Wednesday, 21 December 2011

Damp feet, Misguided intentions and the wearing of masks.

Wind riders haunt the night and day, warm and wet or cold and wet, the Cornish landscape oozes liquid as she can hold no more, stark contrast to this time twelve moons ago, when blessed Celeste radiant in the night sky danced her magic upon crisp white snow, the gentle crunch underfoot replaced by the squelch and slide that persists now, to glimpse that radiant light a treat to behold yet in truth we walk a dark path at this time, so perhaps the cloud displays the lesser mask, a greater focus than the heavenly distractions of her light, as we descend into this period of chaos and misrule, the world upside down.

This time alone, beneath the mask of covered stars should serve to teach us to look beyond, for it is a fool in the worst sense that cannot taste the lunar virtue for lack of visual stimulus, within that time there is no sight greater than that insight which is granted by the heart and the soul, perceivers of truth and honesty, where the eyes may be fooled the inner self knows true gnosis.

The same could be said of those who would wear masks within the mundane world of existence, those who would deceive the onlooker, enchanting facades that hide true intentions and perhaps hidden agendas, a mask of falsities and deception that is only paper thin, yet bedazzles the onlooker into a world where choices are no longer theirs to make!

Beware the one who would wear such a mask, look beyond the glamour and straight into the eyes of the soul, it is there that lies the true face, it may be that of a frightened spirit which hides through fear and not malice, it may be malice itself.

Tread carefully in the company of one who would walk over all to achieve that desire, masked or otherwise, it is never through need that any would cause another to suffer pain, hedonism is the foulest of human traits and empathy one of the greater, they are opposites in the extreme and one who would display either should be incapable of the other, less they wear a mask.

Avoid one who would threaten the peaceful existence of another in any way in order to achieve their goals, veiled or open, to curse another without true cause is to bring down the sword of justice heavy and sharp against the neck, watch those scales and see how they fall or be prepared to take the consequences.

And now to gaze upon those masks of truth, the guise perhaps worn by those families and lone shaman of the world, a facade that does not hide the undesirable aspects of mankind, yet projects hidden qualities toward the onlooker, hidden aspects of the Crafter's nature are externalised to allow the individual and the rest of the company to connect to that aspect, to bring it out not to hide behind.
I have worn such a mask, the effect is astounding and quite desirable, others may perceive qualities that are subdued at other times allowing trust and truth to blossom among the group, we are what we are and nothing is hidden from kith and kin before the hearth or at any other time, the mask serves to remind the individual of this very fact.

So do I myself wear a mask of deception in any sense? the answer is No, what you see you get, I would as you know place integrity before much else, honesty before lies every time, I would not seek to council another but I will offer advice if pushed, if my council you will seek, then expect the truth in return, do not wear a mask at your approach for it is no more than a lie and if we are to start there then the harvest will be a barren one, I have my own concerns in the world and wish not to be troubled with another's unless that other comes with all I hold dear and not that which I would despise.

I guess this brings me to a close for now, the echos of children asking, Do witches have warts ? Well no more frequently than any not of the faith, do we accept each other warts and all? Absolutely, we would expect no less from Family, If you wish me to wear a mask, then I shall remove myself and my warts from your company, as I do not choose to have acquaintances, dear friends are family and family are as dear friends and those I would count as such are very dear to me.

A merry yule to all (now I have got that one of my chest).

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Friday, 18 November 2011

The longest night, searching the soul and the wise council of the oracle.

Photo by Christine Macleod

To rise before the sun is no hardship as we head into the darker times of the year, the winds they whistle the tune of Odin and the wild ones, rain beats its steady rhythm upon the glass of our home and thoughts of facing the day rise to the forefront of our minds well before the glorious light of morning graces the land with its presence if not its warmth.

The last blooms of summer now blow upon the winter storms, yet if by chance we search the green a rare gem may still be found, bright scarlet lies amongst natures decay, tattered and torn yet as food for the spirit manifest we rejoice at its sight, a reminder, all things must pass, death is but a journey into the new world.
The progression of all things is marked at some point by an end of sorts, to continue along the path and into gnosis there are many pieces of ourselves that must die in order that there may be many to bear fruit in future times, just as those trees and plants that would appear dead to us now shall bear bloom and seed when the warmth of our sun graces them with its radiance once more.
Parts of who we were become as nutrient to that which grows, an end of a kind but not a random discarding of spiritual landfill, who we are is shaped by what we have been, would you change any thing of the past? I would not, for I would not have become who I am today, if but one thing could have been discarded, tears and cruelty, hedonistic behaviour, compromise beyond need, I could not have grown as all joy or sorrow serves its ultimate purpose within that forge, atop the anvil and beneath the hammer of that old blacksmith of the soul, we are remade of that which we once were. The trials of life are as fuel to the artisans fire.

Now that the light of day is short and joyous evening strolls among the flying (sometimes biting) insects and deep magenta sky are all but forgotten, minds within the Craft turn to work of a different nature, moments out and about become less frequent and time spent in thought and meditation more so, Many questions are answered and many more questions bubble to the surface from the depths of the great well, attempting to bring order to the chaos within we muse upon subjects plucked from the ether or riddles set by another.
There is one subject so often over looked yet quoted in disposable fashion by all within the occult community ( including this one), hiding within plain site yet rarely dealt with in truth, a sleeping dragon left unchecked, that once counselled-Gnothi seauton- Know Thyself, the wise warning to the foolish ego that was herald to the Oracle of the temple of Apollo at Delphi.

This very task, given by those who would aid me within my own evolution was one I have undertaken recently, the questions of who I am and where have I come from, what was I and what do I hope to become, not feeding the ego, but placing all in order and calming those turbulent waters within, to befriend this sleeping Dragon and not to have to tip toe around it or attempt to bury it beneath a pile of delusional thought, to truly Know Thyself is the goal, to move forward safe in the knowledge that no angry serpent will engulf you in its flame in future times.
Modern social conditioning does reflect in this journey into the depths, those buried thoughts and emotions, the worst of the self are the first to rise to the surface, emotional tears accompany every mistake made within the time of our short existence, unworthy of life, of consideration, foulest of beings to inhabit this earth, detritus, just another inconsiderate consumer of the resources of the world, but wait, this is not some examining of everything you hate about yourself, it takes time, hours in fact, to truly search the soul.

