A guest blog from Halo Quin
Category Archives: Guest Blogger
A guest post by Chris Mole
What does Hermes, fleet-footed messenger of the gods, have in common with the Flash, the Scarlet Speedster of DC Comics and a member of the Justice League? Not a lot, you may think – one first emerged in ancient Greece over 2000 years ago, the possible Greek version of a Mesopotamian snake-god, while the other was created by writer Gardner Fox and artist Harry Lampert in 1939. And yet, the first appearance of the Flash (and his alter-ego, Jay Garrick) depicted him in a winged metal helmet and winged boots that deliberately evoked Hermes, while the accompanying text proclaimed him to be “the Flash, reincarnation of the winged Mercury!”
The Flash is the most obvious example of a superhero inspired by a god, but he – along with Superman, Batman, Captain Marvel and Wonder Woman, all introduced prior to 1941 – has become much more than that through decades of comic books, TV shows and movies. In reimagining what a hero could be, the creators of these household names were (unwittingly or not) tapping into a rich seam of mythology, creating archetypal characters who would thrive and survive throughout the tumultuous 20th century and be as relevant as ever in the 21st.
In an increasingly jaded and cynical world riven by injustice and seemingly entrenched hatred, superhero stories may be the closest thing we have to modern myth – epic tales of heroes and heroines with godlike power, who battle against evil and protect humanity. Since human beings were able to describe our surroundings, we’ve ascribed characteristics and personalities to them – in shinto, local kami are personifications of rocks, rivers and other features of the landscape. Since we conceived of gods, we’ve felt the urge to tell stories about them, imagining divine societies and hierarchies that mirror our own and creating liminal spaces where our realm overlaps with the divine – sacred groves, hellmouths, even churches in the Christian faith.
We imagine worlds in which those with divine powers walk amongst us, disguised as normal human beings, and we take lessons from them – the heart of every good Superman story is not the power which Superman wields, it’s the compassion with which he treats the people around him. A Superman who knows when not to punch, but instead to simply talk – and listen.
With Brigantia (issue #2 funding now on Kickstarter!), I wanted to draw an explicit connection between pagan myth and the modern mythology of superheroes. Brigantia was conceived as a kind of ‘British Wonder Woman’ – a superhero whose powers come from a divine source, but who is based on a goddess much closer to home for me than the Greek myth that Diana, Princess of Themyscira is based on. However, our challenge was that while we know a lot about the Greek pantheon and their stories (due to their written traditions and the writings of poets such as Homer), we know a lot less about Celtic deities – Brigantia arose from a society that had a strictly oral tradition, and stories that weren’t passed down were lost.
We wanted to take what we do know about the goddess and attempt to bring her to life – to show her as a fully-realised being whose personality drew from the tribesmen and women who kept her name alive. That humanity is key to the power and longevity of our myths – we look to the gods for guidance when we face struggle in our own lives, so being able to draw strength from their challenges helps us to persevere. We see Batman struggle every day with the enormity of his Herculean task to stamp out crime, and we see him rise up again and again and keep fighting towards that goal. With Brigantia, we wanted to show her struggling with defeat and failure – a goddess previously undefeated in battle, known for her power and bravery, being soundly beaten by a monstrous foe. Failure is an essential part of any mythological story, because all of us have known failure in our lives – we can draw inspiration from how our gods and heroes battle through that failure and emerge victorious.
Above all, with Brigantia, we want those who worship the goddess to feel like this is a story that they can relate to – it might not be an old story, or one handed down through the mists of time, but the awen strikes just as strongly now as it did back then. As modern superhero stories draw on the structures and patterns of stories from the ancient past, hopefully our reinterpretation of Brigantia can be the latest in a long line of regional tales about her – not the only true story, but one of many, and maybe even help evoke the goddess’ presence for our readers. After all, myths have to come from somewhere…
Brigantia issue #2 is now funding on Kickstarter, with a story by Chris Mole, art by Harriet Moulton and Melissa Trender and lettering by Aditya Bidikar. Check out the campaign here: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/chrismole/brigantia-issue-2-the-comic
A guest blog by Vishwam Heckert
For some years, I have found myself listening to trees. At first it was just their presence … a feeling of someone there who had much to share. As my practice of heart meditation has deepened, more information is received and I find the trees sharing words or images with me. It is such a beautiful way to connect with nature – so direct! I’d been hearing from friends that many trees are getting sick … from the environmental strains of our times. One day in the autumn, I found myself asking a tree how we could help. She showed me the image of people in a circle around a tree, holding hands and singing together – singing with the tree. I’ve since been talking with my teacher about these things and she is telling me that every tree is a living prayer – always connected with earth and with what is beyond.
