Monday, 28 March 2011
Spring has Sprung and all is as it should be within the world of The Cunning Man.
The serpent, no longer coiled in anticipation within the darkened halls has leaped forward into the light, sinking his teeth into the changing tide and injecting vibrancy and wisdom into the green of the land.
White clouds adorn the dark thorn as the sky becomes filled with avian prospectors, each laden with material enough to nurture the newly hatched young, the dark feathers are among the first to build their nests and rear their offspring;
First to hatch,
first to feed.
Wise and cunning birds indeed.
Emerald the hedgerows of my home, sorrel and the pennywort cling to the sides of the road and the leaves of the garlic wild fill the air with its sweet yet pungent scent when my own clumsy boot disturbs its rest, above the fodder the vibrant shoots of the may tree burst forth with a promise of what is to come.
Fortunate indeed, to dwell in a land of such remarkable beauty, the power and the energy at this time screams toward the soul "look upon me, love me am I not truly beautiful", inspiration at every glance, to be a part of this is privilege enough for any who would dare to gaze at its wonder, yet so sadly never to be grasped by those who would not.
Lady Day has passed and gone, an important date in both the agricultural calendar and the religious one, a time of contracts, of commitment and of action, blood stains the parchment and the seal is made, like the serpent it is time to strike, to make whole the plots and plans of winter and to seize the day, from this pact there is to be no return.
The Gnosis will flow, to force Sophia's gift is but the greater folly, an open heart will allow the stream to smooth the doubt and to wash the obstructions away, the path will surely become clear and the voyage shall be made much easier. Virtue shall blossom in the warm light of wisdom and the spirit shall become as steel in the forge of old Tubal himself.
Hidden from the world of winter, we emerge, renewed by a divine force to walk beneath the red sun's all seeing eye, soaking up the rays of our majestic star and feeling the heartbeat of the source as it pulses through both body and spirit, our goal is at this time most touchable, to become one with all and to walk in the worlds of the gods. A well tempered blade quenched by the water of life shall strike out with prudence and knowledge, cutting through the ether to the heart of truth.
We are Green shoots, to become the fibre of the world, the web and all its many threads, as Lucifer's guiding light heads into the western sky I am truly thankful for all that I have gained and all that is to come.
Today Is a good day.
Flags, Flax and Fodder.. Tony.
Monday, 21 March 2011
Ignorance of others often forces changes within ourselves and our modes of operation, the need for privacy requires this one to change his habits and move his working area to another vicinity, a shame in many ways, yet after a weekend with lunar virtue and followed there on by this shift into the spring tides, once again I am delighted to count my blessings, fortunate as I am to live where I do.
Far to the west of this blessed isle, our home bore the fruit of visitors from the north country, delighted as always to spend time in such wise and esteemed company, yet the path to wisdom often feels much further from my grasp than perhaps it otherwise would, my own ignorance and lack of knowledge becomes as a stone around my neck, yet, renewed vigour and determination is the gift received, together with the three nails that now adorn my coat, this is not an easy path, as the goal is so vast that I could not even touch upon it here, reaching for the stars in both a metaphorical and literal sense we journey onward along the twisting road, for ever the wanderers, the children of Cain.
Strength is born from the virtue of our heavenly mother, splendid as now she appears larger than usual, still the Cornish mist tries in vain to mask her beauty as her own gifts burn their way through the air toward those who would adore her, filling the cups of the families that treasure these moments.
Upon a Dam, twixt two lakes I stand, bright the sky all about me as her love pours down, warmth in the spring air lifts the spirit as I raise my horn vessel toward her dazzling beauty, full to the brim, the lake before me oozes with her divine elegance as her light dances upon the surface beyond the silhouette of my faithful oss, humble me united once more with she.
Complete once more I take the crooked path home, and share with my beloved tribe this gift.
Bright Sun heralds the changing seasons, warmth and light ride roughshod over this land, drying the ground and raising the temperature to suitable heights, where upon in later times the fields of corn shall stand resplendent before the feast of Hecate, that is until their true fate comes.
This world stands on the fulcrum, about to tip into the hazy days of fecundity and easier living, John Barleycorn is awakening and this realm of moorland, woodland, river, field and pasture with him.