A death of sorts through realisation has taken place, the worst now dealt with, sweet blooms start to push their way up through the soil of the spirit,
those joys of life, what you are truly capable of, those beloved by you and of those who of you yourself are beloved, triumphs that soon over shadow those past failures as the molten metal of you is slowly poured into the mould of who you will become, to be once more tempered and made strong within the fires of this hell.

I am the hunter,The protector.
I am not vengeance,
but I may wield the sword of justice.
I may become Tracker and Guide,
but do not follow me blindly.
Learn from the mistakes I have made,
and will make.

This forest belongs to me,
yet it is never mine to own.
It is not the fertile loam that is the key,
for upon that lies a mask.
It is not the majestic oak that is the key,
for that giant too wears a mask.
All truth lies upon the wind.

To glimpse for just one second,
that which would hide beneath.
A key of shining gold.
Perhaps there shall become a chance,
to touch upon that rare metal.
To gaze upon the hidden realms,
to walk in the world of giants.

This crooked path through the forest,
plain to see for those with the eye,
when distractions fade and truth will out.
Yet beautiful they are.
Embrace them fully,
feel the warmth they exude.
Relish the love they bring.

The longest night in this ones life, born of need and not desire I am remade, I feel that in my own heart that at this time I do in fact Know myself, I am me and happy to be me, I sit on the Dragons own hoard warmed by the sighing breath of my new friend and safe in the knowledge of who it is I am.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Friday, 4 November 2011

A setting sun and A Star crossed serpent.

The sun sets upon another chapter of the life and journey of this would become "Cunning" man.
What appears alikened to that death of summer is with hope and faith a birth of something far greater than anything of which I could have wished to have known.
This once lonely soul that attempted to grace the pages of the Internet with wild grasps at wisdom and knowledge is no longer such, since first sitting here, trying to find the answers that prior to this voyage eluded me there have been so many changes,so many more questions, each door leads to a corridor filled with more doors, yet the answers come, with guidance certainly, but upon the winds as gifts from the divine in most, the mentors work is not to tell the student, it is to point him/her in the right direction so that the enquiring mind may discover the truths for them selves, there are no secrets to those who would listen to the wind.
I have found true faith, love and family, I am able to move through the worlds with far greater ease than ever before, even though at this time I walk the edge, I fear not the drop, for there is the fabric of wyrd that shall gather me home and place me exactly where I need to be.

Faith in fate and a willingness to evolve the soul are the keys to the doors of eternity, these things will not be found within the pages of a leather bound grimoire, although the clues may lie within the pages, an illiterate being (not an ignorant one) would still be able to find the light as is often seen within the tribal societies upon our blue planet. In truth there are many intellectual occultists out there, so bound up within the tangled threads of their own egos that they will perhaps never glance toward the source or be touched by those perfect threads.
Our Craft ancestors were a simple folk, many could not write or read letters yet the Craft survived, symbols and pictures, rhyme and song gave substance and solidity to our forefathers, if many of those blessed souls were to stumble upon any of the nonsense that proliferates through the esoteric societies they would perhaps see only kindling for the hearth and no wisdom at all.
Yet we live within a mostly literate society, words have replaced symbols in many ways yet still they exist, always hiding in plain sight, there is a great deal of fuel for the fire being produced yet there are some true gems that will be understood on many levels by both prince and pauper.
These gems are like buses, you don't see one for a while, then two or three come at once.

Star crossed Serpent vol1 -Shani Oates.

Another long awaited gem of wisdom from the Maid of the Clan of Tubal Cain.
Shani has always given those true seekers of knowledge her time, wisdom and patience, and this is once more revealed in this first volume which I again have been privileged to read prior to publication.
It contains material by three successive generations of the Clan, Robert Cochrane, Evan J Jones and of course Shani herself, there is also a rare gem of a piece written by the Current Magister of the Clan- Robin The Dart. Some of this material has previously been published yet it has not really been edited correctly in those publications, so I would say, forget much of which you know of RC an EJJ's writings available in other books and read this which has been edited correctly and with the correct authority to do so. The reader will find that it makes far more sense than previously.
I will not elude to the various chapters contained for at this time I am unsure as to what is contained within this volume, although I will say that it is marvelous to see the evolution of this closed group through the successive generations, all things must move forward and evolve or become stale and die, this book acknowledges the stream from which it came in no small way, yet it shows how the participants look very much to the future and embrace the craft as a constantly growing, moving and living thing.
Thank you for sharing your wisdom with us Shani, it is much appreciated.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Need fire and a fool at the end of the world

It is beyond the chimes of midnight, a single Hawk calls to his brother upon the chill night air, eyes look up from the dancing flames in awe, recognition of all that has come to pass as a soul returns to its hearth, its family, to take its place among those much beloved, to stand once more between the worlds along side brother and sister of the faith, all is as it should be in this time and is welcome.

So the journey ends.

A Once shattered soul, now piece by piece reassembled, forged anew within the healing fires of the old man himself, deconstructed and remade, stronger and maybe wiser than before, each end heralds a fresh start, a new life, change and growth, the serpent that once hid within the shadows to avoid this gaze now resides in part within the spirit of this ever hopeful wanderer, a child of Cain, a son of Odin, touched by she who waits upon the parting of ways, dazzled by Sophia's light and humbled by the wisdom of dearest Lilith, guided by the divine she and gathered home again.
This Holy fool, blessed indeed, to take his place with kith and kin at that table within the castle of the king, that once lonely call answered at last.

Arab springs and Indian summers have passed, as the coming of winter now wraps at the door of our home, it would seem an age since I sat here last and attempted to place words where there are only thoughts, a personal journey requires time to the self, reflections, perhaps not always to be shared with others, matters for those with the means to discover for themselves and see the value that lies therein, one cannot walk the paths in another's shoes, one can only trace the footsteps of their passing, there is little value in reaching a destination without knowing how it was you arrived, wisdom is found upon the journey as much as it resides at journeys end, wherever that may be.

Yet there is one thing of which I will speak, if it would save the traveller from the thorns and the mire of the winding paths and that is of unification.

We walk between the worlds, we do not have to jump from one to the other, to bring the sacred to the mundane is the key and vice versa, this life is not always easy, but when we bring together those often considered dual aspects of the self (work/spirituality) all becomes clearer, the wild ride of the roller coaster becomes the steady pace of the locomotive, yes there are stops and delays but with fate driving the engine we will arrive safely, smoothly and with fewer pitfalls, the roller coaster has no destination after all, it only ends up at the point it started from with its passengers feeling sick. One life lived is far simpler than two, to juggle these aspects is distracting so we need to bring it all together. this often overlooked reality has been one of the most important keys for this one within the time that you and I have known each other.