I found myself talking with an old friend, who sometimes goes by the name Frida Go, about doing some kind of work together to support people during lockdown. We have a long history of shared love for the Earth and the memory of this vision showed itself again … and so an event was born. I wasn’t sure if it was too far out for people, but we had a large group come together, each connecting with trees in different places … and even different countries. As it was so popular, and so very beautiful, we’re holding another circle of Singing the Trees a week on Sunday. All are welcome! Contributions of various kinds, including financial, are welcome but not expected. We are doing this for the trees primarily.
As so many people loved the last one, we’re coming together to Sing the Trees once again!
This is a beautiful opportunity to deepen your connection with nature and voice. In these times, we are being a bit more like the trees – staying in stillness, more rooted, getting to know our neighbours. The trees are our neighbours, our friends, our family. They produce the air we breathe and give so much more. Here’s an opportunity to give back – to honour our friends with song and prayer.
Indigenous wisdom from around the world recognises an innate intelligence in trees, as in all of life. Modern biologists are learning how trees communicate and care for one another, and increasingly even physicists suggest that consciousness is inherent in all matter. Whatever our own sense of non-human beings’ experience may be, it can be very special to take some time to stop, breathe, and connect with our always immobile neighbours – the trees.
Maybe there’s a tree you already know you’d like to sing with? Or maybe you’d like to get to know a tree before we meet? Together, online and each in our different places, we will take this time to tune in with love and kindness and our hearts’ prayers. With gentle support and guidance from your hosts, we will listen to the trees around and find the sounds or song that wants to come through where they grow. Any sounds that come may be silent and inward, gently hummed, a pretty tune may or may not emerge or even some wild sound.. you may prefer to work choose a tree somewhere you will feel relaxed should other humans hear your sounds 😉
Whatever emerges will be perfect and unique: to you, to the tree you choose and to that place and time.
The morning (or the time where you are) will include a little space to introduce ourselves, some warming up our voices and connecting with the land, with our hearts through meditation, and with the trees. We’ll turn off our microphones and cameras for a while to connect with the trees in a quiet space together and rejoin for a closing circle at the end.
We will be connecting through Zoom, so you may wish to find a tree located where you definitely have access either to phone or data signal. You might wish to use headphones so you can listen to the guidance without others being disturbed. If it’s raining or you are staying in your home for other reasons, you can connect with a tree that you know or perhaps a photograph of one. Please arrive 5 minutes early with your phone’s notifications off to settle in and relax.
Suggested contribution for the event is £10 (paying less if you have less, nothing if you need, and welcome to pay more if you have more) for you with a portion of proceeds going to support Three Streams (Scotland) https://three-streams.org/
You can send your contribution via http://paypal.me/vishwamheart
To register your place, please email firstname.lastname@example.org
Frida Go is … a semi-feral adventurer, art school garden chaplain, Initiate of the Western Mysteries, Master of Fine Arts & Science
Vishwam Heckert is a gentle listener, Heart Of Living Yoga Teacher & Teacher Trainer, and Doctor of Philosophy (the wisdom of love) http://flowingwithlife.org/
A guest blog from Ing Venning
When presented with beige folding,
when gifted with pale pinkness,
do you argue that white
is the take-charge pigment
or that red has always been
the more supportive hue?
Can you accept
my pistil and my stamen
or are you merely a boy,
simply a girl,
never a budding flower
bright with the sunny joy
of scented days and secret nights?
Perfection is the flaw
that defilement approaches.
Will you ask only one
or two questions
before taking your leave?
Or will you open at the south
and beg a third?
Ing Venning is the outsider author of the Wheel of the Year saga (a fantasy series featuring pagan, LGBTQIA+, and non-capitalist characters), Sources (a collection of retellings), and, most recently, a poetry collection called Lexical Numerals (of which “Toward Beltane” is part). Ing is working hard to get off disability and raise himself up to the poverty line in uncertain times. Want to try a sampler of his work or his first novel for free? Visit https://ingvenning.com/
Emi is a Studio Ghibli-inspired dark fantasy about humanity and morality with Japanese folklore imagery.
