Monday, 25 April 2011

White thorns, a hornets search and tangled threads unwind.

A warm breeze brings the black and gold mistress of the air to the eaves of my home, gently searching for a suitable place to rear her much maligned brood, a spot if found to be approached with caution and no small amount of respect, windows remain closed as an eviction of this kind is not really what my family would desire.
The white thorns of this one's home are on the verge of bursting forth, others in places further afield seem to be already there as she heralds the coming of the may. The great Ash throws its leafy shoots toward this fertile sun, Yggdrasil splendid once again reminds us in this time of great distraction that decisions are still to be made to continue in our spiritual journey, the time of the Rood magnificent.

An old oss, scarlet and black with his chattering jaws shall soon shed its winter coat of dust and mere mortal men shall don the garb of horned giants, the ring of bells and the sound of the common folk parading around a giant phallus sunk deep into the dark soil of the village greens of our land, although they might not know why they do what they do still they persist in a rite that has taken place far back into the history of our people, so much so that it exists deep within the souls of the people and echos constantly through the bones of the land, a very part of it in every sense. Yet still it may be corrupted, perhaps at first by our puritanical ancestors and then later still by the rites of the fertility cults, it is with good reason that I feel that this effigy may hold a deeper significance than that of the divine masculine, could it perhaps reflect another great tree and the gnosis that fruits from it's myriad branches, adorned as it were with fibres spun from the loom of the Wyrd, ribbons and threads that could serve to hasten our climb and understand the web on other levels, who is to be sure and it would take one without virtue to bring a stop to this holy dance.

For the Cunning man comes a time for consideration, aside from the lights of the bale fires I wish to look further, to continue to gaze into the deep waters of the well and ponder the secrets that lie therein, this hound is free to run, wild and somewhat untamed, alone, in a pair or within the pack, the choices are there and I have chosen, I shall hunt alone and in a pair, I shall share my quarry with my own kin and I shall run and hunt with the pack for the love and protection it offers, I shall bark at that which offends me and mine and I shall bite the offenders when required.

I see the patterns within the tangled threads of the maypole, as those coloured bounds to which I am tied, I see the source and some way to the future and I am happy with what I see.

Flags,Flax, Fodder and Frigg. Tony.

Monday, 18 April 2011

Fire from the East, a Brothers bond and a Deviant Peddlar

Still and serene the night, the face of Cain gazes down upon the souls of his beloved children, Lilith's divine light within his eyes bright to accompany his ever watching vigil.
Peace descends with great abundance to this waiting soul, as another reflection continues to dance among the myriad thoughts within his head, separation brings sadness and pain, yet great joy at the meeting of minds, the exchange of view and the very joy at meeting one who is dearest of kin once more, a knowing, a recognition of another who dares to swim the chthonic waters of this world, a friend and brother of the Arte, family is reunited and great distance becomes a mere fly within the ointment, a chasm that perhaps is easier to traverse than one might imagine.
In my siblings own words, we are but sparks of the fire, gratefully gathered home by the great smith to refuel the furnace, each spark a smaller fire in our own right journeying back to the source, yet when two flames are united that part of the furnace becomes hotter, there is greater heat, brighter light and the voyage does not seem that is is so hard to make.

My own perception of family has grown in this way over the year, when times are hard I feel the warmth of our collective spirit, protecting, lifting, comforting, as the armorers shield and the fur and feathered cloaks of our ancestors brought warmth and strength to their own beloved, connections continue to run deep.
My Craft continues to take on the face of Steel, tempered further by the flames, each stroke upon the stone to hone the essence to razor like quality, yet just at that point when one might feel that the blade is as sharp as it could be another stroke sharpens it further still.
I see for the first time that, through the honing of this tool it shall become such as that it shall act without normal thought, it will recognise it's friend or foe before the one who wields it has even become aware upon the mundane level of existence, autonomous, swift and just.

A warm welcome awaited my brother and I at the museum of our craft, a foray into the world of our past and the ghosts of those who walked upon and built the crooked road (together with those who insisted it should be straighter), all was as it should be, there was not need to create any mischief on this occasion, the hounds came armed with teeth a plenty yet the fox had made safe his lair.
A further journey, high upon the Cornish moor, where Hugin and Mugin once again act as heralds to meet favoured kin of the Cunning man, a place of ancient wisdom and ancestral knowledge, inspiration through the beauty of this hallowed land, blood bonds are made as they should and wisdom further shared in the presence of our beloved Sophia.

It is over the steel roads of Albion we travel, those wayward sons and daughters of the wanderer, we are not known to others who would hide behind screens and paper and long may that continue, as some of those we met upon our travels were strange in the least.

So, with those who are not of the faith continuing to perpetuate stereotypes I must add that this fate also belies those who might "think" they are, the sons and daughters of Mr G that openly discussed the tools of another Arte in public hearing, tools that conceal batteries and are generally made of rubber, all well and good but these two cunning folk nearly passed out with laughter at this unceremonious public display, a wiccan shop in the birthplace of king Arthur. Well if they were true to their own methods they should perhaps sell a different kind of wand to the one on display, perhaps a feather duster or two as well!!

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Monday, 11 April 2011

The Rose, The Rat and the election of a new Pope!