There are of course those poor deluded souls who see only misery and destruction, shadows and pain within the other realms, and to consolidate these into the mundane world will only bring about the same there, to look beyond the shadow and lift the veil is the answer, as where there is end there is beginning also, deep shadows are cast by bright lights after all, if all that can be seen is darkness then the blinkers need to be taken off, as I for one have seen sights that continue to amaze me, I have found love, light and Gnosis when I have gazed into the well, there is no hate or pain, the rose blooms bright within the ashes of the fire, we reap what we sow and if we take filth into the void then we will return with filth as a reward.

Well, the chimney at our hearth will not sweep itself, so off I must go, each stroke of the brush shall clean the soot from the blackened stone, dark matter cleansed from home and life, all that would have troubled this one in the past year shall be swept away, the fire shall burn with renewed vigour and there shall be warmth in our home.

And All is Exactly as it Should Be.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Friday, 2 September 2011

The accidental Life of an Anarchist and the death of Faith.

Artwork by kind permission of Joolz Denby Cover of the album Carnival by New model army.

"And it's not where you're from or where you've been
It's not a matter of blood or of family tree
Everybody believes what they want to believe
But they come from some kind of refugee
Running from something, turned out of somewhere
All looking for somewhere, exiled from something
And no one's really sure if this is home" Justin Sullivan/NMA-BD3

A part of my soul soars high upon the thermal currents, within those last throws of summer, thought and memory call out above the final cutting of hay as it desperately tries to dry out in time for those leaner months, sustenance for the beasts that would feed upon the fallen, taken by the blades of the cutting machine before it in turn returns to its own dusty shelter, to await the warm winds of April days when once more it shall reap the green.
Turning tides reflected upon the horizon, a fractured sky of crimson and slate, the last days of bounty, glorious, radiant and rich, announcing a fond farewell to the winds of the south and a welcome once again to the northern bite, those who would take rest in this land called back to hearth and home, perhaps to return at another time to this land of self discovery for those with the wit to look.

Fires burn in every part of this world, a time of deep unrest across the globe bought about by the human desires for food, oil, narcotic substances and what the neighbours have, fueled by desire, greed and religious doctrine, those who would seem to have lost their way try to show a sign that they are the guardians of faith even though it has in truth been lost to them, if it was even theirs to lose in the first instance, books are burned when perhaps they should be read, an atheist pope preaches doom and finality, unable to see the light due to the darkness that is spouted from the mouths of the desperate, as religion starts to wither and die, the way of all things that will not nurture and grow.

This one has never been a fan of any religion in the organised sense, I favour free thought and freedom of choice where fate will allow, so I for one shall not morn its passing, this does not mean that I myself am not religious, for I have faith and it grows and blossoms daily and I fear the end of this religious age a great deal.
It is often argued that doctrine creates a moral compass for those who adhere to it and there indeed lies a truth, for many people do not have morality and justice as natural virtues and adherence to a belief will instill in part this shortcoming in human nature, without some kind of faith civilisation will fall apart and it is now that we are seeing the cracks.
To live within a secular society is fine for most, yet there is an element that is unable to govern itself from a morality perspective, science daily steps over the line in favour of "because we can" and not asking "if we should?", greed and jealousy would have the individual covet that which belongs to another later to take by force that which is desired, shallow trappings of the modern world that would actually deny Darwin his theory and not perpetuate it, backward evolution through technological advancement, and to turn backwards is to become extinct.
So we have the tenets of the Abrahamic faiths, set upon the path to bring order to the masses, then, because of the failure to grow, adapt and evolve finally bringing about the destruction of those very same peoples, only a theory but all things may pass in time.

Personal responsibility, a true sense of morality and justice, these things I would hold close to my heart, goals attained through honour and Integrity, not to ever treat another in a way that I Myself would not wish to be treated. I shall not Kill, steal or commit sins upon another, not through law or doctrine, but because it serves no purpose to do so, to treat another as I myself would wish to be treated is my only law, and one I am happy to be bound by.
There have been many Oaths taken and perhaps yet to be taken, as such made or to be made by my own choice and not imposed upon me, I have agreed to be bound by such and will always be so, free by my own choice and not forced by another, free to walk away at any point if I so do choose guided by morality.

This life long Anarchist is bound only by his own laws and by his own moral compass, a freeborn man free to make the correct choices to the best of his ability, yes I have made mistakes, we all do, they are lessons to be learned from and often painful ones, but only if we are prepared to take personal responsibility for them do we continue to move forward along the path, we cannot always pass the buck on our own shortcomings and sometimes it is only ourselves to blame. If all people regardless of background were to accept this premise then the fires of this world would wither and die like the faith of Abraham's legacy, one day to assume the title of that "old religion", that is if there is anyone left to acknowledge it.

There is warning here, hiding in plain sight for those who would set themselves as up as the ones to follow, gurus and would be wise ones, look to the future and do not make the mistakes your fathers made, grow and nurture , for there is nothing to be achieved by standing still or rolling about in the mud like your ancestors, be wise and evolve with the time or like the tall grass you shall be felled and trodden underfoot.

"All these things you fear so much depend on angles of vision
From down in the maze of walls you can't see what's coming
But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing" Justin Sullivan/NMA- High.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Artwork by kind permission of Joolz Denby Cover of the album High by New model army.

Friday, 26 August 2011

Autumn wind, a Beautiful daze and what price is Integrity.

Autumn's cold chill starts to bite, when solar rays deign to bless our skin with warmth we are quick to dismiss the coming of colder times, yet come they must. Even in the clearer Sky's of dawn, the ground wet with morning dew, the ones who would sleep under canvas covers find moisture rich and soaking through to the skin, sticking to the walls of their homes and bringing damp and discomfort to poorly prepared feet as the grass is trodden underfoot, hope springs eternal that the last vestiges of the summer sun will heat body and soul.
Soon the Geese will come and the swallows depart, wild hunts have made the first of their forays into the night sky, Thor's own hammer sounds the changing of the guard, bright flashes scar the sky as winter's grip makes its preparation to take back its own, dark days and chilly evenings around a blazing hearth, solice for the witch's soul as we too reclaim the night.

