Druid Life



I question, everything, a lot. It means there are a lot of days when I don’t know what I’m doing, or what the point is. People following the blog have been generous indeed with support and kindness during some of those brutal times of lost direction and lost faith. My publisher at Moon Books, Trevor Greenfield was an absolute soul-saver when he asked me early this year to write him a Pagan portal. Spirituality without Structure will be along soon.

I question myself. I doubt. I pick over, chew over, gnaw until things bleed sometimes. I wrote about dark places recently. I did not say how much my own dark side frightens me, but it does. How deeply I fear all that seems wrong in me, and there is so much. There are days when I have no sense at all of there being anything in here that isn’t made of wrong. Sometimes I have a headspace that allows me to see that as a manifestation of depression, but there are also days when all I see is the wrongness, and the idea of letting myself off the hook by saying I am merely ill, is unpalatable. There are days when showing up here is hard, when I fear that anything I post will look like self-indulgence, but every time I’ve risked one of these, someone has found it resonant. If, by sharing, I can make the dark paths a little more bearable for someone else, then there is a point.

Some of you lovely readers walk the dark paths. You’ve shared stories and kind words when you’ve had something to spare. I don’t have much to offer today, but this is something I wrote recently. This time of year, and this state of mind have me thinking about all that is unacceptable, all that our civilizations have punished through time. The witches who were hanged, the heretics who burned, the gay and lesbian folk who were deemed monstrous. The mentally-different, straightjacketed at best, the learning difficulties folk who were demonised, the outsiders and the unacceptable. To anyone else who suspects that there may not really be a place for them in the village, I offer this.

Beyond the pale

I am your dishonoured dead
Buried unhallowed for fear
Transgressions in this life might
Transcend my passing
And haunt you yet.
Crossroad grave and stake
Exiled to the wasteland
For sins forgotten.
A forlorn waif now
Hungry remnant of ghost
To mourn outside the gate
Beyond the bounds
Unnamed, unclaimed, unmarked
But not quite silenced.