the cunning man

Clearing mist, A lust for blood and the end of the world.

2012-01-10T01:24:00.000-08:00

After what would seem an age in itself the chaos has started to subside, there is illumination at the top of the well and I can fully begin my ascent once more, not so much a fall on this occasion but a retreat, an enforced journey into an uncertain realm which until this point has left me with deep insecurities and a veil that has somewhat hidden the path from view.
The mists are clearing before the eyes as I head toward the light, order is starting to return as the great serpent stretches his coils beneath the earth of our land, the troublesome vermin run for the safety of their own nests as the hunter steps into the bright light of day once more, there is great change within the serpents wake, yet I am ready to accept it and all that it will bring.

2012 shall indeed be the end of this world, not the paranoid delusions peddled by ignorant conspirators but a new beginning, for that to happen something needs to die and death will force change in no small measure, what that will be I cannot see, yet in my heart I know that it will come and the masses shall rise as the great leveller takes its toll, perhaps 2012 shall be known as the year the world changed for the better- we shall see!

The Twelve days were for us a truly mixed bag of blessings and curses, time was spent with dearest of kin yet others were sorely missed, insects were biting at the skin and although no great wounds were struck the ache and the itch were at times unendurable, threats to much beloved family members left this one with an insatiable lust for blood yet wiser council bade me keep my sword together with that of my brothers within its sheath (for now at least). Our financial circumstances changed in no small way when the work dried up, not unexpected yet an uncertain future on that level which does leave us free to pursue new and old Ideas.
Still we journey on, and all serves its purpose, stronger and with renewed vigour we face the world head on, as the end of one thing heralds brighter beginnings, the chance for a new start in many ways, plans and projects that had to go upon the back burner can resurface and I for one have found great joy in this prospect.

Plough Monday has passed and gone, this one spent the day quite literally as the vegetable patch was in need of some tender loving care, financial security has made me idle upon that front so change again forces a valuable reconnection to the land, the soil turned and the labours of Cain have prepared the ground and greenhouse for a hopeful bounty in the leaner times to come.
Many agricultural customs still have those roots within the traditional craft, the actual doing aids the soul and the mind in an understanding of the subtleties and reasons for them, although Horse drawn team and garlanded plough were replaced by eager woodsman,spade and fork, the task of turning soil and feeding the earth becomes a greater ritual that is indeed reflected within the heavens as the old man pushes his own plough across the sky, That in itself brings strength to the back and much joy to the heart.
Plough Monday CTC- this is an article well worth a read if there is any confusion between the Craft and Agricultural traditions.

As we head toward the rites of Candle mass, Imbolc, call it what you will, there are still sacrifices to be made before we can properly emerge from the dark, dead weight to shift from our lives and sins to be absolved, from now to that time when we can finally shed our skins it is worth considering all that which would hamper our forward motion and stop us from evolving, those things that pull us back and make us as rooted as plants, we are the children of Cain after all, I love the forest dearly as every hunter does, yet I am not a tree I am a man and I need to move along the path, as much as I would enjoy the vista I cannot stay and watch it become overgrown as would seem to be the way for the many.

So Journey on we must, and to all who happen upon this Cunning page, a Happy new year to you, may it bring great change and many blessings in the time to come, but remember, all things must die and it is that fragile nature of life that makes it so perfect, divine teacher of souls that grants us joy in every tender moment, if we open our hearts, our spirits and our eyes.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Damp feet, Misguided intentions and the wearing of masks.

2011-12-21T03:10:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2011-11-18T23:14:00.000-08:00

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.
Watch,
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.

A setting sun and A Star crossed serpent.

2011-11-04T02:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Need fire and a fool at the end of the world

2011-10-19T00:05:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-09-02T04:27:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-08-26T04:31:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-08-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

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

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

2011-08-10T02:53:00.000-07:00

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.

A green loaf and a thorn among the roses.

2011-08-02T10:56:00.000-07:00

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.

The Crossroads, the cave and Elder wisdom.

2011-07-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Sweet blooms, clashing steel and knowing oneself.

2011-07-13T09:18:00.000-07:00

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

A candle For Roy.

2011-07-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

2011-06-29T10:16:00.000-07:00

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.

A Midsummer day's awakening....

2011-06-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-06-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Summer rain, Fate's plan and the drumming of a thousand maniacs..

2011-06-09T07:15:00.000-07:00

A gentle sprinkle of summer rain has fallen upon the baked earth of our home, so hard the ground, that most of the tiny droplets run off into the streams and ditches, cracks and crevices, depriving the thirsty plants much needed nutrition, the sun hides behind smothering cloud and warmer clothes are worn into the refreshing air to halt the chill.
On those moments when he does return from imposed exile, his blistering heat scorches the skin , said thirsty plants turn to marvel at the brilliance, some only to wither beneath roofs of glass. It becomes harder to function within the high humidity gifted to us by the June showers, an uncertain time which may leave us in need of a coat in one moment and stripping off within the next if sensibility and modesty will allow.

All seems at first glance to be the portent of a time of pestilence, who is to tell, yet if one reaches out beyond the skin it paints a far different picture, the beat of Nerthus's drum pounds out a different tune to the gentle, consistent pulse that we could all perceive in the weeks that seem so far behind. An army of drummers thump upon the dry skins a rhythm so hard and fast as to become a vibration , each beat no longer truly discernible from the last, to dance to this tune would bring insanity, this song has a far different purpose, a herald of the life and fecundity that fills the ether, the dry earth, all realms that now clamour for attention.

Care is taken, meditation brings the most confusing of signals, a wild spinning vortex of life that is hard to define, whirling and chaotic, exiting, yet there would appear to be some danger within, to dip into this pool is joyous indeed, although there is the temptation to dive in completely, to swim and explore the world within the depths, to escape from the mundane reality completely, however, wiser council might suggest that to do so is to willingly have ones soul ripped out of the body through the third eye perhaps never to return intact, again, Prudence within ones actions is definitely required, until the time when guide and mentor might furnish me with the armour or perhaps a lifeline to enable this one to swim safely. Until then the pineal shall remain tugging upon the brow and crashing against hard skull like a trapped animal, desperate to escape but ultimately safe in the knowledge it cannot fall into another Hunt's path.

With the seasonal confusion, the maintaining of all the connections made becomes harder, it is though many the voices all shouting at once cannot be heard for the raucous noise they all produce, they become one with the vibration, indiscernible, difficult to single out, lessons merge and other sounds distract the traveller from the path, true Faith steps in to unite the parts of the shattered soul and simple pleasures bring mortar to the unstable masonry, art and poetry bring inspiration, the beauty that lies within an other's words or within the gentle strokes of a brush calm the water and filter out the detritus, so clarity and solidity may return, the seemingly impossible is not as far out of reach as any of us might imagine.
Faith becomes another key, to unlock that door that leads to gnosis, it is the support that will aid the injured man, the horse that will carry him home safely and the hearth that will warm the heart, never blind, for that is the domain of the usurper, the charlatan that demands allegiance without assurity, the fools paradise, to see the truth one one has to open ones eyes, heart and ears and it is there for all to see,feel and hear. There is no need to follow blindly, doubt and delusion are the liars seeds planted by those who lack a faith of their own, and they are keen gardeners in that respect, with only a false calling to their names, at least in this calamitous time their voices are not easily heard.

And so a note to those lost souls within this strange brotherhood, brothers we are and through our blood we are bound, to the both of you separated by the great Atlantic I send my wishes, what you both have is precious and rare, turbulent oceans will not break that bond, time and patience will see you right in the end, have faith my kin, for fate has a plan for you both, as does she for us all, I truly count my own blessings that I do not have to endure that pain that you yourselves endure, but remember that it will not last.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

The Mighty Oak, a clumsy boot and a gallic Crocodile

2011-06-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

The fire crackles into life and smoke entwines itself through leaf and branch.
Green and proud, the sentinel stands, keeper of secrets and herald of the chthonic realm, king of the mound and guardian of the abyss, watcher and shepherd to those that would approach that sacred realm.
Mighty Oak, adorned in life, majestic tree of ages three, one to grow, one to live and one to die, as above as so below, the hidden door to a world of deep knowledge, ancestor and home, defender of the fugitive, protector of this realm, I salute you at this time of your splendour.

Beneath this opulent canopy, it comes once more to pass that summer madness is upon us all, endlessly trying in vain to maintain some kind of order from among the chaos and distractions at this time of insanity, yet often to fail and get caught by the traps and pitfalls littered throughout the world of man.
Many folk descend to this coastal haven to to take the sea air and rid themselves of the burdens of everyday existence, busy roads and cluttered streets, the lifeblood for a county that has Little else to offer, so a smiling face and a touch of courtesy would go a long way to help fill the county's coffers.
The older children within our society, having served their time, prepare to take the first steps into the "real" world, work, college and all the cruelties involved, the next phase in the lives of the innocent, talented shapers of creation one and all.
Chaos all around.