What is it that makes us who we are, what forms our earthly lives, brings shape to what we are to become, the lessons we learn, the influences we take, we are but clay figures to be shaped and formed by Fate and circumstance. From raw earth we become unique beings, reflections of the gods, we are products of our surroundings, sponges that soak up that which our own souls require, we seek out good company, hold friends as family and we are touched by thoughts and ideas that are already familiar to our inner selves.
We are the vessel, the journey and the destination, if we listen to our spirit then we will never fail, if we are to blindly follow we find our selves on the path to ruin and disappointment.

In all aspects of life there are those who fail to listen to the inner voices, those who would follow the crowd. To accept the world as it is with rose tinted glasses and blinkers, never to question the whys and wherefore's of this or any other existence, Ignorance is indeed bliss for the masses yet still they search, often unrealised, for some small part of the divine truth, to belong to that which the heart would yearn for if the ears could shut out the clamouring voices of a failing civilisation.
The Dream catcher, the rose quartz crystal and the lucky charm, all devices the ignorant may seek out in an attempt to grab something of the spiritual, this is not anger at these affairs, only sadness at the way so many wont let themselves become whole, to be satisfied with small trinkets in an illconcieved nod to the heavens, an insurance against the fact that True Faith has become something that mocked and derided within an increasingly secular land, they know there is truth beyond the walls but would not really want to find or declare a belief.

I have been reminded of this fact, (which is not exclusive to those who would walk an esoteric path) by a pleasant visit to a festival in the heart of Devon. Four glorious days among my own tribe, music and merriment shared with family and like minded people. The Festival originally set up by the Punk/Folk Anarchists- The Levellers, the spirit of the nineties, born out of Thatchers Britain. In those days we were shaped and formed by the things around us, we became as stone, immovable objects that would not be swayed by the establishment and the promise of wealth if we were to behave, always to wave two fingers at the man and not afraid to take direct action against those who threaten our freedoms, or the boys in blue that would beat down the doors of our homes to silence that voice, and there we were, twenty years later, as solid as we were then and stronger in numbers as our own offspring bought into the world now stand beside us.
Yet among the shaved heads, the Mohican haircuts and a sea of tattooed bodies, there are those who did tow the line, those who became as slaves to society, desperate to touch what they know in their hearts is something pure and incorruptible, to stand along side the true defenders of freedom and liberty, to believe in an integrity that they once sold to the Man, they did not listen to their souls and now they pay the price, it has been said that"it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the gates of heaven", and now the penny drops as the masses once more grab and grasp at that which is lost to them, Monday will be back to the mill and social ideology can go back into the cupboard for another year.
Sad statements to be sure, but this poor man refuses to give up that one thing that they cannot take, cunning man or deluded fool, you decide but my integrity stands tall, can you all say the same.

So as in the mundane world we see the way in which those who have sold integrity try to lay claim to that which is lost to them, sadly the same is true in the occult world, the work should stand for itself and clearly within some circles it does not, the answer would be to try and detract from the truths in favour of the mans own lies, power corrupts, it is time that certain people should take off the blinkers and glasses and try to find some thing that works, although it is commonly believed that certain activities of which certain groups enjoy, will indeed necessitate the use of spectacles due to poor sight, an unfortunate side effect.

We are old, we are young, we are in this together
Vagabonds and children, prisoners forever
With pulses a-raging and eyes full of wonder
Kicking out behind us again
(Justin Sullivan, NMA)

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

An Owl's Cry, A Dancing Serpent and the Arcane Veil.

An Owl's warning cry breaks the silence, cutting through the ether, echoing the metallic ring of the scythe as it fells the tall golden stalks of the harvest, toward the east a single Buzzard answers this call, as it too rises from it's slumber to face the dawn and all that it has to offer.
Along the dark forest track I make my way to the appointed place, tall trees stare down as this lone traveller goes about his own business, shadows against the night sky, companions who have stood where they are since before I was even a thought and will be standing still in that time where upon my earthly body is consumed and turned to dust, the fate that awaits every creature of flesh and bone who would dare to walk upon this glorious Eden.

The Air is still, perfect silence as my words and gestures soar upwards through the woodland canopy, accompanied by the gentle coils of smoke and sweet air that also rise to greet the dawn. Calls spoken aloud to those who I would beg to hear, to her a devotion and continuation of the week's observance, my pining stomach a reminder that I am closer now, and it is now that I offer my self to her, absolutely and in all lives to come.

A gentle acknowledgement as the sentiment is duly returned, softly in it's nature, that of which I seek creeps slowly into my being, the knowledge and guidance we all require to continue upon the path of gnosis soaking into my soul, within that time that appears to be between times, away from the mundane in a world that is ruled by both Moon and Sun, or perhaps neither, it is hers at this moment and graciously she allows be to share it.

That which has been denied, in times that now seem like distant echoes within the past, is now my own to behold, that which once hid within the dark shadow of the spirit now plays a merry tune for me to dance to, embraced at last by the serpent who would recoil at my touch, we can journey together, the snake who would help this one to ascend the ladder and not send him spinning down to the mud and grime that lies at the bottom, I have given all, I have taken only what has been necessary and I have not acted upon desire, all is found and I am prepared, the reward has been of such high value that to place a price upon it would be an heresy.
On this day I have ascended, further into the tree I have climbed and far from the noise and petty imaginings of those deluded minds, devious ones, who would claim thrones for themselves built on crumbling dust and imagined, as none would offer them a throne built upon good solid stone this option becomes all that is left.
So to fly, high above mortal men, is this not what we dream of, to obey the law and listen to the winds, only then will we be able to soar high upon the currents we so desire.

This world and its every day trappings, can become a place of great pleasure, as long as the likes of Shani Oates continue to write of the wisdom they have gathered and such an event can be seen upon the horizon.
The Arcane Veil: Past and Present.
I have been privileged indeed to be able to read this book prior to publication, it is set to become an occult classic, and should grace the bookshelves of any occultist regardless of tradition or background. Tackling meaty subjects and grasping at serpents that others would be afraid to hold.
Among the collected essays we find one upon the history of magic, within this the influence of Christianity upon it and how through it's adaptability it has survived, in fact it would have been consumed entirely if those who practiced it refused to evolve with the times. Shani wonderfully reclaims Lucifer in another chapter from the vile clutches of the likes of Lavey and places him firmly within the reach of any serious Crafter, not without its controversial topics "Witch Blood" (there will be heads turning and a small degree of spitting from some quarters) a classic and must read for any seeker of truth.
Available soon with any luck.