The grass had decided to become everything it could be, growing until only the barn’s roof was visible above the swaying fronds. Slates had slipped, making wounds that exposed wooden ribs beneath. In the eaves, a dried bird’s nest rattled in the breeze.
Christopher stood at the foot of the hill, looking up at the sagging roof. Drifting toward the dilapidated marvel, his progress could be seen as a shifting wake in the tall grass, a shark splitting water.
Skirting the barn’s perimeter, he swept hair the colour of dirty butter from his eyes. Cracks and creases in the stonework grinned and grimaced. The masonry sprouted vibrant mosses and the odd weed-flower. Some stones lay on the ground, some shards of broken slate. He stood at a distance for a while, looking up and down the walls, back the way he’d come, across fields where the wind made eddies in the wild wheat that chased like swallows. He looked to the horizon simply because his eye fell there, made from a spine of hilltops, and saw beyond them to the empty prairies and meadows and clear green rivers he’d already traversed, everything silent and blooming and undisturbed.
He circled back around to the barn’s doors.
They hung askew, holes gaping between mouldered planks. The chain, so badly rusted that its links were immovable, snapped in Christopher’s bare hands. Where it had lain across the door, a deep red grin scarred the wood.
The scent of ancient hay and animal dung still remained inside. Light bled through slats of the boarded window in two glistening shafts. If he still breathed, Christopher would have caught his breath.
One shaft of light came to rest on a pair of mottled legs, curled beneath a summer dress of lemon and white. It was stiff with dirt, torn and frayed at the embroidered hem. A pair of dainty white socks had yellowed with age above pretty, dust-covered shoes. The other beam caressed the crown of a bowed head, blonde locks weaving their way like a golden briar about the child’s head.
Christopher tried to speak but only released a squeak of desiccated vocal chords. His unused tongue made a dry clack between receding gums.
“Ch-h-hello,” he managed, in a dry rasp.
The small legs retreated into the dark. The sound of a chain dragging in dirt as the little dead girl stepped forward, uncertain in what must have been her first steps in an age. Reaching the extent of her chain, wrapped thrice around her tiny waist, the girl jerked backward and almost off balance, waving her arms to stay upright. By the light from the broken doorway Christopher could see she was seven, maybe eight years old, and had been for a long time. Her leather t-bar shoes pointed slightly toward each other at the toes. Her hands hung slack on the apron of her dress. Her right sleeve was a tatter, the thin bicep beneath shredded.
Christopher’s hand strayed to his stomach, a spot on his threadbare dungarees where the rubbing had worn the denim white.
“Your name.” Christopher forced the sounds from his mouth, kneeling to her.
The girl lifted her head, hair plastered across her ashen forehead in some long forgotten fever. Christopher reached out to brush it aside, a reflex he didn’t realise he’d forgotten until it was remembered. Her eyes were the yellow of the Sickness. The colour of his own.
“Your name?” he asked again, his voice becoming softer with the practice, returning to its old disarming whisper.
When she opened her mouth, a moth battered its way from her lips and escaped through the wounded roof.
“Emi,” crackled the girl. “My name is Emi.”
Her Mummy and Daddy had put her there to keep her safe, and they were coming back. So, Emi waited. She waited until Christopher came and yanked her chain from the wall as if it were buried in sand, not stone. She waited until the world fell quiet outside, until the Sickness receded, taking most memories that she had with it. Except that Mummy and Daddy were coming back. That, she knew.
With the child free to roam as she liked, Christopher set off once more on his eternal pilgrimage without destination or purpose. The brief wonder of finding her forgotten.
Emi wandered to and fro in his wake, winding across the old track, taking in the colour of the bushes and flowers, watching insects flit and fly. Not much had survived, but the insects had.
“Where are we going?” Emi asked.
Christopher’s spine snapped to attention at the sound of her voice. He spun around.
She was still there.
Christopher had to think about his answer.
“Nowhere in particular,” he said.
“Oh,” said Emi, regarding a wild hedgerow at the roadside. Entangled in the branches were delicate white flowers on thin vines that curled like filigree. Without a thought, she reached out to pluck one.
Christopher’s hand lashed out, gripping her wrist tight.
“Don’t touch that,” he said with little urgency.
Still in his steel grasp, Emi asked why.
“It’ll kill you.”
Looking at the way his white knuckles enveloped the girl’s forearm, a memory surfaced to gather air and then submerged once more, leaving only the flash of a tail. Christopher drew back his hand to stare at it. This was turning into an odd day.