The season of Loki is here once again, at least for this traveller who would stumble along the crooked road, more diligence and care is required, as the digital world of communication serves to teach this one a lesson once again.
Perhaps I have become far to comfortable with this electronic medium, forgetting on occasion the subtle nature of words and of the perceptions that are born of them, a statement that may be intended as a question becomes as an insult if not properly worded, care must be taken when opinions are thrust into the realm of another who perhaps we have never met, unable to see the smile on your lips, or hear the inflections upon the voice, words alone will perhaps deceive the reader from their true intent, hurt will then manifest itself in incorrect assumptions, anger and emotional discomfort, such a snare has had me by the neck this week, but lesson learnt and endeavours will be made not tread so heavily when walking in the gardens of others, for if we should refuse the invite or jump over the fence to safety we shall be denied the fruit of wisdom and there is nothing to be gained.

Brief contact and deeper thought with my own dear brother serve to bring great strength to this would be Cunning man, separation by distance overcome, we work and explore the darkness together, the sun returns to mark another year upon his life and I for one shall raise an Ale in his honour, bright blessings my true kinsman and may you have many more.

Finally, if one should ever wonder what it might be to live within the realms of Mr Punch, then please feel free to spend a few days beneath our own roof, as our home would adjoin that of "the Punches" there is much verbal abuse toward the children, shouting, screaming and most certainly the consumption of sausages, no policemen although I suppose I could become the devil within the mix, I shall let you know if and when a crocodile should make an appearance, and if it does it will most likely be fluent in french as are the rest of them.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

The Dog that climbed a tree and a fool's sacrifice..

2011-05-24T08:44:00.000-07:00

Gone and past now, the Rites of spring, all headings are firmly fixed toward the feast of the Baptist, the true heat of the midsummer sun and the unknown dangers that lurk within Salome's captivating dance.
The Blossom upon the white thorn now all but gone, blown to into the air by the warmer winds of early promise, yet outside this home of mine there is a silent call, a precious gem within a sea of fecundity, the blushed tint of our dear friend Rosa Canina who has climbed to the top of the now green May to once more crown her with a jewel worthy of her beautiful spirit, perfectly complementing her gown of emerald green with true virtue.

Perfection!

A creature of the darker months, or so I would like to think, the cloak of winter now a distant memory yet this surrounding vision of Nerthus at her most radiant never will cease to captivate and distract.
Is it not true, that in order to truly appreciate what we have and hold dear, is to have lost it within some unforeseen or foreseen moment, can we truly enjoy the company of others if we have never felt alone, love, if we have never felt loved, bring Justice, if we were never the victim, good health, if we have never felt pain or acceptance if we have never been rejected.

Perhaps, yet those moments that we have, the ones that tear our fibre apart serve a purpose, for without them we could become emotionless fools, incapable of learning the lessons strewn upon the path, the trials and tribulations of this life may be looked upon as blessings and not a curse, if the human mind will allow.

Lucky is the soul who would blunder it's way through this existence and never need to pay good heed to these lessons, a good life indeed for a foolish one, never to stop and take note of the flowers that he has so carelessly trodden in his wake, while a wiser being might stop to smell the scent, hurt and angered by the fact that another had so carelessly turned the blooms to dust. Regretfully, this is the way of things.

Success within our modern world is often measured by financial wealth and accumulation of useless possessions, those with a clumsy foot willing to walk roughshod over the treasures that truly lie before them are rewarded (or so they would like to think), with wealth, property and prosperity, the Fool is king in this world, yet one day that world will end and where will the fool be then, these riches are the trappings of a false world, a human construct that has no bearing upon true spiritual growth, in time the King will be the sacrifice once again and the wiser folk will dance with joy upon his bones, as they shall become dry and bleached beneath Lucifer's own flame, lying trodden in the dust with the skeletons of the underdogs.

So, Simple pleasures are torches that light the way, friends who would walk and play within the light of the moon, the wiser words of another that bring a smile to the face and the treasured company of those who you hold to be dear, bright lights indeed to chase away the shadows of hurt and regret, the finest of dancing partners.

And how we shall dance upon that day my dear brothers and sisters.

Flags Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Sweet Mead and the Cunning Arte

2011-05-17T03:52:00.000-07:00

All lies quiet and still within the walls of our home, beloved family safe and warm beneath the blanket of night, recharging the tired and weary bones, to rest and to sleep in order to face the morning sun and all the trials he may bring once again.
There is no such repose for this one however, as the heavy heads of his own kin lie with eyes shut, minds flying into the realm of dreams, there is work for the Cunning man to do.

Heavenly wonders remain obscured by the cloud as the early summer winds threaten to remove the fresh leaves from the tall branches of the trees, thick trunks weighed down with the flowing sap sway and bend to the rhythm of the world, echos of that beating heart as it pulses across this land, the sky, a Granite and slate tapestry reflects in awe the geology of this county, yet beyond this heavenly canopy I see her shadow, still cast, she lies upon the path I need to take, so as moth to the flame I go, and with great joy I accept her as my guide.
Along the well worn track I trudge, fully laden with feast and fuel, night birds throw silhouettes above my head, silent still in their flight yet a welcome company all the same, further across the fields and down to the woodland edge I go, Celeste lights my way and the White thorn that graces my chosen spot now fat with over ripe blossom serves to mark my destination, a beacon to bring me home.

The Oss stands tall, bejeweled in the finery of the season, ever present companion to this one, guardian of the rose and finest of steeds, patiently it stands to watch, as from the axis the compass unfolds, to the East I place the spear.
No circle is cast, this is a flower that must open, and open she does, one petal at a time until she stands sublime beneath the veiled nocturnal glory.
As the sacred Fire springs into life my mind journeys far to the lands of my dearest family who will kindle blazes of their own on this night, across the hills and moors of our island we are one, together within this act of devotion and celebration, and though we may appear the solitary creatures of the night we are never so, as by these acts we are united as kin.

The Mill turns to the beat of the pulse, the sacred wood burns and above the sounds of our babbling brook there are names upon the wind, Hecate, Hermes, Lillith, Lucifer, Cerridwen, Cernunnos, Nerthus, Ing and Pan, words that travel through the ether as they have done so for all of mankind's history, the sound of the witch blood awakened in the souls of mankind.
Continuing within the round, the rose lies fixed and stationary, it is as though the whole world turns on this point, that it is my compass that remains fixed and the land spins around it, from my steady view point I feel no motion as the trees and bushes continue to pass my eyes, I am strangely removed from our world and existing beyond, outside of space and time, an observer of things that happen in another world perhaps another time.

A leap of faith and over flame I grab the spear and hold it aloft, my being a surge of energy as the worlds collide, movement stops, and the ground almost shakes in its wake, somewhere close by I hear there is another who does dance within the midnight shadows, yet on the pulse continues, waves of pure sound that match my every move, thump, thump, thump as the Spear strikes the dry earth, I match the beat, I am the beat and we are the same, that primeval force that will persist even when the Sons and Daughters of Cain have long since departed this Land.

United in one, Spear and Cauldron, the sweet mead cast to the watchers and a shared meal with the divine, I attempt to replace this holy weapon to the earth from which I took it and I am told in no uncertain terms that it is now mine to wield.
The journey home is longer, a stop made and an offering to Hecate is placed at the crossroads, I turn my back and walk away, never to look behind.

The Cunning Arte of the may tide complete for another year.

Two become one, a Branded cow and a Jewel among the thorns.

2011-05-08T03:14:00.000-07:00

Britain stands glorious, adorned in its gown of emerald green, Lucifer's jewel sublime within the crystal beauty of Mari's turbulent waters. The late springtime rain brings radiant fecundity to all that stand within the fields and hedges of our ancient isle as once again the chthonic realm forces it's way to the surface of our land.
There is a pulse that beckons to those who would acknowledge, for some a beat to hear, for others a wave of purity to feel or see, yet all those who see, feel, or are blind to it all, still walk within it's passion and flame, it is life, it is love and it comes direct in it's path from the source of all things to reach out and touch rich man and beggar alike. It does not recognise the bizarre human constructs that govern our world, it surpasses the myriad ego's and sense of the self, it will not discriminate twixt wealthy and poor, man, woman or child, we are one and it brushes upon us all, we only have to stop and pay attention to it's advances and only then will we feel the presence.

Our own journey once more takes us back to the home of our past, time again to stand beneath the hallowed shadow of the island of Avalon, the purpose on this occasion to bear witness to the joining of two souls that with great blessings will remain as close as family to my beloved and myself for a great time to come.
Deep inside these hollow hills we stand, kith and kin united in purpose before the Old ones, pacts are made and blessings abound, the life giving waters of the hill pour with great abundance into the sacred pool that which takes pride of place within the darkened halls of this temple, the Black Madonna witness to all who stand before her, radiant within the candle light vigil in this moment devoted to love and union. Two separate souls that have overcome the barriers of time, distance and space, to become as one before the eyes and ears of those who would gladly give them all they would desire if it were in their means to do so, the word of this bond still echos through my being and shall remain for as long as I remain, longer than that in truth as an eternity stretches out before them both.
A true bloom within the lives of this Cunning Man and his own dear love, a total privilege to be a part of this and my thanks go out to them both for allowing us to be so.
Ash and Patrick, may you truly be blessed with love and devotion as I have so been, fate has smiled upon you both and all those who were present, long may she continue to do so.