Bright blessings all, as we head toward the darker months.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

And check out this young pretender, my own dear brother has placed digit to keyboard at long last. The Cunning apostle

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Flames of anger, sparks of hope, love light and the mistress of the dark

Warm rain and sleepless nights, golden wheat sways in the warm summer winds as those who would feed the people of this land take to their steel reapers to cut John off at the knee, the sky fills with hungry birds, laying on fuel for the coming journey, a feast upon the flying Ants as they themselves attempt to form new societies away from the bustle of the overflowing hills, all at this turbulent time when our own society seems to fall apart.

Far from the green and gold, the cities of England burn with fire, anger and theft, a misplaced youth in a world that has little to offer them, even time, the distance between the have and have nots now so great, that jealousy engenders greed, the lack of faith and hope creates a kind of hopeless fury, there is no consequence in a land that has no future to be seen.
The tip of the iceberg, a festering sore, that is but a symptom of the beginning of the end, yet it is not too late.
For every unthinking moron with brick in hand, dazzled by the plasma screen or pretty trinket in the shop window, prepared to be the reason and the means that our own civil liberties will be taken away, there are hundreds of valuable members of society, children of talent and imagination, vision and love, not to be tarred with the same brush, the future of our Island, the future of the world.
Staring into the flames of despair, the shattered lives of those who would choose to make an honest living, there is still great hope and we must not lose sight of that, for to do so would be a betrayal of our own dreams, and those children of hope.

Far from those fires of hate and vitriol, my dear brother and his beautiful family join with my own beloved around a gentler fire, in our peaceful garden, John Barleycorn felled here too, yet much enjoyed and in the form of a fermented grain, welcome talk and a heavy head the next morning, a feast before the fast that precedes the rite of the harvest moon, shared with one who accompanies me upon the same journey, together with those who would share his hopes and concerns, a happy gathering with love, light and futures bright.

My Sibling's departure was sadly marked with warnings and sadness, aside from our own separation there was news of another who has departed this earthly realm, a cousin of mine, found cold within the walls of his own dwelling, his own passion lay with the golden brown mistress, she who would turn a good soul into an hedonistic creature, one who would live for her company and no other, deceiver she is, an honest man turns liar and thief when within her grasp. A sad end to a sorry tale of not yet thirty summers long, a trail of destruction lies in the wake of his life, a grieving mother and a fatherless child, a lone brother and a wife without an husband, where to he departs I do not know, I hear "I am sorry" upon the wind that blows from his direction, to late a dire warning of what comes from a life of hedonism and excess, though my own relatives thought that at one time they would find me in such a manner, my life and indulgence are well tempered, need and not desire is my own mistress.

The harvest moon grows fat within the sky, bright blessed Luna reflects a great virtue upon the land, I meet her at the crossroads every night this week, as lover, as warrior, as wise man and fool, each dusk we greet and her bright torches do become as guides upon my return, hopes and dreams are granted, through love and devotion. My body craves that which I would deny it yet my soul begins to soar skyward as those connections, those earthly bonds which are unneeded are severed in favour of those which bring me closer to her.

Blessed Hekate, Enodia of the three ways.
Torch bearer, mother and guide.
How this one has come to love,
how this one has come to live.
Covered within the cloak of night,
There holds no fear, beneath your light.
Show unto me the path,
guide me well through the thorn covered land.
Sweet protector and cunning council,
teach me the ways of the wise.
Underworld Queen and mistress of fate,
pray, bring me strength in difficult times,
Show unto me the jewel that lies within the shadow,
Bestow unto me the key that will open the door.
I who would demand nothing,
I who would ask in hope and love,
I who would give all unto you.
Blessed Hekate, Enodia of the crossroads.
I am yours.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

A green loaf and a thorn among the roses.

By the dictates of the modern calendar the rites of the Loaf mass are now upon us, if we were to consider this a truth then we would be saddened and starving, as Old Puss still has haven within the ripening grain, for a week or two to come as well, coal black the watchers anticipate the coming feast, as do those of us who patiently await the true time of plenty dictated not by time, but by She alone.
Still the cloak and dagger are bought out to play, firelight and celebrations across the land, the cutting of the corn, the baking of the bread, in ritual if not in life, this mirror that allows us to gaze at the coming bounty, to once more take joy, not in the timing, but in the fact that they celebrate at all. Acknowledgement of the gods and the ancestors, wild voices that cry with great intent toward waiting skies, the multitude of skin clad drums that announce to the world " we are here, hear our devotion, reckon with us".
The serpent stirs at this cacophony of sound and soon will once more waken with quiet intent and great wisdom, out into the light where we shall stand with her in awe and inspiration and feed from the harvest he will grant to us. a feast fit for the Queen of hell herself.

This Cunning man and his dear beloved, met with good souls on clifftop hill not far from our own simple home, a festival of Lammas celebration, and the joining of two of good spirits who would be betrothed to one and other within the company of like mind and Divine presence.
This loving couple, let down in a small way by the weather and those who failed to make good on promise, almost to feel that the fates were conspiring against them, still the oath to be taken needs no human witness, wet or dry the bond will be made, love will always win through and the rite of hand fasting took place as it should.
A ceremony beautiful in its simplicity, few words yet those that were spoken were uttered with true meaning and fine intent, the love of friends, family and fiends to bring virtue to the rite and a hearty welcome of the late arrivals as shadows distant within the mist become solid and familiar to the entwined couple.
A pleasure it was for this one and his better half to be witness to this joining, to allow ones own barriers to burn to the ground brings great reward, there are good folk out there among the morons and to hide behind a self imposed wall is no way to find them, I no longer need to hide and will face the world head on in the future, I am protected and at long last capable of rising above the detritus, to soar upon the thermal currents gazing with unconcern at that of which I would wish not to be offended by.

So, much gratitude goes to Dave and Karen for asking us to be a part of your celebration, and to Mike for facilitating a ritual executed with great feeling and consummate ability. although many people failed to show, all organisers put in so much effort that disappointment should be as dust on the breeze, as human nature is at fault here and not any ability to host an event, so well done Ben, Mel and team.

So to close with thoughts of good company, as my dear brother and his family join us here in the days to come, and plans for our own travel are underway once again as there is another place that calls to this one, what glorious family I have found or perhaps have found me and what company I keep, blessed beyond my wildest expectation.

No longer the lonely fool, just one thorn of many among the roses.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Tuesday, 26 July 2011

The Crossroads, the cave and Elder wisdom.