“We’re already dead,” pressed Emi. She shifted the chain that still wrapped her waist, flecks of red drifting down to stain her dress a little more.
Christopher was admiring his hand.
“It’ll kill you more.”
He walked away.
Emi didn’t move. Her little head tipped to the side. The flowers were so pretty, the petals so delicate.
The sound of his name on her tiny lips seemed wrong to him. At first, he didn’t respond. But there was something, something he should do, an itch to scratch. He should answer.
“Is everyone dead?”
Christopher stopped in the track, but didn’t turn.
“Are Mum and Dad dead?”
A small part of him expected tears, or at least another question. He heard the sound of Emi’s tiny shoes in the dirt, and felt her fragile hand slip into his own.
“We should go then,” she said.
(Out in April)
Putting the romance back into necromancy… Necromancers by Penny Blake is a funny, twisted sort of a tale. There are pointy things to be said about religion and the use of humour and fantasy to make comment on human behaviour reminded me very much of Terry Pratchett. I didn’t feel I could review this one, having proof-read it just long enough ago to be unhelpful. I very much enjoyed it.
I can tell you that my slightly evil teenage son chortled all the way through and pronounced it to be excellent.
For your delectation…
An Extract From NECROMANCERS By Penny Blake
A terrible accident involving a minor miscalculation has flooded almost the entire planet with lemonade. A few sparse scraps of humanity cling to flotillas of cobbled junk in attempts to sustain some semblance of civilised existence. War, famine and caffeine withdrawal have turned the erstwhile peaceful world into a post-apocalyptic nightmare.
Meanwhile, on the remote and inexplicably unaffected island of Eilean Claigeann, an ancient cult are still obliviously serving the obsolete ‘supreme ruler of the universe’, Wiz, and trying to fathom the secret of immortality. Sort of. Actually daily temple life revolves more around cake sales, bridge nights and village fetes… until two novices discover the secret of immortality themselves and unleash a couple of very unlikely ‘gods’ upon the previously peaceful community.
This LGBTQIA+ short story is part of the Ashton’s Kingdom series and takes place approximately 500 years after the events in The Curious Adventures Of Smith And Skarry
CHAPTER 1: Cake or Death
Thunder, lightening, rain, hail, ominous fog and all the other things that accompany the beginning of an iconic horror movie or damn fine tale about Tea, Cake and lashings of Untimely Death, were occurring all over the little island known colloquially (and everywhere else) as The Skull.
Douglas skidded and stumbled over the vindictively slick cobblestones, cursing the length of his disgustingly sodden red robes, the ineffectual protection offered by his floppy wet cowl, the stupid little purse that dangled at his waist and was constantly expelling all his valuables into the muck, the fact that his favourite pocket watch had broken – again – and any and everything else that passed through his mind as he finally staggered, panting and wheezing, to the top of the hill.
Sheet lightening flared for a second, silhouetting the crumbling chapel as Douglas clasped the cold iron ring in the studded wooden door and, with a cautious shoulder, silently eased it open.
The eerie luminescence of a hundred flickering candles vanished in an ebbing wave, to be replaced by darkness and smoke and a smattering of accusatory choking noises.
Thunder shook the walls and lightening flashed again, gleaming on several stiletto thin blades, poised in mid air.
“Sorry,” Douglas ventured, shuffling sideways along what he hoped was the back row of folding chairs. There was an almighty crash as something large and metallic clattered to the flagstone floor. “Sorry! So sorry, Francis, er, Your Grace…”
A guest blog by Melusine Draco
As most of my readers will know, I have a fascination for odd and obscure historical facts that are hidden away in the millions of sources that outstrip and confound the confines of the Internet – it’s finding them that presents the stimulation and the challenge. If we merely rely on the regurgitated information of contemporary paganism not only does our mind become stagnant, but for those who follow the Craft of the witch, so do our magical abilities.
Over the years I have also incorporated a great deal of folk- cunning- and country-lore into my books on witchcraft with a view to preserving that knowledge for future generations. Much of what even my grandparents’ generation once knew is now lost because it was never recorded for posterity. True there are numerous pagan books written about similar subjects but it is obvious that a large number of them don’t have the countryside in their blood and fail to reflect the magic and mystery of growing up in an uncomplicated rural environment. Strangely enough, these sentiments are often now viewed as some form of elitism but I prefer to go back to the roots of learning rather than consult something that has been cobbled together from different popular titles without any true grounding in Nature.