My celebratory journey took me to yet another new place, dark night on the cusp of dawn, still she lights the way, a brief glimpse within that gun metal sky is all I am afforded, she knows that distraction is of no aid to this already confused soul.
Across the dew soaked grass I walk to this chosen spot, a wood graces the south and a stream bubbles and chatters along the western edge, to the north and east field and sky fill the vista in this chilled spring air, Stang planted firmly in the ground the choices are made, no fire this time to grace my vigil, only black cauldron filled with still water and a single candle, markers grace the quarters and there is no wind, the flames at the edge stand upright at attention, pillars of my own temple at this sacred time.
The song it comes once again, this time it is different, it rings the change of the moment, finds its pitch until it resonates with the flux, flowing, pulsating, high and low like the seesaw found in the playgrounds of our children, finally settling in that low note that is barely audible through the ear yet vibrates through the being itself.
From the source we come and to the source we go, a repeating journey that echos across the vast expanses of time and space, a road well travelled by many but one that most would never dream to step upon, the motion that springs from the cauldron, ever moving yet this pot must still be stirred.
I become awake, one with my surroundings, the babbling brook can no longer be heard as the dawn chorus fills the sky, a flock of pigeons alight from their slumber within the branches of a tree and take to the air, the sky turns from grey to a warmer ,brighter hues as two deer emerge from the wood to the southeast of my rite, I am done now and must return to the world of men, but not before one final and very personal Rite of Spring .
Twenty four years ago, and as I was wandering head down through the claustrophobic metropolis, I happened on this occasion to find a reason to raise my gaze, to which I met a vision, I saw my own beloved and at that very moment I knew that this girl was the one that I was to spend the rest of my life with, so every spring equinox since, I gather for her a selection of wild flowers and place them near her sleeping form so that when she awakes she too will remember that fateful day.
Catkins, Blackthorn, Daffodils, Periwinkles and the green shoots of the wild rose, were this mornings bounty, for me the privilege of being able to spend my life with the best of souls and the greatest of loves, and may it long continue my Love.
Flags,Flax,Fodder and Frigg.. Tony
Sunday, 13 March 2011
New growth shoots skyward from the hedgerows and coppiced trees toward a springtime solar splendour, the culled branches and stools having survived the onslaught of winter throw the renewed energy of the land toward our benevolent star.
Reward indeed for the woodsman, the stockman, the farmer and the witch, a timely reminder of the flux and flow of the great cauldron, always moving, expanding and retreating, the current flows in all things, never ceasing, always moving, life itself a rich tapestry from the loom of the wyrd.
The sourness, so prevalent within the mundane world wears the face of happier moments as warmth and light replace the colder and darker times so feared by many, it always astounds me that nature will take a hold and influence those who may care very little for its company and knowledge, as if it still resides within our DNA which of course it very much does.
I find myself in a strange place, a letter from a friend allows me to take stock of those things that often pass us by along this crooked path, not to hold in my hand the hatchet and the billhook of the woodsman, this time requires the skillful wielding of other tools, within my hands the scales and sword of another to hold, the decisions to be made are those that can effect not just myself but others removed from my immediate company, a grim responsibility among more pleasant choices, yet thick and fast they arrive, carefully considered they must be all.
Again my voyage has furnished me with the skills to deal with most of what I may have to, prudence councils that perhaps within some other matters greater council will have to be sought, at least I now have that option, denied as it was further back in time.
As sight develops I become acutely aware of the greater sensitivity that is involved, having sought this for many a year, when it becomes clear it may not be the blessing we would perhaps assume it to be, often far from it, requiring prudent action and occasionally harsh judgement, even when you see the trap that lies in front of you there may still be a greater temptation to keep walking so as to see what it could do.
So, sight within the hands of a foolish man could be a curse and no gift at all.
I often write of my own perceptions of the members of our society that are not "of the faith", usually with a degree of scorn at the fact that many of them seem to conspire against us in our journey to gnosis, littering the roads to wisdom with the detritus of the ignorant, it is not pleasant, yet if they knew how would they perceive me.
This leads me to thoughts and discussions on weather or not witch blood is a viable truth, those discussions that will continue well after this one has departed and there are those with greater skill than I to talk and ponder such things.