The commerce and bustle of this once small Somerset town astounds us both, the new age has not only left it's mark upon this magical place but has branded it as one who would mark their cattle in ownership. It has been many years since I had walked the streets of this overgrown village and I find that so much of what it has become disappoints me, religion is for sale on a grand scale, integrity has already been sold and profit is the king, yet even within this seemingly largely Pagan haven there are gems to be found, those who produce wonderful things do exist within this wholesale world, between the golden Buddha and the dark iron cauldron there are jewels that will hide, once again in plain sight.

Out of the main town Victoria and I were to meet one such artisan, I had arranged to pop in as I was in the area, and I have not seen John for nearly thirty years, we were at the same school, nestled within the heart of the Mendip hills and we have both come of age within the bosom of that dearest of lands.
This gentle fellow does not go into the woodland realm at night to tread the mill as I would, his own ritual lies within the work he does and is no less potent than any I have witnessed, influenced by a love of the land, folklore and his own rich ancestry, he creates devotional pieces that overflow with that same Craft as I feel within the night time rites of my own existence. Another aspect to our craft heritage that could easily be overlooked by those who perhaps have not had these experiences, of course this allows John to sell his paintings to those who will appreciate them as the works of art they are, I personally see perhaps something else within them.
The hills of the home I grew up in, the tales the old ones used to tell of how you should not venture to certain places upon certain nights as there would be Witches there, this was not spooky storytelling to scare small children but matter of fact advise, born out of respect for those devotees of the elder paths, the ghosts that walk the lanes at night, the midnight forays and simple rituals the country folk of our past used to perform, all this and more elegantly captured within the pigments brushed upon these boards, a shared upbringing in a land I will forever love, and proof that no amount of paraphernalia will bring you closer to your gods.
Thank you John Caple, for your generous gift and I for one recognise another true brother of the craft by the parts of your soul that permeate through your work.

Life goes on, fully refreshed by the company of all those wonderful souls who have crossed by path over these past years, you all bring a greater richness to my life and knowing you all has given me so much inspiration and clarity, the family continues to grow as this world I once considered an empty place devoid of such riches proves me wrong, and this does not disappoint.
I know not what lies at the Rainbows end but my visit proved it was not a decent cup or coffee at that particular place in Glastonbury.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Paintings by kind permission of John Caple
John has a published book of some of his works available on Amazon for those who may be interested, it is called Somerset and is well worth a look.

Flags, Flux, Flowers and Frivolity.

2011-05-02T02:36:00.000-07:00

All out of your beds,

For summer is acome unto day,

Your chamber shall be strewed with the white rose and the red

In the merry morning of May.

Where are the young men that here now should dance,

For summer is acome unto day,

Some they are in England some they are in France,

In the merry morning of May.

Where are the maidens that here now should sing,

For summer is acome unto day,

They are in the meadows the flowers gathering,

In the merry morning of May.

"Oss Oss"

(excerpt from Padstow daytime may day song)

Flags and flowers fly high above the small town that lies to the northwest of this beautiful county as once more coaxed from the mouth of a golden lion the Old Oss does emerge once more from its winter lair.
The busy celebration shall pass this one by in body, though not in spirit this year, not unlike the blue ribbon that brings temperance to the frivolity, mine is a waiting game still, there is time yet before this warrior shall mount his own oss spear in hand to greet the changing tide.
Reminders of the flux adorn the great oaks of my home, the crowns of green splendid upon their noble brows, as the world tree that stands proud beside still forces its own emerald fire through the pale brown skin of its branches, the bridge that crosses all the worlds resplendent within a sea of may.

The first of May and the arrival of the May bug, after three years of subterranean voyage he emerges from the chthonic earthy realm to fly for but a short time among the summer breeze of our land, welcome Billy Witch your arrival heralds greater times ahead. Dionysus walks amongst us once again and those that cannot face his gaze scurry back to the holes and beneath the stones from whence they came, now fearful to attempt to hide within plain site, blinded by the light of wisdom they retreat.

Gifts an blessings showered down upon the heart of the Cunning man upon the muted marking of another solar return, a white rose to stand beside the red and a black one that points toward dearest of kin, green fire from Lucifer's brow and wishes in abundance, proof to this one that emerging from the shadows was indeed the right choice to make, although when having lunch with my beloved, there were two of our pagan sisters (adorned with the correct jewellery)who noticed a symbol upon my lapel, then drew visual daggers, perhaps mistaking it for one of those they despise, it bought a smile to my heart at the ability to hide within plain site from those who would feign wisdom and forsake the truth for ignorance..

Within this time of union my own voyage will once more take me to my old stamping ground where another union shall take place, two souls from different worlds, separated by the great Atlantic ocean shall be united, a chance once more to meet favoured kin and those of like minded spirit, as this one ventures further into the light of company unknown, what blessings shall be born of this union I have yet to see, but they have mine and all that goes with it, and they shall relish this short time together upon the shores of Avalon.

As the children of the land prepare to undertake the acceptable face of the rites of spring, the wind howls around the vicinity of our home, the village bunting might well be in the neighbouring village by now, I shall venture forth soon to find out. The Pole erected every year finds the company of youth from the young of elsewhere as the village itself has not produced those of appropriate age for some time, another place's offspring were imported to dance the round last year and I imagine the same will occur this time, a retirement village that heralds the end of tradition and the death of the rural communities, it would seem that as with everything, it is those who would complain of change that force its very being after all.
A bitter lesson that we should treasure the young and the changes they bring, evolution occurs at so many levels and if we were to praise the children for the advancement they make, instead of criticising them at every turn then, refusing to accept change, then this land would be all the better for it, we have much to be proud of in our youth, but to see it we must all open our eyes, for it is there to see, Art, Music and dance, right in front of us, primal skill and evolution of the species in action.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

(Cockchafer, (colloquially called may bug, billy witch, or spang beetle))

White thorns, a hornets search and tangled threads unwind.

2011-04-25T08:50:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-04-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-04-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2011-04-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

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.
Tony.

Green shoots, a Serpents kiss and a blade fit for a King.

2011-03-28T08:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Forcing change and embracing the Rites of Spring..

2011-03-21T09:36:00.000-07:00

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

Green shoots, prudent action and witchblood.

2011-03-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

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..

Warmer days and part time monks.

2011-03-08T12:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Of Slaying Dragons and flying Elfshot.

2011-02-28T09:41:00.000-08:00

The bright sun in the morning sky gives subtle hints of the coming spring as I rise from the restful repose of the night. Birdsong adorns the air as the radiant star of our home seems to make the catkins dance in a golden hue upon the hazel trees of our country home.
Lucifer's warmth brings great strength and heals the soul from the trials and tribulations of the mundane world, stealing brief moments throughout the working day to recharge beneath his brilliance, to gather the spirit together, to make strong that which others would attempt to tear apart by their cruel ignorance, and careless actions.

Life is good in the land of the Cunning man, there is much to be thankful for and many to be thankful to, the fruits of labours past still sweet upon the tongue and the seedlings of the future reach evermore toward the light.

Dragons now are easily slain, those greater plans that conspire against us all in our everyday lives, a large target is easy to hit and there is much truth in the old saying "the harder they come, the harder they fall",and fall they do, with ease together with a greater resolve and not a little cunning.
Yet elf shot does come in many forms and from many places, forcing small wounds upon the individual that at first go unnoticed, if ignored, these may become the fatal cuts and pustulating sores that will indeed still bring us down, those straws that are one by one and once again placed upon the camels back, until the beast is slain.
Action due to circumstance or prior knowledge of certain outcome may be an impossible task and therefor other methods must be brought into play, the bitter curse is not to be employed, repercussions are too severe and the distractions that will ensue only serve to make us wander from a path that is often hard to follow as it is..

Love is a divine gift in all its forms, emotional, physical or platonic, this is the tool to employ in these awkward times.
We need to draw in that feeling, to grasp, not in desperation but to seek out the flow of the wyrd, for the healing that this power can bring, as a dear friend said to me "to eat it as if you were the hungry man at the feast".
The love that you feel within the solar plexus of your body, it emits this perfect emotion yet it gathers it also, as those ignorant asses stretch your being to its very limit it is this divine love that can pull it back to the confines of your earthy form, gathering, stitching together the torn pieces and making you strong once again, no longer stretched to breaking point but like steel, forged anew, each time is like a rebirth, a fresh start and we become more formidable than before, somewhere within the arms of Hecate, safe and untouchable, a bright star that shines between the horns of the master.

These are the true gifts that we are given, us would be priests of the faith, this is the true magic and thankful this one has become for it's influence.

The sun has now set on this beautiful day, there were no dragons to be slain and the rats who gnaw at the bonds of my life are no longer able to bite through forged cables that bind me to the world, I shall me mindful of their presence as I know that soon they will come again, but next time they may have bolt croppers and action may yet be necessary, for now the Blackthorn stays under wraps, as this one is safely wrapped up himself within that divine blanket of virtue and love.

Flags, Flax and Fodder.. Tony

Freedoms dance, kith, kin and a crooked sixpence.