Both The Secret People and CRONE! are autobiographical and were a lot of fun to write. CRONE! takes ‘a year in the life of …’ approach and is a rag-bag of memories, wise counsel, reflections, magic and nostalgia that make up a witch’s year – especially one who’s just stepped down as leader of a Coven and finds herself with a lot of time on her hands. Magically this is the best of times since there is nothing to prevent the Crone from doing what she likes, when, where and how – since her personal power is now greatly magnified. CRONE! might also provide food for thought for those Craft ladies of a certain age who need to step aside and let the next generation have their turn, because often we don’t stop to think that the magical power of the group can diminish and stagnate through the lack of fresh energy. Hopefully, as far as the new Magister and Dame are concerned, I will be around for a long time to come, remaining in the background dispensing Knowledge, Wisdom and Understanding so that they in turn can train their own successors for the future, while I return to my own chosen Path. In truth there’s comes a time in life in Crafter’s life when it becomes necessary to follow a different Path and see where it takes us. We leave the security of the Coven and set off on a solitary journey … but as Aleister Crowley observed: “What an adventure!”
On reflection life is good and it’s not everyone who can live the witch’s dream of retiring to a small, isolated cottage in a river valley in the shadow of a wild mountain range. Since I’m country born and bred, it’s more like returning to my roots but life’s rich tapestry has certainly had its fair share of snags, runs, holes and endless thread-pulling along the way. I’ve lived in the Glen for ten years now and although my original pack of greyhound companions has been reduced drastically through old-age, I’m still pack-leader of five … not forgetting Harvey my intrepid little mongrel!
The Glen is ideally suited to the type of magic we teach in Coven of the Scales simply because we are not over-looked – psychically or magically – and nothing is allowed to interfere with the daily routine of interacting with Nature on a full-time basis. The cottage is on the opposite side of the Glen to the mountains, on the wooded Slievenamuck Ridge with a lush valley and the River Aherlow running between. The view of the mountains is never the same two days running and at certain times of the afternoon, the slopes are bathed in a strange, ethereal light that is nothing short of enchanting. Each morning I can stand at the bedroom window and stare out with the feeling that this is an ever-lasting holiday – and one I often share with members of the Coven.
From a magical energy perspective, the mountains were formed during the ‘Caledonian Foldings’, which caused the underlying Silurian rocks to fold into great ridges. The Silurian rocks were quite soft and quickly eroded; the eroded dust compacted over millions of years to form Old Red Sandstone, a tough enduring rock and so the Galtees are of Red Sandstone, but with a softer Silurian rock core. If anyone is familiar with my Magic Crystals, Sacred Stones, they will understand how important these geological features are to our magical teaching.
As a result of being surrounded by all this beauty, I’ve now gone into Crone-mode, which in magical parlance means that I can do and say what I want, when I want, and no one can object, since they must sit at my feet and drink in the pearls of wisdom I dispense with every breath … even if they are the senile, verbal wanderings of an aging crank. Seriously, the Coven has been told that if I do get to that stage ‘Do not revive!’ must be entered on the medical chart! Today, I am blessed with a crowd of wonderful people in the Coven from all over the world; all of whom are bright, intelligent and talented – not a witchy outfit to be seen amongst them with Craft ‘mark’ tastefully concealed – and all dear friends.
In truth, we as practitioners of Old Craft are less concerned with ritual and dogma, and more focused on natural energy-raising techniques, which we use to channel or direct spells and charms according to the nature of the working. As I’ve often said, Old Craft witches do not worship Nature but we are certainly proficient at working in harmony with it … and are highly spiritual beings on this level, too. Unlike the majority of modern pagans, however, we accept Nature as being red in tooth and claw and do not seek to impose our will on the natural scheme of things – even if Beltaine is delayed because the hawthorn comes into bloom a month late! And you can’t have a true Beltaine celebration without the fragrance of May blossom in the air … if you understand my meaning.