The wind howls the last vestiges of the wild across the greening landscape, delicate blooms that only yesterday stood tall and proud are now crooked in this dry storm, those few leaves of last year's splendour that clung to the branches through winter's might are thrown asunder, high into the air, while the buds of this years delight now find the room to breathe.

This pot doth boil over as the invisible fire has become so hot.

The barmy weather that did announce the return of the shining one is on the turn, a herald brandishing a bright and deafening horn indeed, although a climate more in keeping with the season is now upon the doorstep of our lives, rain shall cool the simmering heat, feeding bud and leaf, root and seed, the stem shall climb skywards in its reach for the heavens as Fox and pheasant prepare for the arrival of the next generation, hunter and hunted preoccupied with the business of procreation.

The drums sound from deep within the chthonic realms, I hear no rest within their constant beat yet I am at ease with the sound, a part of that symphony, a key role in this orchestra I have, although what instrument I am to play is yet to be known, for now I stand with with all and relish being a part of it. The song changes, it becomes change, it is the vocalisation of the Wryd, I have not heard this version before yet I know all the words, this beat is universal, transcending all time and space, straight from the source and played by a divine virtuoso .
Sophia's musical beauty drowns out the sounds of the human vermin that troubles this one from time to time, rats, they still bite yet now I feel no pain, the tune is armour for the soul and a shield for the mind, I have become the sharpened sword and feel no threat from man that is beast.

A red rose now guards the threshold of my home, a welcome addition to accompany the white sentinel upon the boundaries of our haven, carefully chosen and delicately placed in the fertile soil, a thorn to trip and tangle the usurper and a radiant bloom to welcome kin.

It is when planting this new addition that my beloved had discovered vermin of an animal kind among the fowl, I glanced over to see the love of my life delicately hiding behind the home of our hens, club in hand and ready to defend her precious brood by tooth and claw, rattus was not forthcoming on this occasion so other methods shall have to be bought into play.
The rat hunt not a success so as the sun descends upon this glorious spring day, the cunning man decides to warm the house through by lighting a fire, not so cunning on this occasion it would seem, as I had failed to notice our hooded, black feathered and Sapphire eyed friends had been attempting to build nests in our chimney, so a roaring fire in the hearth was to become such in the chimney itself.
White smoke bellowed from the top, as if we ourselves had elected a new Pope, the song of the world still playing in my ears made panic impossible, no drama to be had and the would be nest soon became as ash to the wind.

So the fools of April are indeed playing tricks on my own, and as I prepare for the company of a dear brother I feel that we ourselves may have one or two up our own sleeves to play..

Sixteen years ago, a full moon night and we were blessed with the arrival of our eldest daughter, her journey to womanhood almost complete, we reflect upon past and future, blessings a plenty and curses a few and far between, an event that did turn this man's world upside down and continues to leave me not knowing which way is up, still, up and down are silly human constructs that we could all live without, I hope!

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Monday, 4 April 2011

The Belly of the Serpent, a Rabid dog and a good helping of Custard.

Beneath the shadow of the tired Kings and Queens of the spring, yellow crowns not quite as resplendent now among the green, blue and white of the Cornish hedges. Rising tides force the Ramsons to hang their heads and sigh upon the wind of anticipation, the green gowns they wear sway in the breeze, each in turn will take the form, which can only echo the expectant shape of a waiting mother who would glance from beneath her veil with hope and devotion at her swollen belly, she feels the growth of the life that will spring forth into the waiting world, a new thread becomes a part of the greater tapestry of creation.
The cauldron bubbles and simmers beneath our feet, the emerald hues of the land are only the cork that graces the vintage Champagne, shaken to the point that when the May comes, it shall come with an explosion that would make the enigmatic Mr Fawkes smile from ear to ear, something stirs deep in the belly of the Serpent, as we are all soon to discover.

Within the body that is home to my own soul there is a stirring to match the rising passions of our rural home, tolerance wants to take a break and the will of this one is eager to duel with any usurper that would offer his glove, in some issues mine have already been thrown down upon English soil, beware those who would raise Cain for I am not in the mood to turn the other cheek, bite me and I shall bite back, with the teeth of Cerberus!

As She sharpens her sickle yet to be seen among the stars of the night sky, this wanderer descends to a place of Oak, Ash and Thorn, to climb the tree from where I may but glance into the deepest of wells, the swirling vortex that lies beyond His eye, to gaze in awe at creation itself.
Behind that which sees all, there lies fire and ice, containing all destruction and chaos ,bringing order to this world.
The web is woven as the weavers weave this substance that has the name of Wyrd, sisters I salute you, for you produce the finest of cloth.
One brief glimpse is all I am allowed before I am hoisted from my mount, a blessing to be counted none the less, for how many can say that they have had such a boon.

There is wisdom upon the air, as ones dear to The Cunning man are sharing their own thoughts and inspiration upon the electronic superhighways of the globe, long over due; Shani, Stuart and Bran, feasts for the eyes and food for the soul, for whoever would dare to glimpse at Truth and be inspired there are links at the bottom of this page, Enjoy.

The Faith is based upon truth, There is no Blind faith within the craft of the Traditional Witch, that is to be left for others that have yet to remove the blinkers and take their fingers from within their ears, the proof is in the pudding and this pudding is one of pure delight, with a good serving of Custard.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.