There comes a time in everyone's journey when choices have to be made, along the crooked path of life we are often faced with decisions and dilemmas, forks within the road and crossroads after crossroads.
A time such as this is approaching within the threads and weave of this ones own life, I have climbed the tree and now to ponder which of the branches will ultimately serve my own purposes, which ones will take the strain, give me a foothold that is both steady and secure, which branches are strong enough to enable this seeker of the truth to ascend yet further into the mists of wisdom. The way forward is clearer now than ever before, a bright star illuminates the way, yet within its blinding light there are deeper shadows that in many ways are harder now to see.
All is well for the time being, change lurks below the horizon and I have the wit to see it coming. The path of this soul is solid and tangible, yet that which facilitates the voyage is uncertain, to live as a priest of the Arte would of course be the Ideal, but that time is not yet upon me, the concerns of the mundane world, of Flags, Flax and Fodder themselves are what would vex this one in times to come, Irons lie in fires and coin is quick to disappear, a difficult time fraught with uncertainty, in truth though, tis but a small cloud in what is turning out to be a most beautiful sky, Faith will secure the future and she will provide. She always does in the end, despite any concerns bought about by time relaxing and a corrupted view of the lives of others.

A few days away from the mill, among the blessed company of dearest family and the dark Serpentine of our most southerly reach, The swiftest of birds did accompany us all with whistle and grace on our exploration of this rugged coastal land, to secluded cove and rich heather moor, from high wind (not to mention rain) to magical caverns that stand with Majesty upon the grey shore, Green black rock veined as if it were the very flesh of the land on which we walk, these caves beckon to the traveller to enter and take joy in the mysteries within, to sing the song of the land, to join in tone and verse as we all become that which is the same through resonance, "you made the rock sing to you dad" were the words that sprung from the mouth of my youngest, as other visitors along the way smiled at this strange and unlikely occurance, need overtakes modesty at such times and that gift is gladly recieved.

The Rain did pour for a day, drumming its rhythm upon the tin shell that was our home for this time, yet from fair to foul and back to fair is the nature of this windswept land, so off across the fields I go, to encounter the Elder tree (pictured above) with arms outstretched to welcome me home, a specimen that bought sheer delight, old and wise was she that has stood for an age, far longer that the broken chapel that cast its shadow among her radiant leaves and growing fruit, although that too was a vision to behold.
Biting insects from flower to flesh, a grave yard long forgotten, reclaimed by nature yet standing as a monument to a simple faith that now lies forgotten, peace among the ivy clad stones that once held the celebrant's passion, those people from the past, those who once held this place sacred, now covered by thorn and grass, the words In loving memory" emblazoned on slate and stone, still none remember.

I am counseled in this place by one stone, the sound of my mentors voice echos with the engraved name, one forgotten lady who whispers advise into the Cunning man's ears,"Prudence", and there is the guiding light in an uncertain time.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

Sweet blooms, clashing steel and knowing oneself.

The delicate aroma of the Meadowsweet flower brings pleasure to the mind as it passes through the senses, plentiful along the abundant hedgerows of my home, this gentle bloom a gem among the effulgent green and scarlet, an awakening amongst the sleepy Valerian herb and the tall fairy glove that mark this sleepy county in shades of red.
Black rock and golden gorse, perhaps the colours of this once Celtic land, overlooked the broom that glows within the partial shadow of the majestic oak, ingredients for love of a very different nature, at least to the magicians that walked the land in a time that lies forgotten to most.

It comes to pass that this would be wise man realises the importance of that well known council that once stood above the Oracle of Delphi, always acknowledged, yet perhaps not fully understood.
In truth aspects of the self, of who we truly are may still be discovered, perceptions and ideas brought about by social pressure may not be truths, growth can only take place at those times when we are prepared to open our hearts and minds, take a leap and to trust in fate once more and see what she throws at us.
What we think we are will often prove to be a misconception if we actually stop and pay attention to what we actually are, those subtleties in our own character's that we shy away from or bury beneath whatever mask may serve the purpose, if we allow them to surface there may be a pleasant surprise that awakens.
For this one there was a fear, a fight or flight reflex which has always become apparent at those testing times, a fear of failure, to be at that point when great change is afoot but to turn and run, to not even try, deluded by the fact that "I would have achieved but it wasn't really what I wanted", failure in itself but not one that is seen by the mundane world, as I would only allow success to be viewed.
In no small way, this very act is to cheat fate, to ignore the gifts or trials she has given, to remove or try to remove yourself from her influence is a witches heresy, yet it is only in Knowing oneself that we come to realise our worst traits, likewise, strengths we might never of known we had might blossom and bloom alike to the flowers that bring delight to our summer days, it takes another view to spot these, more often than not.

Friends and family met amongst the clashing of steel upon steel at Teweksbury medieval festival this past weekend, an absolute pleasure to catch up with so many that we rarely see, together with those who we see more often, fortunate indeed to be blessed with such company, not to mention a certain corvid who was unable to come yet sent a precious gem by way of a wren which was most welcome to boot, many thanks Bran if you should happen upon this witter.

This Cunning man makes preparation for what is possibly one of the greatest steps and commitment he has ever taken, the fight and flight instinct has well and truly been blown away by the wind of change, as doors open and gnosis lies like a veritable banquet before my eyes. When the call went out many moons ago, my own green fire sent skyward to the heavens, I would have known no Idea that my own path would end up at the place it has, not to mention the pleasure at meeting the souls who's company I have enjoyed along the way, my own among them and one I am just beginning to enjoy.

Flags,Flax and Fodder... Tony

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

A candle For Roy.

Thoughts both fair and foul dance among the shadows of my mind, a reflection upon the soul of the candle's flickering light and to the purpose of that for which it was set to flight. From within hollow eyes I see fire and flame, radiant wisdom that more than forty years ago departed for another land.
Yet, to walk within his shadow, to glimpse the beauty he has seen, one man with such perfect vision, is privilege beyond recognition, to know and to love a soul that I am knowingly yet to encounter within this life, brings strength, family and knowledge far greater than I could have dreamed possible.
The hand that stretched forth to draw this lost soul from those dark places, realms that once walked no spirit would ever wish to return to, the words upon the page that say little save to those who can hear the whisper "you know me, we are blood you and I, patterns cut from the same cloth, her cloth, woven upon the loom by the three", to those who would hear those precious words he is everything, those simple works contain far more to one who would have the sight to see and the ear to listen, there are no secrets to such as these.