2011-02-22T09:51:00.000-08:00

The wild wind blows with great force beyond the comfort and warmth of the Cunning Man's home. I lie upon my bed listening to the sounds outside as the hunt rides the sky beyond these walls of stone, I long to travel with them as my spirit awakens to the thrill of the chase, and then something of a different nature is born.
Like mist that clings to the fields and farmyards in the early morning a form takes shape, rising from the very pores of my skin, it gathers itself together, it becomes.
Slowly, it composes itself, rising above me, it has no eyes, yet I know it can see, no hands to feel, yet it can touch what ever it wishes to touch, I in turn feel and experience the quintessence and it's sensations, it's emotions as it tastes freedom for this first time, we are one and the same, I am he and he is me and we together are both separate and whole.
Dancing above my horizontal body in ways that I could only dream of, spinning, turning, flowing from shape to shape, unbound from the restrictions of this mundane form, love feeds our world as we enjoy this moment, distracted from the events outside we experience our meeting instead, we get to know each other, myself meeting myself, a form no longer restricted by the ego, An absolute pleasure, an absolute love and trust, we embrace and become one.
It was a pleasure for Me to meet me, and one I shall treasure.

On and on the wheel turns as we charge headlong into the year, seeds that were planted at the Candlemass have burst forth, both in reality and metaphorically, our dreams and passions slowly become the fruit of our needs and our longing, the food for our journey.
The blessings, curses, pitfalls and boons are mapped out before me, to be forewarned is to be forearmed, times of woe and times of great joy await, to know aids the decisions of the future, the snares and traps that lie along the crooked path shall not come as a surprise to this one, with guile and cunning they may be avoided completely, yet in turn those precious moments shall be welcomed with all the pleasure they deserve, love and companionship, meetings of minds and the forging of friendships all shall pass along this road that once seemed to be such a lonely one.

Once more we found ourselves amongst our kin of the north, Derbyshire although shrouded in cloud and mist gave us the welcome of family and friendship, a beautiful county full of marvelous people.
Meeting family for the first time, instantly recognisable as such and this fact alone never fails to astound, even those who were unable to make it were noticeable by their absence, time and space separate the bodies of our strange dynasty yet at some greater level we, like the spirit that danced above me are whole, we are not bound by those "natural" laws, we are together and could never be confused with strangers.
Faces were put to names and names put to faces, the pagan community of that northern land stands as a flagship to all who would be of that ilk, pleasure comes in leaps and bounds as we meet the Piebald Corvid and his own kith and kin, kind words from kind people bring great strength to my beloved and I.
The Derby Witan a success indeed, I did not see all there was to see, but the words and wisdom of one who's voice filled the auditorium with a flow and grace that comes of no surprise, still flow within, I am sure that if the divine feminine has a telephone then Shani Oates has got the private number to the hot line.

So, a Cunning man returns along many a crooked mile to his Crooked house, his Crooked cat and he carries with him a Crooked sixpence, a gift from another whom I am proud to call Friend, more upstanding than this Crooked man, we shall continue our friendship long into the future, meetings shall take place, as part of my heart now belongs to that blessed county and to those that dwell there of.

Flags,Flax,Fodder and Frigg(for the magpie) . Tony.

A song upon the winter breeze as the future unfolds..

2011-02-11T05:58:00.000-08:00

Venus gazes down from high upon the rested figure of this would be Cunning one, stirring from a light slumber I stand to greet the soon to be rising sun, dusting the morning frost from my clothes something deep within my soul is beginning to awake.
This is no mystery to me, as only a few hours earlier, beneath the cloak of darkness a divine gift began to emerge, in a smaller way, struggling to exit this spirit shield that is my own body, myself not allowing this part of me full passage into the world for fears known and unknown, preconceptions and misunderstandings.

As the sky toward the east begins to take on the colours of the coming day the song emerges , it is not what I expected it to be, yet it belongs in this moment, sounds flow from the core of my being, permeating through every fibre of the self and out into the wyrd, at first it takes the form of elation, the cry's of the newborn as it is thrown out to the waiting world, then it becomes something other, the wyrd itself, one with the heartbeat of all things at that time, the song of the rising sun, the earth at my feet, the waves that caress the distant shore and the cold winter wind that bites at this one's face, it unites gathers all the parts of my shattered soul, I am the flame, I am the rock, the wave and the sky, I am all and all becomes I in that precious awakening time, I am whole once again.
This is no delusion, I have waited patiently for sprit to find sound my whole life, only I was too caught up in minor distractions to realise, to have enough faith to give birth to this voice, tied down by my own preconceptions.
The chants heard at the festival fires have yet to speak to me, they are of the world and beautiful in their own right yet not on my own frequency, there have been only few occasions when I have heard this sound (one most recently), yet often these are not within my own cultural sphere and I have foolishly not considered the value of such as something that could even possibly belong to me.
I know now that culture or religion have no influence over the song, it transcends all those superficial barriers with ease, it permeates and flows through all things, it should not have come as a surprise to hear the similar sounds flowing from my own lips to that of a First nation American or a Mongolian Shaman, for whoever we are or where ever we may be, the Song is the same and will remain so, it still has an individuality that reflects the spirit that has formed it, yet if two of us from opposite sides of this planet were we to sing together there would be perfect harmony, for we are the vessels through which the world sings.
Perhaps one day my own song may have words, but for now the sounds are enough, it has taken some time for this feeling to settle, the Ritual hangover has now properly subsided which has allowed me the time to consider this gift, I hear the song at all times and know that that will always be so.

The rites of winter still have legs as it were, there is yet much to do, the seeds have been planted but there may still be time for germination to take place. What does the future hold?
For me, well who can tell, there are changes afoot, people to meet and rivers to cross, I have the tools and some knowledge, I look forward to continuing along this path for the rest of my days, grazing on the fruits and fungi I might find along the way.

There is a saying in the world that states "The rich get richer while the poor get poorer", I as have others seen this to relate to financial wealth, that may be true yet it can relate very much to our own world of Gnosis and the gathering of knowledge, to love and companionship, each step along the road to wisdom and friendship brings riches I had never thought possible and continues to do so, within this mundane world there are reflections, my own kin exceed expectation, we are far from financial security but rich beyond the reach of many others.
Travel well my friends, for you truly are a wealthy bunch indeed, I look forward to sharing a fruit or two with you in the future, perhaps fermented in some water for a while before consumption, may the coming tide bring all that you need and take away that which ails you.

So here's to love, life, knowledge and travel, the spirits of the past and those we are yet to meet.

Just don't ask me to sing about it, as my own song may well sound like a tortured goat to normal folk..

Flags, Flax, Fodder and Frigg.. Tony(the cunning man(well getting there)) Macleod

Perfect dark and unfettered wandering.

2011-02-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

The world sleeps.
Night workers and Hedgeriders are all who move within the perfect dark, the cloud clears to reveal the celestial splendour of the heavens while the candles of my compass illuminate the shadows of this sacred liminal space.
The fire springs into life and I enter the realms that to some appear separate from their own, across the bridge and into the round I walk, I stand on sodden turf , Watchers beckon from the quarters, the old ones gather near my oss and the marker is set, this hallowed ground prepared for the work ahead.
Upon my wrists are the fetters of my own failing, upon my ankles the chains of restriction, this prisoner has the keys to freedom within his fingers, wyrd woven and gold in colour, shining, ready to give flight to this wing clipped bird.
Around the circle bright this mill is trod, the sound of Hecate sharpening her sickle ready to greet the coming month is almost audible, yet her weapon is not to be seen on this night, though there is a death of sorts upon the breeze.
The grinding stops and the fetters are thrown into the fire, this charm chokes the flames as smoke pours skyward, panic sets into the heart of this one until the realisation that this is a pact kicks in, I need to do my part, it is not for she alone and I must prove my worth, together we work and in a short time the fire returns to it's radiant beauty, the bounds of my own captivity are consumed by the fire, Sins eaten by flame, chains become ash.

In the distance a Cock crows, not usual for this time of night, the blade must be sharp as this maiden moon steps into the world renewed, work turns to celebration, the mill moves again yet now she turns with the sun, small lights of many colours flash within the trees and hedges, sparks of inspiration to bring in the year at the time when the seeds are returned to the brown earth of this land, for love ,life and knowledge, for family, friends and future the tiny jewels are placed back within the womb, John Barleycorn will be reborn once again.

This rite is complete, though there is far to go, as unfettered I walk the few miles up into the hills and dwellings of the ancestors, accompanied by my oss and those others who would care to join me.
The walk is but a short one, trees and bushes take strange shapes within this black shadowless realm, while night creatures call to each other, I can see why this world could scare those who were perhaps a lesser part of it than I, yet this is my way, a blanket to bring comfort to this traveller, the realm of the dark wanderer is my home.
I stop at the crossroads and make a prayer to our lady, then up the hill to my destination, within the dark the steep sides of this small summit do not seem a chore and it is not long before I see the walled enclosure that was once home to a happy band of folk, stopping at the entrance I seek permission for my vigil, the wind blows at my back and the ancient place welcomes me in.

I take my position to the east of this village, upon the rampart and above the ditch, climbing into the confines of my bedroll I make my rest and await the coming of the candlemass sun.
Sleep takes me to wondrous places and I am reminded of those who slept upon the fairy mounds of our blessed Isle, although the place I now lie is not a place of death but very much one of life.
I am awoken at the sight of Venus, bright herald, the morning star and know that Lucjfer's own rising will not be far behind, cold morning air bites at my face as I raise a glass to one who remains with me, together in this place of ancient wonder the light of day creeps slowly across the waking world Stirring all the seeds I planted earlier to life.