We also accept the timeless concept of the hunter and the hunted, and the essential inter-action of male-female energy. Old Craft is not generally seen as gender specific but its beliefs do tend to lean towards the male aspect since the female aspect remains veiled and a mystery – as she should be since this is the ancient and fundamental ‘Truth’ behind the Mysteries. Coven of the Scales is not a true sabbatical tradition but it remains an initiatory Mystery one, and what it does share with the other pre-Wiccan traditions is a common feature of extreme selectivity when it comes to prospective members – and the willingness to reject those proven unfit for the Path. Needless to say, this unpopular and confrontational stance has often led to thorny relations between other so-called ‘traditional’ groups, but it has encouraged a sanctuary-like environment where creative magical collaboration can unfold according to the design of each individual member of the Coven.
All this ‘tradition’ has now funnelled down to a tiny, remote cottage in the Glen that offers members of the Coven a warm welcome, a magical learning centre and a spiritual home, hopefully, for many years to come. We have our own Neolithic site where we interact with the Ancestors and, unlike many other ancient monuments, these ancestral energies have not been polluted by the unwelcome tramp of tourism. Here I can live the life of an Old Craft Initiate according to the tenets of my belief and periodically welcome friends and fellow travellers to share in my magical world.
CRONE!: A Year in the Life of an Old Craft Witch
Status: Published by https://www.feedaread.com/books/CRONE-9781788760010.aspx
As I’ve said before, and no doubt I’ll say it again, writing about witchcraft is easy. Finding the right theme isn’t. Any fool can pass themselves off as a witch but finding an informative and entertaining approach for a new book is a whole different cauldron of knowledge. Personally, I feel there should be a magical purpose behind any book on Craft – otherwise it’s all been said before – and usually better …
A guest blog by Steve Andrews
As a singer-songwriter who cares passionately about the natural world I use songs in my protests for environmental causes. I often change the lyrics of songs I cover, and so it was with Stand by Me, which became Stand by Tree!
Back in 2017, I joined the local demonstrators in the Cardiff suburb of Roath where trees along Roath Brook, which ran through some parkland, were under threat. The badly named Natural Resources Wales had approved the felling of trees along the stream as part of a flood defence plan, even though residents there had not had problems with flooding. Sadly by the time I got involved several of the trees were nothing more than stumps, and others marked for removal. Protestors had attached placards to some of the threatened trees calling for them to be spared. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the trees were being felled, Roath Brook is a haven for wildlife but Natural Resources Wales didn’t appear to care. Kingfishers were often seen there, the European Eel, a Critically Endangered species was known to live in the brook, and Water Voles were said to have been seen at the location.
When I went along I took my guitar and sang some songs I thought were appropriate, including my own ditty entitled Kingfisher, and my amended Stand By Me cover. Another well-known song I changed the lyrics for is Give Peace a Chance. My version goes: “All we are saying is give trees a chance.” One of my new verses has the lines: “Everybody’s talking about Jarvis Cocker, he’s a rocker, celebrities saving trees,” and then the chorus. The singer who came to fame fronting the band Pulp, had supported the campaign to save the trees in Sheffield, where thousands were felled. Even Michael Gove, the then Secretary of State for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, spoke out at the time, and was reported in the Yorkshire Post to have called the felling of thousands of street trees, a ‘“travesty” that should never be allowed to happen again.’
To my mind it is clearly insane to destroy perfectly healthy mature trees, which besides helping to keep the air of cities free from pollution, are also the homes of many species of wildlife, including many insects and birds. Nevertheless urban trees have been cut down in very many cities and towns throughout the UK, and many more are still under threat. I commented on this in The Nightingale, a song which also features vocals by award-winning poet Mab Jones: “They’ve killed the trees in Sheffield and it’s happening across the UK, big business doesn’t care about nature, despite what they may say, businessmen and councillors don’t care about a ‘Green City,’ they care about making targets, they care about big money.”
The chorus for this song is a question and answer which goes: “Who will stop the destruction of so many trees, who will save the birds, the butterflies and bees? It comes down to the protestors, to people like you and I, we cannot let them kill our world, we cannot let it die.”
A Guest Post by Ing Venning
GOAL To create a shield that will protect us and remind us of happy memories in times of stress or sorrow.
AUDIENCE – Kids often enjoy this meditation, but anyone can participate. Ideally, you will have a speaker (who may or may not act as a quarter caller) and at least a handful of participants. This ritual can be adapted for use with only one or two people, however.
PREPARATION [Optional: You may wish to give each of the quarter callers some feathers, a scarf, a handful of soft grass or some other object that is soft and flowing.]
