to me!

Interestingly when writing about all this in my journal I found myself exactly halfway through the notebook. More symbolism, more synchronicity. I am paying attention Mutiverse! I am really trying to get it and do the work I need to do.

This morning what occurred to me is that there is no real closure - or at least, finding some kind of closure doesn't magically wrap everything up neatly and put it away once and for all. It's more about coming to peace with what you need to, reconciling  yourself with what is, instead of what you would like it to be. All of these issues and experiences and difficulties have contributed to where and how and who I am today. They don't ever actually resolve themselves and disappear into a cloud of sparkly pink smoke and 'poof!' everything is magically sunshine and roses. No, reaching closure is about accepting and integrating those experiences and their lessons. They stay with you, as they should. They are a valuable part of you, and you are now at peace with them.

Perhaps this year has been as much about Healing as Closure. Which ever is the correct word - and perhaps they both are - I am grateful for the experience, and grateful that even though it has been challenging at times, it has undoubtedly also been positive. I feel like the whole year has been a cleansing, and now I am ready to move on to counting my blessings and planning what will come next. Thank you Chiron. Thank you Multiverse.

Happy New Year.