The year is complete, blessed we are indeed.

Blessings of the season to all you and all yours.

Flax,Flags and Fodder.. Tony.

From the deep well of despair to the shoulders of giants.

2011-01-30T05:36:00.000-08:00

I asked him, "What is that which I have to renounce?"

"All that is evil in order to occupy yourself only with that which is good. The proneness with which nearly all of us are born to vice rather than to virtue. Those passions which render us slaves to our senses which prevent us from applying ourselves to study, tasting its sweetness, and gathering its fruits. You see, my dear son, that the sacrifice which I demand of you is not painful and is not above your powers; on the contrary, it will make you approach perfection as near as it is possible for man to attain. Do you accept that which I propose?"

"Oh my Father," I answered, "nothing conforms more to my desires that that one should choose propriety and virtue." (Taken from the Black Pullet)

One small piece that very much speaks of the moment, the whole year has lead to this moment. Twelve months since my return to the compass proper, I could never have envisaged the importance of this time prior to this decision, am I a wise man? Perhaps that is for another to decide yet wiser I have become within my own understanding of the worlds, the stepping stones continue way into the distance, one at at time I take the leap from where I stand into the unknown, they no longer wobble beneath my weight as assured stability is my gift, a knowledge that if I were to fall there is a greater presence ready and willing to catch this wayward son of the divine she.
The Sins of this one are gathered up, I hold within my arms the shackles, the ball and chain that has slowed my progression into the light of Gnosis, in preparation for the coming rite that same consideration left me falling once more into the black well where the light of wisdom seems to far, too impossible to grab, the black walls are unclimbable, each attempt only serves to take this one further into the abyss, despair tears at my heart until at that moment all the purpose comes flooding back into the soul, the memories of all that has transpired over the year, the good, the bad, the lessons and the love.
There descends a hand, held open in warmth and my own reaches out to accept it, lifted cleanly from the dark water I am once more revealed to the light, his radiant smile like gold to my heart, "This is why my son, these are the chains that tie you to this pain, to be consumed in the late winter fires, then and only then will you be free to fly again".
Another lesson learned, to the fire of the Candlemass all the tethers will go, eaten in the spirit of the season, the February sun shall bring new strength to my cold bones upon it's arrival, another stone passed in my crossing of these sometimes treacherous waters.

A year on and this lonely Crafter is no longer alone, there is one who watches, who brings strength and support within this waking world and within the place of dreams, pointing out the direction to go, explaining the floors within my own workings, a mentor, a friend and one whom I respect, the spirits no longer hide from my enquiring mind and the serpent no longer recoils from my advances.
I continue to meet others who walk the solitary path, we become companions, friends, fellow travellers along a crooked road, together we are on our life's journey's no longer to be by ourselves in any real sense any more.
Then there are those within the exoteric plane that have taken this would be Cunning one under their wings, there is warmth and comfort it that knowledge alone, questions answered, my own doubts(although I have fewer now) are too consumed by the fires, in no small part to the influence of these wiser people, I feel in my very being a long and prosperous relationship with all whom I now hold dear yet whom were once strangers in the blink of time.
Communications along the digital highways that serve to bring armour to this wandering spirit, and an army ready to defend those who may me lost or vulnerable.

So, there we are once more my dear friends, the wheel has turned full circle and is ready for the off once again, in truth it never stops, to stop would bring stagnation and none of us want that.
Forward motion, evolution (my favorite word of the moment), let us all throw the rubbish upon the flames and continue on our respective journeys, there is change ahead and in another years time we will all be standing in a different place with a different view, upon the shoulders of giants we shall ride, beneath the radiant wisdom of the divine, all threads together in the tapestry of life, love and magick.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

A pre-spring cleaning and the Devil who cares.

2011-01-23T10:47:00.000-08:00

The cold wind blows, chases the cloud to the west and leaves a crimson sky in its wake, an ice moon sails across the night sky, freezing all that her divine light touches, there is a hunger in the land once again, as the wild food is at a premium, desperate hedgerow birds will take the risks that they need in order to survive the rest of this frozen winter, the rewards may be great for those who venture to my own country home, the robin becomes king of all he surveys beneath the shadow of the circling raven.
Beneath the Cold Moon I have received a repose from the biting insects that attempt to blight my otherwise pleasant existence, the distracting bites and probes are beginning to become less of a distraction, do they become something that happens less frequently or do they become like that pain that descends into our tired bones, an uncomfortable ache that we have become somewhat used to, still this one refuses to bite back yet there is a powder keg that is building, the fuse remains long and optimism is the key, anger and bitterness are the thorns and brambles that trip and distract us from our true purpose and they have no place in my life at this time.

The seasons continue to flow one into the next as the wheel turns, now we reach an important time, if all has gone well over the winter we should have gained the insight and information to make those changes within our selves that will very much influence our future lives, this is a time for renewal, the year begins , the plough has turned the soil and the seeds of the first harvest will soon be planted, within our own cultivation of the soul, gnosis like the steel that slices deep into the earth should have turned up many of those weeds, stones and Brier that block our way, at the same time it enriches us, pulls the knowledge in and and serves to make the ground suitable, fertile for planting.

All of this knowledge we have attained so far is of no consequence unless we rid ourselves of the clutter, the seeds will only be strangled by the Brier, suppressed by weeds and rocks and never see the light of day, some are still rooted deep, others seem too big, but move them we must or we shall fail in our journey, stagnation is not acceptable, if we want to be still we would join some other religious cult wouldn't we, there is no place for this within the realms of the true craft, we are men and women not plants rooted in the mud.
It may not be easy to wash this detritus from our crafty lives, personal sacrifice or atonement may well be the order of the day, the choices must be made and resolution kept, this is an oath we take to ourselves and the Gods regardless of whatever other oaths we take in our lives, not something that we can easily put aside for some whim or another.
A devotional life is my own personal goal, to move closer to the divine, to become one with the same, we must evaluate, what we need, where we need to go and stick with it, the decisions are ours and ours alone, we may be within the flow of fate yet, if all has gone well we should at the very least be able to steer the rudder to the parts we wish to explore.
So whatever methods we need to use, the coming time is the time to be rid of hindrances, our sins, some will have another to help, the rest of us will need to work out ways to purge ourselves, be honest and show integrity, this is not some secular resolution that in a months time we can throw to one side, these are the decisions that could effect the rest of our lives and even the next.

As the days are now noticeably drawing out , Lucifer rises, each day growing stronger, his radiant heat can be felt once more upon the skin at those moments when the winter wind subsides, he like the wild kin we share our world with, reflect beautifully the growing strengths of our own tiny lives, his fire brings warmth to the soul, as the first greens of spring appear in the hedgerows.

To finish I would like to wish all who stray onto my path blessings in this coming time of thought and planning, I hope that you will not need some kind of metaphorical refuse skip in which to put your rubbish, for me the cleaning has begun, issues are being addressed, so come Candlemass it should be a bit of a flick round with a duster then to burn the last of the rubbish once and for all.

There is a phrase that says "The Devil may care", I personally know of one that does indeed and what is more he is quite happy to make work for these idle hands to boot, not to mention this easily distracted if not totally idle mind, most welcome he is as well, a great and much valued companion as are all his own kin, many thanks to him and his lady at this time, deeper consideration is just what this would be cunning one needs.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony..

Moon torn, but not quite broken...

2011-01-18T09:31:00.000-08:00

A Cold moon rises, radiating silver hue upon the grey evening sky, upon this night a veil of frost shall fall and cleanse the path to the divine beauty that is she, Darkness wraps itself around the land and within that comfort I can find peace at last from the petty machinations of this world, tasting the air of the other as I compose my piece, the directions are clear yet the choices remain my own.

Testing times have been the order of the previous week, the lack of integrity among those who participate in this secular society will never fail to astound, straw has been piled high upon the shoulders of this one, small piece after small piece until the weight was in danger of forcing the break, yet my back remains unbroken and my own values remain firmly intact, the thorn that dances within the confines of my home remains unsaited in it's desperate passion for retribution, but my own soul is now lighter for resisting those primal urges.
Night after night my sleeping world has been disturbed by my waking concerns, yet all the way there is one who's very presence serves to protect my resolve and bring strength to heart and soul, a beacon and guide that aids me by his very presence, he says nothing yet he is there and that is enough, decisions will be made very much aided by this sign, this also brings much joy and hope.

This veil of disruption has now lifted and at last my mind is free to consider the things within my own life that I would wish too, Tomorrow I shall share the virtue of the bright night and all that she will bring, a monthly communion that has over time become some of the most important rituals of my working year, simplicity is the key to that moment shared with our pale faced goddess and with my own beloved, Virtue, Gnosis and love.
Blessings have also been found through my own dear children, J continues to blossom and C has discovered the value of learning, it is a shame that we have had to take her out of the education system for her to do this, yet she is excelling in ways that we could not believe, the results say it all, so well done my loves, not to mention my dearest lady, who's patience, together with her refusal to let this awful school ruin a bright girl's future has won through.