SPEAKER: Please sit or lie down in a comfortable position with your legs and arms uncrossed. Begin to breathe slowly, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Let the air fill and invigorate your whole body. As you inhale, feel the air enter your air passages, your lungs, even your stomach. When you exhale, these areas will contract. Then inhale again, then exhale. Rise and fall. Just like that – slowly and steadily.
Shake your shoulders, your hips, your knees – not forcibly but gently. Shake off annoyance, anger, and oppression. Shake yourself outside of the world and into a time made only of one moment looping back upon itself. A timeless moment in which you are free to breathe gently. A place where you can relax.
Feel your aura expanding, moving outward so that it radiates in spokes around you. It will grow until it is quite expansive but not so that it overlaps with the auras of others unless they wish it. Each one of our aura spokes grabs hold of the very molecules around us and grounds us in their polar charges. Feel yourself drifting along in a current of particles, at peace and connected to everything around you.
NORTH CALLER: Welcome, happy memories of the earth and its dwellers. Remember times when you felt safe and supported as you welcome the spirits of the earth into this sacred space. Only thoughts and spirits that bring no harm may enter.
EAST CALLER: Welcome, happy memories of the air and its dwellers. Remember times when you felt inspired and awed. Only thoughts and spirits that bring no harm may enter.
SOUTH CALLER: Welcome, happy memories of the fire and its dwellers. Remember times when you felt energetic and powerful. Only thoughts and spirits that bring no harm may enter.
WEST CALLER: Welcome, happy memories of the water and its dwellers. Remember times when you felt at peace and unconditionally loved. Only thoughts and spirits that bring no harm may enter.
SPEAKER: Laughing gods and goddesses, bring your happiness and your peace and be welcome in our circle. Let us share our joy.
Slowly, in your trance, move your hand back and forth. Back and forth as you breathe in and out. Back and forth as one weaves a tapestry or sews a cloak. Back and forth as one strokes a lover or massages a newborn. Let each thread harness and harbor a cherished memory. We are building up a pattern, weaving a cloak of happiness.
Our memories protect us without overprotecting us. Our cloak is very light, yet its effect is profound. It can warm us when we’re cold and cool us when we’re stifling. It can ease the pain of depression, of anxiety, of anger. It brings more joy and contentment into our lives by connecting us to the upper world or overworld; it can also redistribute emotions so they flow in balance. Our cloaks will never block us from suffering that can make our lives better, but it has the power to keep any challenge from becoming overwhelming; its magic moderates our feelings.
Now that your cloak is woven, try it on. [At this point, quarter callers or the speaker may wish to brush participants’ backs or necks with their soft, flowing material.] It fits snugly and comfortably. It even sings – you have to strain to hear the song, for it’s very soft, but it’s also filled with joy. Look at the fabric you’ve woven. You’ve skillfully woven happy scenes that make you smile, even when all around you seems lost or hopeless. Revel in these good memories and the cloak they’ve produced.
Now that the cloak is woven and has been placed about your body, feel it sink into your aura and adjust its energy. The cloak will stay with you – a gentle, benign influence – even when you remove your physical clothing. It will stay to help you feel good, to help you smile, to help you relax even in stressful conditions. This is your Cloak of Happiness.
WEST CALLER: Farewell to the west, but not to its happy memories of the water and its dwellers. Memories of times when you felt at peace and unconditionally loved will remain with you.
SOUTH CALLER: Farewell to the south, but not to its happy memories of the fire and its dwellers. Memories of times when you felt energetic and powerful will remain with you.
EAST CALLER: Farewell to the east, but not to its happy memories of the air and its dwellers. Memories of times when you felt inspired and awed will remain with you.
NORTH CALLER: Farewell to the north, but not to its happy memories of the earth and its dwellers. Memories of times when you felt safe and supported will remain with you.
SPEAKER: Laughing gods and goddesses, thanks for the energy you’ve given. May it stay within the cloaks you’ve blessed us with. The circle opens, but it never breaks.
Slowly return to your mundane body, but you need not let go of the good feelings we’ve evoked here in our circle. Those will go with us, insulating us from harm but never blocking us from the emotions we need to feel and the energy we need to understand and grow.
If it helps you to return, tap a solid object, snap your fingers, give a shout, or do something else that affirms your presence in the mundane world again. Welcome back.
May each and every one of you be blessed. Thanks for being part of our circle. Go from here in peace and great contentment.