In the bright light of day, the candle's light appears far more subdued, yet it's purpose is still far brighter, mixed emotions, joy and sadness are played with brush and colour upon canvas white, a meditation that manifests itself seemingly in but two dimensions, the others hidden from plain sight, yet perfectly visible to another of the blood, this merry dance, this funeral march, the silent echo of one mans mark that paints the soul all shades of light, bringing illumination within chthonic thoughts, gnosis from chaos and wisdom out of confusion.

The table is set for honoured guest, although four places within the square, one can only hear the beat of three hearts, a toast to our absent friend, a meal is shared with beloved kin and absent heart. The silent supper of the witches, far more than the petty stories of lust and betrothal that persist within the realm of folklore, a perfect way to reach beyond the veil and honour those that have passed through the same.

I stare intently at the scene, over the shoulder of one who would acquire knowledge by the light of a candle, black hoods obscure the congregation and the pace of the mill is slow, resplendent he enters, white bone gleaming from within this darkness a hand of fealty and friendship is offered to all, united in purpose beneath horns of wood and horns born of bone, joined in blood and vision, the family is together again, past, present and future, this world I see does not obey the petty restrictions of time as we see it, it stretches far beyond that which we can perceive within the here and now, there is pain and joy, heart and thorn, all is as it was meant to be.

The sky is clear, I stand beneath the ploughman and his plough, words as yet unknown to many I read to the sky, upon the wind they shall travel far, reaching the minds of others who would perform this vigil upon this night, as time within our own world would sound twelve bells, the candle is extinguished, its light to forever burn within the green fire of my own soul.
To know and remember, all blessings to you Roy, and to all those who carry your flame that we may all bath within its light, and thank you.
Dedicated to Roy Bowers 1931-1966

Flags ,Flax and Fodder. Tony Macleod.

Thoughts from Roy's own hearth as it has grown and blossomed- Clan of Tubal Cain blog

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Busy Bees, deflated egos and thoughts upon a great man.

Sunshine and showers, colours shine radiant within hedgerow and garden across this strange land, time and idleness have produced a wild nature within the boundaries of my own sweet dwelling place, effulgent in all that this blessed world has to offer, wild and untamed in this time of the turning tide, it brings cheer to the soul and plenty to all the fur and feathered creatures that would share my beautiful home.
The unlikely bumble bees that dart within the sacred chambers of Digitalis serve to remind this one that perhaps he is not of such a solitary nature, at least not as much as perhaps he thought he was, alike to our solitary friends for whom company is not an option, a path I have walked for many a year and one that I have always been accepting of as part of my own fate, the company of others was no more that a dream and like so many put to one side for fear of never coming to fruition. Yet to taste of such fruit is to change the nature of the Lonely bee, to eat of the honey of the hive would make this Cunning one wish to join the waggle dance at some time, if fate and the powers that be allow me that pleasure.
Time in our world does not stand still, so until that grace is bestowed upon my own shoulders, work continues and knowledge will continued to be gathered, a burden that is not so heavy that I am unable to carry it, just one that I would willingly share.

My own search has lead me to the understanding that There are many things that tie our own faith to the other mystery faiths, within and around the confines of this blue sphere which floats within a dark void, not always obvious but they are there for sure, one has only to look to the poetry and art resplendent in lore that relates to us in ways often ignored, my own mentors and my dearest brother would use the term"perennial philosophy" the under pinning current that runs along side all truths, and is absent from so many other corrupted faiths, proof once more that blind faith is no more than delusional thought.

I recently have been urged to read the Bhagavad Gītā together with other mystical poetry from across the cultural, religious and indeed global sources from which thay may eminate. the Bhagavad Gītā itself furnished me with a great deal and left me with many thoughts and realisations. It is Incredible to think, that from another ancient and alien civilisation such words can still be relevant to us today, and within them there are many ideas that touch upon a great many things.

One of the personal goals within Traditional craft is the shedding of the ego, in an occult world that is full to overflowing with egos that itself may seem strange to the uninitated, but it is a prerequisite of no small importance, this truth is found in the Bhagavad Gītā and within texts from all over the world.

The Gita clearly states, that ideas and forms which resound in truth and wisdom are found when the ego is sublimated and we truly allow ourselves to listen to the sound of the world song, this has such revlevance to any who would seek the wisdom or wish to atain knowledge, I personally am glad that having avoided such written wisdom and then to compare to what I have learned through personal acts has very much served to strengthen faith and resolve. what was relevent then is still wholey relevant today to the person who seeks the truth, yet to behold the truth as written in a time beyond living memory is a joy to behold.

Concepts of doubt, fear and uncertainty are washed away when the truth is unveiled, the Ideas of trancending the affairs of the mundane world, which at first may seem hedonistic to the uninitiated, transend this hedonism in turn to bring together all aspects of all worlds and therefor all acts become sacred acts in them selves. The petty discrepences of everyday existance fall away as ash that blows on the wind, in those moments of connectivity there are only those moments, all else seems to become irrelevant. The outsider may well assume that this is a sign of unconcern and perhaps a lack of disapline, yet it is my view that we look at the whole picture and not just the bits we choose, the small vistas are of great beauty yet when we expand to see the whole it is only then that the conciousness awakens truly. To realise that God is not some untoucable entity yet within us and all things.

As one wiser that I once stated "There are no secrets, All knowledge is there upon the wind for those who would listen", and it is to him I give thanks, for within his own tragic passing I have found Family, love strength and so much more, I have only scraped the surface yet owe a great deal to him, possibly even my life, and so the circle continues.

So as we mark the passing of Roy Bowers, I am truly thankful, To you Roy, I give you my love and loyalty, it is only sad that I could not share a beer with you upon a feasting day, yet shall do the same to mark your passing.

Death holds many secrets, so until that time.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

A Midsummer day's awakening....

The Cornish landscape is a Green beyond green, so richly verdant as to send the eyes of the mind spinning, summer rain has persisted somewhat and as a result woven this emerald cloak to cover the land. Within the low lying mists of the morning air. steady precipitation causes all the flora to bow with the weight of heavy moisture upon leaves and petals, as if tired of this aqueous burden.
Roses within the hedgerows of the paths of our home form regal arches to parade beneath at this time of change, even a short walk through the damp fields leaves one as wet as if he had waded through deep water, all the while, the Roebuck with good sense stays dry within the relative shelter of woodland edge.