So, a short one today, a little morose and for that I apologise, I can only write about my own experiences after all, to talk of matters of which I have no experience would be a falsehood in the extreme, I would be kissing goodbye to my own integrity, and that is one of the only things that no one can take from any of us, unless we let them.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

A road less travelled, driving snow and a song from the soul.

2011-01-10T08:56:00.000-08:00

Deep inside the belly of the great mother we sit in contemplative silence, the constant drip deeper underground the only sound we hear until, a sacred prayer breaks forth from the soul of my subterranean companion, the oldest instrument mankind has ever had at his disposal gently flows from the vicinity of my friend, notes high and low, a devotional act that transcends sound itself and it is not long before it becomes as the rock, the world, it is all, the sound envelops me and I become a part of it, vibrating through my body this man's song takes me far beyond that shell, I am one with the rock, the water the very wyrd itself, caught within that moment where space and time disappear into nothingness, to become as everything.
The song stops but the sensation continues to hold me, the vibrational note lingers for some while and then myself moved almost to tears we ascend back into the land of ice and snow, " the spirits be with you my friend", kind words from the dark world serve to distract me from my emotionally charged state, as we emerge from from the womb, high above us upon the cliff edge a single hawk watches, a fellow traveller that points to a belonging, like this one a traveller in an unfamiliar land together we navigate through the flow of the wyrd.

Moments such as these are rare and precious gems, shared with others they become as a bond, a connection that runs deeper than the holy springs of this very land upon which we walk , the past week has brought many of these.
Love, trust and shared insights, understanding and many truths were the order of this time, spent in the north of our country among the dearest of friends a treasure is found.
As the red hind leads the way for her offspring through the driving wind and snow, so I too find that those who lead me along the hidden paths are similar in that very nature, guides and mentors within the realms that I would wish to explore, and like the calf I trust them completely.

Meetings and merriment, well fed both spiritually and literally I depart for my return to my home in the south, but not before one more parting gift is given, a gift horse that is not examined in any way, some things seem too good to be true but on occasion they are just good and true.

The noise of the sisters, the clack of the loom is soon replaced by the similar clack of the train as it Carries me toward my home and my beloved, across wood and steel, through cities and across our great land I return to where I am needed, although soon I shall indeed return to what felt like a home from home, and to those that dwell there.

The traveller, perhaps this is the path this year, worthwhile and refreshing, I think I may have caught the bug, and to finish up I have to put that famous saying back into the box marked nonsense as I have found that it is most definitely not grim up north, far from it.

FFF. Tony..

Phoenix rising, A Strange brotherhood and the cracking of nuts.

2011-01-02T02:11:00.000-08:00

Within the silver cup the scarlet liquid turns, full circle we turn with it, except the gifts that it brings as we are reunited with those fibres of the universe.
Wyrd flows back into the body, connections are reestablished once more, becoming the part of the greater whole we become whole ourselves. The sounds of the changing year echo upon the breeze, sparks of change fly up into the night sky as the spectators coo with drunken awe at this spectacle, hopes and dreams are born, the failings of the past hopefully discarded and the modern world attempts to move forward along its path into the new year.

Realisation dawns, there is a dark cloud upon the horizon as this one comes to realise his own place in the new world, there are responsibilities, there is more control than before "what will you do with all you have been given?", it dawns upon me that at last the choices are mine, I stand at the crossroads and it is for this one to decide how and where to go, fate is allowing me to see the way clearly, if I step one way or another I can now see the outcomes of either choice, I am in fate and this is her gift to me.
Disappointment as even I seem to have fallen victim somewhat to that plague that ravishes our society, the sickness that wishes for others to make those important decisions for us, to shun our own responsibilities, passing the blame onto another party for the mistakes we make in our lives, I thought I was above that already, yet rising up through the flames this Phoenix truly hopes to fly above that now.

The decision is made, I choose to wade in the river, no longer to be just carried along in the flow, to be guided by the currents that surround me and no longer become washed up upon the shores of strange and unfamiliar lands that I do not wish to walk upon.

Messages come down the static cables of our waking world, as my own strange brotherhood makes contact, old friends that remind me of my place in time and space, my own beloved kin that for what ever reason has been spread far and wide across this land, all of us on different journeys yet in some way connected, the universal joke that starts with the words" A Boatman, Woodsman, Barrister and a Witch walk into a bar" the punchline is still to be written but I can hear the laughter already.
Grabbing the mood and the moment I ascend the stairs of the house, inviting my dear children and their confused friends into the heart of my choice, to bring the joy and optimism that only the youth can bring to our simple celebration, this is the path, the moment to seize, a simple act of choice that brings the virtue of joy and much laughter into the world, the way to start a new cycle, this is truly the way to bury the detritus and move forward.

My own path spreads out before me as I prepare for my journey to the north of our country and a visit to dear friends, the festivities over, normality returns with renewed vigour, gone is the mundane life, this path is sacred, to be trodden with care, to watch and learn, stopping often to pick of the fruits and gifts that are placed there to aid the weary traveller.

The great loom still sounds in the ether, weaving, creating, a constant beat that is always there, the heartbeat of the world unfolding the rich tapestry of life along which we travel.
Last year was a year of contact, this one also I feel, journeys far and wide within all context, meetings with like minds, with friends old and new, there will be much to celebrate in this coming time as meetings are planned and the union of souls from across the great sea is brought to pass within the hills and levels of my own home county. Like the serpent of my own dark places, this fiend of the shadows is emerging into the light of the great sun, a time to bask within the warmth of all the blessings I have been given.

So expect a visit my friends, because this one is off his leash and running wild, She who walks in the realms of shadow has sent me into this world to taste of the abundance there, I like the taste so don't be surprised when you find this faithful hound standing upon the path of your home.

To finish for the day I would like all who read this to picture the look upon the young face of a teenage boy (my eldest girl's current devotee), as this devious soul cracks Walnuts in a single hand to feed to his daughter while the poor lad observes the various weapons of Arte that clutter my abode, the splintered shells mimicking the sound of the weavers work... Priceless.

Flags, Flax, Fodder and Frigg. Tony....

Spinning threads, Midwinter and the footsteps of a great man.

2010-12-28T02:30:00.000-08:00

Midwinter, the hour approaches, outside the ground resplendent in it's crisp white cloak cracks underfoot with sound loud enough to shatter the silence of the night, awakening many of those asleep within the bush and briar of our frozen land, in the distance through the frozen air I hear Reynard calling to his own kin as I take the path to turn the mill.
The fire burns, it's bright flame cutting through the chill night, a welcome friend indeed especially on an eve such as this when the touch of the northern winter alights upon the skin of the hands.
No shadows are to be chased by the flames as Celeste burns far brighter within this crystal sky, as if to prove that having been consumed by the earth's shadow that very morning her own path through the void is only to remain stronger than ever, the great mother magnificent, ready and willing to give birth to the young Horned god and the return of the solar year.
Within the circle round I tread and tread, the crisp sounds echoing the great noise of the loom above, the fire makes no sound as the threads that I twist go to feed that hungry clatter, joining others as they go, tonight I serve the weavers, tonight I give my all to the tapestry that is Wyrd itself, I work, I am the wheel that forms the fine fibre that in it's own turn will join with fate and become.
Clack, Clack the weaving gives rhythm to the compass, the fibres of my being sail up along the cords of destiny, I am unwound, all that I have goes to her, a sacrifice, an act of devotion, with hope to become a greater part of the worlds, the spindle turns, the loom still clatters and I hear nothing else, when as suddenly as it all begins it stops.
I am pitched from my fire side dance and thrown toward the north, dizzy from my vigil she takes the rest and I give it all willingly, quickly I regain my posture and try to see where it is I am, I stand where I started, the moon is dazzling in her beauty as she reminds me that I am with her now, I am with all creation yet alone, the clarity of the moonlit night burns my eyes and yet the greater part of me has gone, silence now on all levels, great knowledge is somehow here but I am a child with no means of tapping into it, I feel powerless, vulnerable and unmade, yet within this confusion the opposite is also becomes truth, I still have that connection, there is but one thread that connects me to the rest, my work tonight is almost done, safe in the knowledge that soon once again I shall be whole.
The holy blood stains the white ground but not before I see the Rune, Othila, a loss yet an inheritance that I have been given, perhaps greater wisdom will become mine upon my return, that we can only wait and see is the order of this time.

Family meals and winter gatherings continue through this season of festivities, blessings truly counted and much excitement from the members of my family, not to much indulgence or gluttony within the confines of this group, but hearty meals, warm fires and the love of company.
Travelling north to my Mendip home across this so rarely white landscape brings great joy and the fulfilment of a pilgrimage, a small gesture to (as I have mentioned previously) one who walked these paths before.