Ing Venning is a pagan indie author who draws upon his experiences of being multiply different from the mainstream. He has published three novels featuring pagan protagonists, a sampler of his work, and several short stories. He will be publishing two more novels, a collection of (mostly) retellings, and a volume of poetry in 2020. You can read the sampler of his work and his first novel for free; just visit https://ingvenning.com/
A guest blog by Manda Scott
A year ago, at the winter solstice of 2018, my partner and I sat with the fire, as is our practice, to reflect on the past year and ask for insight into what we might do in the year to come. We’ve done this for most of the fifteen years of our partnership, and for most of that time, I’ve been writing books and teaching shamanic dreaming and she’s been creating beautiful things: a felting studio; an organic clothing line for children; websites and memberships for other creative people. For both of us, the fires were often simply support and a suggestion of ‘more of the same’.
But last year’s fire was different. ‘More of the same’ was definitely not on the menu. I was told to start teaching at scale. I was told to go to the US (actually, I was shown an image of teaching large numbers of people in the US – TED talk scale…) and writing books seemed remarkably low down the priority listing. In fact, if I hadn’t kept bringing it up, it wouldn’t have been there at all.
Pretty soon, the year became an exercise in asking for help. Because I had no idea what ‘teaching at scale’ meant and I had no intention of getting on a plane. XR notwithstanding, I haven’t flown since 2000 and wasn’t planning on doing so. And yet… when the offer came to teach – at scale – in the US, I took it. (one flight heading out is better than thirty coming over here, right?) Which meant that I had to start working out what it is that might be taught at scale that would be both safe and constructive. And somewhere in the early days of that, I was introduced to the Deep Adaptation paper – and so ‘urgent’ was added to the list of essential criteria.
And now, just over a year later, as we head towards the third decade of the third millennium, Accidental Gods has just launched – a website, a podcast, a blog and a Membership Program, all heading the same way.
Here’s what we got to:
- We know that evolution happens in any species under moments of intense pressure.
- This moment is about as intense as it gets – or at least, we’re heading fast into pressures humanity has never seen before. We are the generation that gave ourselves the power of species level extinction, a thing that has never happened in the entire history of the evolution of consciousness.
- We’re due an evolutionary shift. But we don’t have time for the slow incremental steps of DNA tweaks and minor phenotypical adjustments.
- Which is interesting, because this happens to be the moment when we could conceivably make the next evolutionary step one of
So, this is what ACCIDENTAL GODS is about – facilitating the evolution of consciousness. Because we believe it’s possible, necessary – and urgent.
Human conscious evolution is not a new idea – but to date it’s revolved around theories of how we could get there by thinking more, or meditating more, or – recently – implanting chips in our brains.
Which is missing the point so badly that it would be laughable if it weren’t such a clear evocation of everything that is out of balance in our world.
Because we don’t have all the answer. We never do. I think it’s not our job to have the answers. It’s our job to be. To be whatever it is – each of us – that only we can be. It’s our job to be open to connection with the More Than Human world and to free ourselves from ego, projection, judgement and fear so that when we as ‘What do you want of me?’ we can hear clear, coherent, constructive answers.
Which is to say, we need to ditch the bullshit and self-delusion that can often cloud our capacity to connect.
And clearly, we have the tools to do this. Connection is our heritage and our birthright. It’s not that long ago that our ancestors lived fully in context with the earth and there are indigenous peoples across the world who still live this way: we can relearn it.
At the same time, we can use all the ancient and modern tools of meditation/contemplation and harness them to the latest neuroscience – specifically our understanding of neuroplasticity – to reshape the way we feel/think/act/BE in the world.
When we can do this, when we can stand flexible, open and receptive and ask ‘what do you want of me?’ and hear clear answers, then the last step is taking the empty handed leap into the void – that point where we let go of everything we believe to be true – because no problem is solved from the mindset that created it and we’re still in the old mindset.
This – the not-knowing— is the nature of emergence from complex systems. But this has to be our baseline. Everything else leads on from here. Because if enough of us can do this, then, together, the whole that we make can be so very much greater than the sum of our parts.
So… the aim is to build a worldwide community of people who get this, who want it badly enough to give up the time in each day to connect, to practice coherence, to walk towards the edge of letting go. And none of this is trivial. But it’s not impossible, either. We can do it. The more we work together, the easier it will be. And then another world is possible. If we listen carefully, we can hear her singing.
Manda Scott 31/12/19
Find out more here – https://accidentalgods.life/