Hereditary witch is a title many would claim, yet if we look far enough back into our own families we will all find it, so we all have it in some way, let us say for now (as I wish not to step on anothers toes here) that within our genetic make up there exists a switch, when this switch is turned on it activates a deeper aspect of ourselves, actually changing us in ways that others may not understand, the blood of our witch ancestors becomes active (watch this space for an announcement of a book that will deal with this subject in ways I cannot, until then enough), and we begin to see things in a very different light.
I am blessed with a love who like myself is "of the faith", she may not tread the mill but that makes her no lesser witch than any I have met, indeed far greater than most. I find it hard to imagine a life spent with one who's switch had remained dormant, we Do Not see the world as others do and this could be a frightening experience for someone.
In his letters to Joseph Wilson, Robert Cochrane mentions this with regard to Joseph's wife, he writes "To a young girl looking in from outside it must have been frightening, since to her she must have seen the man she loves subtly change and a side to his character appear that she does not understand", Robert goes on in great detail within this letter about this matter and it is an important lesson for all of us that may be family to learn, with regard to the way that others may see us and the way we might execute our own daily lives ( there is a link to the writings of Roy Bowers on the Clan of Tubal Cain website(see Links) listed at the bottom of this page).
So the testing times continue, Prudence is the virtue used to deal with much of what goes on, If I were to judge this civilisation, I would find it lacking, when it judges me (and it has of late) it will most likely burn me at the stake, not so much for religious reasons more out of a wish to not step out of ignorance and emerge into the light, still, I shall be roasting in good company and I am well prepared..
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony..
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Throughout the march days there is a continuing taste of spring in the air, yellow and white flowers decorate the hedgerows of this land as the sun is developing his warmth and the days become much longer.
There is a mist that hangs in the evening air, a silken veil that partially conceals the splendor of the heavens this night, brief glimpses of the stars can be caught by the patient eye and a silver glow of the maiden moon, horns sharp as knives when the clouds part to pay honour to her divine brilliance.
Geese fly to and from the coast, the heavy beat of the wings and gentle call often audible if not always visible in the Cornish mist, soon many of those same travellers shall depart our land for other climates and with this sad departure the Wild Hunt shall take its leave once more.
The dark contemplations of the winter are coming to an end, time is ripe for action, to pursue our intents and continue on, the lengthening daylight hours give rise to many distractions as we all poke our heads from that blanket of chthonic security, this one is again facing too many and wishes somewhat to crawl back to that safety, however, life must go on and the tools are there to deal with it all, the worry comes only from a gift squandered and an abuse of those tools ( the gift of love proves most valuable at this time and is a powerful armour).
Remarkable that the defensive bubbles we draw around ourselves act as a kind of beacon to those of kith and kin, the dearest among family and friends will be alerted by this action, as if to submerge into the depths is in fact to climb a high mountain and light a flare to alert those people to your plight, again this brings strength when patience is stretched and there is no longer enough time in the world to chase dreams.
Times are fair here in the home of the cunning man, yet pettiness continues to blight all our lives , still, we cope well, even when that means pulling ourselves back together more often than we otherwise would like. My spirit likes to wander, to spread itself out beyond the confines of its skin, exploring the world around me, soaking up the energies of spirit and place, it likes not the vile abusive nature of the ignorant so I find that I have to reel it in when it would be free, it is unfortunate that work commitment does not allow the time to let this being run wild at present, yet we must make hay while the sun shines or at least until I feel the lines about to break.
I always fancied the life of a monk after all, the clothes were not to my fancy or the haircuts for that matter, and the Jesus thing, not really appropriate but I could adapt, the rest however would be great but only if I could still return home at evenings and weekends to be with family, "A Part Time Monk" as my eldest pointed out to me from beneath a wry grin.
So no ecclesiastical life for me, at least until the point some of us set an Abbey or some such, The Abby of the pale faced goddess, home of gnostic thought and Witchcraft.
Soon there will be visitors to welcome and trips to make, freedom for the body and soul well deserved I think, some time away from the daily grind among the best company, if this year brings as much fruit as the last I shall not be a hungry man for wanting.
Flags,Flax and Fodder. Brother Tony.