Upon crisp snow still within the darkness of the night I step from within the confines of my mothers house into my car, during the short drive to the hills anticipation builds, even though there is no great ritual planned this is an homage to a great man, will I find the place, it has been nearly twenty years since I walked these hills of my home ground.
It takes no time at all, through the darkness I walk until there before me looms a greater dark, I don my head torch and descend into the chthonic realms of our own world, nervous apprehension as I begin my descent slipping on the frozen mud and wet stones of this place I do not fall and reach half way through the system, I descend no further as I have found a suitable place for my vigil.
A single candle replaces the luminosity of this century and I light some incense, the tiny flame illuminates the stone walls, lines of chalk and quartz crystal reflect back the orange glow of my white candle, deeper within the cave I can hear the gentle drip of moisture as the formation of calcified structures continue to persist across time.
I sit in this place and read a piece that was written about it, I hear the sounds of that strange ballet that once took place there, my tiny flame echos the fire that once burned with great purpose, I can almost taste the smoke that would consume the air of this confined area.
The reading done it becomes as though I myself am at last a part of this strange rite, I can hear the laughter of the feast, feel the energy that such a working would produce.
Staring up along the walls I see the light of a new dawn peering down from the cave entrance, I leave my own offering, draw a rune from the bag, extinguish my light and ascend back to the surface.
The ice begins to thaw, there is rain in the air and I feel we truly begin to enter into this next phase, reborn from this earthly womb I return to my family, like the rising sun that bought a closure to my vigil I see the return of my own fibre far in the distance yet returning still.

Ice put pay to my Glastonbury visit, yet to visit T's oldest friend, her loving partner and their radiant daughter was to bring much love and joy to us all, a most beautiful union indeed, they are truly blessed and I wish them further blessings still for their official union.
As the open road to Cornwall was traveled, the thaw accompanied us as we went, winter green returning to our world as the wheels turned, there is relief to the land due to this repose, fresh water and softened fruit lie together with the bodies of those fallen to bring much needed relief for the wildlife of this isle.
Soon I too will be whole, in what form and where it will take me I am yet to discover, what I am given I will take and then with the blessings of one who swims in the stream of fate make the very best of it I can.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony...

Crimson on the white, dark times and bright sparks.

2010-12-19T05:31:00.000-08:00

The sharpened steel of winter's own scythe cuts through the December air, leaving in its wake the adamantine covering of ice and snow, while Geminid fires streak across the night sky, seeds from the divine to bring growth to the coming year.
Chaos consumes the ether, the best made plans are layed to waste, worlds grind to a halt as the wild hunt makes its foray into the lengthening night, collecting, gathering that which is yet to find its place in the wyrd.
Solid ground gives no quarter to the feet that walk upon it's frozen surface, the hidden holes that conspire to snap and splinter the bones of the unwary, glass like slides that remain hidden beneath a blanket of white wait in preparation to bring down the might of mankind's arrogance as it attempts to tread roughshod over the land.
Blood lies in scarlet drops upon the snow as the cockerels of The Cunning Man's own dwelling do battle for supremacy, a re-enactment of the changing tides leaves but one the victor, the other chosen by fate to become sustenance for the family, other birds both fair and foul watch with anticipation at the outcome, more aware than we could ever imagine of the fibres of fate that influence our daily lives.
Shots ring out across the winter landscape, today the earth becomes further stained with crimson as an era comes to a close, a wave of anxiety and loss follows the sound as progress dictates the value of an animal's own place in time and space, this interconnected universe still perceives the ripples that came from the loss of one this year, a rock that fell into the pool and left a great deal in it's wake, there is still much that could wash up upon this shore, how much, we are still to see.

Safe within our protected home we carry on, planned visits this week were postponed due to conditions far beyond the control of this one, only appear to be re-scheduled to a time of greater significance, a missed engagement brings instead a far greater pilgrimage, reminding me that being within fate allows us to recognise those key moments when simple decisions will effect a far greater change, if we exist without we will fail to recognise these as such and the wrong ones are then made, what is convenient is not always what we have to do.

Preparations are under way for the midwinter rites, there is excitement mixed with a touch of anxiety ( if I am to be honest) , a leap into the unknown and all that it brings, to give all that I have to her, then to wait to see what she will do with it, trust and hope that truth favours the brave, and that this fool will not end up with burned hands and a heart full of sorrow, the fire of my compass shall burn with a welcome heat in the cold darkness of this time of birth, in my heart I know that it all will turn out for the best and that fire is burning bright.

In contrast to this winter land, the house is more akin to the forest, V loves this time of year and our home is filled with as much greenery as one could imagine, if every plant brought in would bring with it its own noisy spirit the noise would deafen us all, sleep would be but another dream itself, there would be greater chance of repose within the windswept forest of pine and spruce , with the stars and the ice moon to replace the countless small coloured lights that illuminate the shadows.
As blessed as it is, the evergreen flora lets us have only a touch of its virtue and that is one of peace and welcome as would be appropriate to our dwelling, the family is set to gather in all the blessings we have, to feast and frolic as our ancestors have done for many thousands of years within this heart of darkness there shines a greater light, the brightest of lights serves to cast the deepest shadows after all.

This man has a plan (not to mention train tickets to travel north very soon) of sorts, much depends on where abouts on this spinning wheel I end up but wherever that is, I can see purpose of some sort within this chaotic yet clear air.

I hope with all sincerity that all of you that may happen upon these words will have a fruitful midwinter and a joyous one, where ever you are and whatever path you are on, and that you find whatever it is you require, take all that you may be given and give all that you have, not strictly in that order of course but you know what I mean.
May the warm fire in your hearths welcome in the new year and may that in truth be blessed also.
Oh and many happy returns LBJ.

Flax, Flags and Fodder. Tony.

Midwinter, a thorny issue and seeds of the future.

2010-12-12T02:31:00.000-08:00

Chaos has continued to stalk the land, the descent into the midwinter darkness and a change in the weave of cloth that is Fate herself , Icy frosts have made treacherous footing upon the roads and paths of our winter wonderland.
The earth frozen to a depth rarely seen at this time of year, crisp brown leaves departed from the parent lie brittle and blown at field edge while the Song Thrush hurriedly searches amongst them them for a morsel of the protein it requires to stave of the sickle of hunger.
Cold air is shattered beneath the pale sky and long shadows, as those who will undertake the December harvest go about their business, lead flies up into the air in the vain hope if will fell the long tail that attempts to avoid the hunters eye, the sulphurous smell of the weapon lingers in the ether to remind all that this yearly ritual is fully underway.
Mankind's own behaviour strangely reflecting that of the world that it would tame as it's own, often only to fail in the task of realising the same.
A reprieve in the cold days bring a time to rebuild and restock, a kind opportunity, all be it short, to ward against the possibilities to come, a thaw in the hedgerows enables our wilder cousins to venture elsewhere to make the most of the warmth, to gather collect and prepare for the next great onslaught of cold, now being the time for us to gather that that we will need to venture through this darker time be that wood, food, family and our precious thoughts.

As we approach this solstice time our thoughts go out to those who may be less fortunate than ourselves, a time of feasting that has perpetuated across many millennia, simple joy within this chthonic realm, a warm hearth and the company of our beloved, indulgent feasts as we welcome into our homes those whom we hold dear, a difficult time for those who have no such blessings.
Counting our blessings at this time is high on this one agenda as the new year approaches (I see Halloween/Samhain as the end of the old year as we enter into the the dark flux of energies, only at midwinter do we start to emerge into a new light, there is no need for me to rush into that one in October as there has to be a time of renewal).
What have we achieved in the year gone past? What is it that we wish should grow beneath the coming radiance of the young Horned king as each day he ascends higher and higher from the darkness?
Needs and wishes are the seeds that we must plant and nurture in this coming time, the ground must first be fertile and then only can it be worked and tilled ready to accept those tiny gems that we hope to cultivate into the fruits of our labours, we must not however lose sight of that which we have produced already, renewal should never be about sweeping everything from the house, only that which we may no longer require, care is taken not to throw the baby out with the bathwater, an Apple tree will not fruit for many years after it is planted after all.

Looking back at this past year fills me with much hope and joy for the future, if success could be measured by happiness and contentment then this year has been a successful one, people I have met and had communication with (in many realms) have brought much new light to my life, the trials and tribulations of the past have been left behind and balance has returned to the house of The Cunning man after a long absence, even the pettyness of others has failed in its efforts to break down anything, it only becomes as leaves that fly into the wind as my feet pass through them, the walls of all our castles are made of a stone that is untouchable by the hands of mortal men, true friendship is also made of this.

There has been one incident that has fouled the water of my thought this week, that is the vandalism of the Holy Thorn at Glastonbury, an act of violence thought to have some religious significance for the perpetrator, this desecration has upset a great many people of many faiths and is unforgivable, the tree itself is a symbol of Christianity and its arrival on this isle, said to have sprung from Joseph of Aremethea's own staff, this is not the case of this particular tree as it has been replaced previously, however it is the significance of this symbol that contains it's importance and if the attack was to undermine that then it was very short sighted indeed, the curses will fly as spears to the hearts of those individuals responsible, not from this quarter but those with less to lose and a great deal more venom than I, myself I can only see misfortune springing from the delusions of one who would commit such an act, committed in what purpose I do not know.