"Midsummer" I hear the disgruntled call, but midsummer it is and alike to the moon, the sun's own virtue is not truly beheld by the eyes alone, it is the soul that feels the change, although the warmth upon the skin is always a boon, to know and feel beyond the normal senses is of far greater value.
I would imagine that the Great henge is now resembling an impromptu landfill site, still, all will be restored in short time and the multitudes are happy, my own day has been one of simple pleasure and greater connections, as this insane time of chaos now draws to a close communications and plans of travel are once more stabilized, the wheel has now turned, another veil lifted before the eyes.

To think for one moment, that many years of rising before dawn on this day could ever be layed to pass is arrogant in the extreme, a failure to set the alarm would make some miss this vigil, thankfully for this wayward one I found that I was awoken by the tide itself, no surprise really as this observance has always been a favourite, even before I walked the path I now tread and Ignorant of any knowledge I may have gained since first putting a foot upon its stones, it called to me, and calls still, Although as I said to a dear friend, today was rather like having an annoyed parent pulling me from my sleep with the words" is there not something you are supposed to be doing", dragged from slumber by Lucifer's own radiance, hidden behind grey sky's yet there for the enjoyment all the same, I stand watching the sky begin to lighten, naked at the window of my home, thankfully for others we are not overlooked, myself in all my glory, not quite as resplendent a sight as the rising sun for any to behold!

The coal face, not so harsh today, a few hours put in to make up for some early departures, honesty and integrity are kept in check, a shame not all would embrace such discipline, yet we make our own worlds, if we treat another with disdain and dishonesty then we may expect to be treated likewise, it never ceases to amaze that such individuals always assume that it is others who would do them injustice and not justice herself that with good cause wields the sword against them.

Cloud still covers the sky as I prepare for my appointment with the midday sun, as a thought I speak to my dear beloved over the phone and to my surprise she announces that she would love to join me, well, could this day become any better.

Together in purpose, we ascend the hills to a place we hold dear, an ancient village that I have spoken of before, a place invisible to many but not to those who would look, no grand stones only a simple earthwork to mark this happy home, the inhabitants of this special place have given blessing to work their residence many times before and do so also upon this occasion.
The wind blows and there is chill in the air, V does her own thing and I do mine, yet we are together in ritual once more before my oss, exactly upon the stroke of twelve the cloud breaks and we can feel his heat on our bodies, sunlight illuminates the scenery, bright enough to light the incense with a lens, the sting within the wind has departed, as though it were never there, I am warm within my world and V within her own, a song , some runes (joy,wyrd and harvest, how appropriate)and we come together for the houzle, within that moment it is as though we have never worked apart, we are what we are, we do what we do and nothing need be said.
Two souls who have known love for a quarter of a century, together, still in love and enjoying the simple pleasures in life, we share our feast and some simple inspiration , before our return to the world of men.

It is days like this that fill me with joy and remind me why this journey has become such a enjoyable one, I hope others have felt as such today.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Image copright of Patrick Valenza from the Deviant Moon Tarot.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

The Words of man, returning to form and a Silver star.

Journey home by John Caple

It is often quoted that " A picture paints a thousand words", a truth indeed and one that has spoken to mankind since its arrival into the world, in fact, it is a form of communication embraced and used far before words themselves ever made the pilgrimage from the mouths and into the ears of our ancestors.
Privileged we are, those of us who now dwell in a world where the spoken or written word is able to create images of divine beauty in strange symbols upon paper, screen and parchment,that which within past times (not so far away) we may not of understood, either through ignorance upon that level or because of the tyranny and oppression of our overlords and governors, who, in the grasps of power wished to keep us poor and uneducated , enforced intellectual cruelty in order to maintain their status and imposing position within society, leaving many to never to have the understanding of the letters and the knowledge of how to answer to them. Common language and the written word is a blessing to treasure.
There are so many forms of writing, the simple poem to the six volume novel, each and every word has its value, the arrangements of some are so perfect as to paint the most glorious masterpiece upon the canvas of our minds, brush stokes that will tantalise the soul, images that will burn into our very beings , conceived and understood ,perhaps as memories, formula, love and brotherhood.
Barriers of race, religion and Creed are like dust to be blown away between the reader and the author, forever to hold a place within the hearts of both.
The word becomes a rhyme that would teach, a story to give council, or a record of this place and time, just as the scenes that we find roughly drawn on stone would remind the hunter of his place in this world and the tasks he had to perform, the paths we were hopeful to take, gold and turquoise effigies found deep beneath the sand within covered tombs, the words of the past for all to see and understand.
There is sadness in these facts, for many today the word has no value, newspapers are discarded daily and other media is rushing to fill this void, the written word is undervalued in favour of film, photo and poorly educated morons who would also seek to keep the people simple and peddle terrible advise, the picture is becoming the medium for communication of the masses once more, sadly not artistic splendour bought about by love and inspiration, but more throwaway tat, shall we burn the books or make sure that our children continue the devotion to locked in carbon and the wise beauty that languishes in the countries libraries, will it be that one day we shall become the overlords watching over the uneducated ignorant masses, I know the answer- Do you?

It has been an interesting couple of weeks, as I have mentioned the feeling of detachment continued far beyond my own wishes, yet accept it I had to. Acceptance bought about some strange feelings, to voluntarily climb down into the pit of despair, willingly fall into the dark light, a fools mission it might seem, another leap, yet faith has proven that I now have the means to climb out, never now to return wholly to the worlds of man I have been forced to walk in the space between the worlds, not one foot in either, a path none of us would choose, a test of faith upon the crooked path, and one that shall very soon come to a close.
The rising lunar tide brings home those connections and I am very ready to dive back into the stream that awaits, a trip to the wilder aspects of my home, ash and thorn await as beacons within the mist, a glance a tonight's lunar spectacle would be a boon yet unlikely I think, as the sky is almost slate with cloud, yet virtue demands no eyes to behold.

Thirteen years ago there came a storm into the life of the cunning man, my youngest born at the time of shortest night, tempestuous beauty, passionate and caring, my time with her has been a wondrous adventure, perhaps to learn as much about myself as I have learned about her.
As she embarks upon this next stage in her life she will be given a gift among others, a symbol of her own heritage, often maligned and most certainly abused, the silver pentacle I have for her acts purely as a recognition of her own heritage, from father to daughter, to know who we are and to enable her to remember, a gift from one of the old path to one who has yet to find their own, irrespective of whatever road she is to walk upon, it is a symbol that she will be able to look at and remember the spirit in which it was given, a token of our love and a spark that will always be welcome to join the fire at our hearth, bright blessings J and may you continue to teach this dinosaur a thing or two.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.