So what of the future, where is it that this one is heading?
Soon I will travel to my Mendip home for a celebration and reflection, my mothers birthday, perhaps a visit to others and then to pay an homage to another who once walked a similar path to me, the call to go much further north will soon be answered, as planned visits to other dear friends are now very much on the cards, the fetters on this ones legs will be broken and I will endeavour to venture much further from my secluded home in the far south of our land.
Devotion will become easier as I move through the fibres of Wyrd in my daily life, I know now that in order to assess the temperature and current of the stream I must fully immerse myself in it and that is exactly what I intend to do, I only hope not to slip on the icy bathwater or trip over any frozen babies.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Icy winds, Wyrd substance and the emergance of the serpent

2010-12-05T07:23:00.000-08:00

Cold still grips this blessed land, the bitter wind pierces the air, cleansing thought and ills as she passes, the silent herald of the wild hunt out to collect the souls of the lost and wayward.
The flux of tides is alive, tearing black streaks in the fabric of the grey sky, moving, ever living, creating, spinning the wyrd into the shapes and forms of tomorrow's being, the future flows with a force from the well of eternity, the clear air lets you taste it,hold it in your grasp and feel the fibrous nature of the worlds.
Upon this the frozen land I work then home to a warm hearth, yet still she calls, beckoning me to depart the comforts of the dwelling to become wrapped once more within the darkness of her cloak, to her call I must go, not the unwilling fool, but with a gladdened heart I depart the house, wrapped warm against the icy breeze.
The covering grey has gone from the day to reveal a bejeweled heaven, as clear as the ice that sits upon the pools of water, not a blemish to stain this gem encrusted canopy, as pure as the snow itself, holder of the mysteries, keeper of secrets, I am the servant, the priest and the student, I belong to them, the wayward child of the stars.
We wander down the track and out across the chilled land the wind is no more, ice crisp and brittle under my feet, the breaking panes of natures own glass sculpture are the only sounds audible to myself and my oss.
As I gaze skyward I see the threads, star to star they run, every point the centre of the web, every one connected to every other, the strands of the wyrd stretch from high above down to my feet and beyond, feeling the touch, I am one with all, the heart of the web, I am land and star, ocean and shore, all things yet nothing what so ever, a moment, a divine gift, this time, I could achieve all that I could dream, through this love,a knowledge that comes on the icy wind that grips our land, the serpent has emerged from the shadow at last as fire streaks the deeper blue.
This special time, this sacred moment, a chance to give all that you have and take all you are given, the traveller between the worlds, within the quiet land of the night, silence, wisdom and communion with the fabric of all life, all work on this land is sleeping, I doubt I will meet another of this world on nights such as these, it is my time, my own Eden, in this time and place that belongs to me, and me alone.

The time of the awakening soul, my beloved and I watched as fallen stars grazed the ether with their splendour, the company of my eldest daughter upon one of my night time forays, a truly blessed week indeed, nothing to cloud the mind and if it came the welcome dawn appearance of the morning star together with the lunar sickle that welcomed in the days this week would strike it from existence, cleansing the detritus from my world.

Cold, Yes, inconvenience also, yet nothing touches the moments I have described, these are not born of desire, they are necessary, tools and methods for understanding, never are they the benign daydreams of an ignorant fool, there are no secrets for those who listen and listen we must, to remain in ignorance is a crime, to wear the blinkers of an organized religion also, we must not stagnate, like the wyrd it self we must remain in a state of flux, adapt and evolve or we become stale.
As I have already mentioned, the Serpent has emerged from the shadows, it no longer retreats from my light, to have noticed that it had in the past was one of the most important lessons I have had this year, thankfully there was one in that place who could tell me where I was going wrong and guide me to the ways of putting it right.

The journey continues, I expect falls and slip ups along the way but the tree continues to bear me fruit, even if on occasion I end up flat on my back because it is to dark on the lane to see the frozen stream that runs to one side.

FFF. Tony.

For those with an interest in astronomy there is a free program down loadable from www.stellarium.org, it is a fantastic guide to the night sky and well worth installing and it costs nothing, I think it is globally relevant also.

Symbolic warmth charming Frozen birds,

2010-11-28T05:25:00.000-08:00

The North wind blows, the country is experiencing the onset of the winter in no small measure, our friends of fur and feather search the frozen landscape for food and water that is not in solid form.
Cattle stand with patience at the trough, waiting among the clouds of vapour for one to shatter the ice and enable the herd to drink, above the bovine rabble the smaller winged fellows huddle together for warmth upon the lines of power and communication that our modern society now worship with all the reverence once payed to the divine hosts of the universe, the lays of modern man that span this Island from coast to mountain, civilisation contained within covered wires of progress.
As the cold descends, it brings chaos to much of our modern world, people risking life and limb in the pursuit of the almighty pound, a preconditioned sense of importance, a feeling that the world might somehow fall apart if Mr Anonymous should fail to turn up to work, unprepared as we are in this land, is it not a great shame that the masses are unable to cope with something a simple as the changing seasons.
The lessons are there to be learned from, do the cows pace up and down the fields? do the birds fly frantically trying to find food and warmth? They do not, they wait patiently, they conserve energy, they know that within their very existence and within this temperate land provision will be made, a farmer breaks the ice, a kind soul will place food and water and an impatient tractor driver will spill some of his cargo in the rush to get things done, somehow all of nature is tuned in to the stream of fate, a flow that so many do not see and acknowledge.
A time to be more like our animal kin, repose and thought, the clarity brought in by Jack Frost is a gift, slow and deliberate action may be the key, conservation of our supplies, we will not rush toward our own demise because we do not have bread and milk, the impatience to maintain this idea is more likely to be the cause of death, do those in lesser developed places keel over when faced with these minor distractions, or do they learn to develop the mechanisms to cope?

An interesting week for this one, work continues alongside greater learning, the period of distraction and indeed disruption is coming to an end.
A good friend and far wiser man than I has been very much forced into making a statement to clarify his position, with regard to those usurpers of an highly disruptive nature, that we have mentioned and have indeed met upon the rambling pages of the cunning man.
The statement can be viewed here http://www.clanoftubalcain.org.uk/luxveritatis.html for those who are interested, beyond that no further discussion is of value here today.

I for one have sound something for which I have searched my entire adult life, I have been given advise on technique which has started to allow me to bring the spiritual aspects of my world together in a solid way with the more mundane, to finally bring acts of devotion into my everyday waking existence and dispense with the distractions therein, to tune in to those distractions instead of trying in vain to block them out, an epiphany, a true revelation that will bring much fruit and contentment on my own search for the truth, at the age of forty one I now have one life, no longer the two separate realms of existence, it requires more practice and devotion but I see it more as an achievable act rather than an unobtainable state of being.
There are those who may read this that would presume this is the failing of a first year neophyte, it is not, it is an area I have struggled with for many years, only recently have I seen the importance in the unity of these aspects, and now with help from others can finally hope to achieve this more priestly existence.

During this week of learning, I have seen many things on many levels, I have paid attention to the petty machinations of others and seen the mess left by dirty undisiplined magics, on a another level I have looked at the mechanics of apparently simple charms, I have been utterly bamboozled and astounded at the depths of symbolism within these tools and trappings of the traditional craft, realising also the need for those of us who would hope to use them with any real effect need also to look beyond and to constantly re-examine the familiar, this is paramount, I am not talking about searching the net for pertaining information but searching with intuition and instinct (there's that word again), going away and then returning to think upon the riddle once more.
Listen to what the symbols say to you, just because another might disagree with your interpretation does not mean that you are wrong, this is the true magic of symbolism, the key to your own doors and not that of another, we all live in the same world but our view of that world is different depending very much on where we stand at any one time, further pushing forward the "Truth is variable " motif once more.

My own keys may not fit any of your doors, but if you hear a jingle and a scratch at the entrance to your home during those hours of darkness ,it might be me trying them out, if you don't try it out how are you to know, only joking of course, I would be looking for an open window.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

Hecate and the musings of a daytime lunatic

2010-11-21T07:18:00.000-08:00

A slate grey sky looms over head as wrapped up warm against the cold I depart my abode, no pattern to be seen, no shadow, no points of light to guide, pure infinitesimal nothing in the realms of expectation, a blank canvas.
The light from my candle splutters in the breeze as aloft my head virtue is poured down into my cup, filled to over flowing I see her, clearer than I ever thought possible, with more clarity than could be seen in her reflection, as she bestows her gifts upon me, her loyal servant.
I lower my cup and the flame dies, yet far above my head the curtains of cloud briefly part, just enough for her smile in actuality to shine upon my soul, lighting the way, the brief walk to the crossroads where an offering is left, a devotion made, then to return home, never once to look back.
No fire or mill this night, I seek only communion, and that is what I find.

Many a time myself and others I have known have shown disappointment when upon the full moon night we have seen no sign of our lunar Majesty, perhaps for many a month we have indeed been distracted by the radiant Celeste in all her beauty, maybe as many believe she is but a reflection of the greater virtue within the universe.
I myself am coming round to this way of thought, the above experience although graced with an actual appearance would have held no less magic had it not been so, to say that to see the moon on such a night would be the goal would be to deny the blind man the pleasure of her knowledge, could it instead be thought that we are in turn some what blinded by this bright light within the night sky, that by being so we could remain ignorant of some thing much deeper and of far greater significance.
I do not seek to put down any of those who seek to revel in this Lunar spectacle, I only offer a slightly different take on the whole affair, it is the face of Cain that we see after all.

The moon as a planetary body effects all water upon this planet, as we ourselves are mostly made of this divine liquid we, like the tides are similarly effected, it is assumed that when the moon is full that this would have the greatest effect, mad people or Lunatics * are said to very much react to this phenomena , this may not be true if we examine the great seas and tidal estuaries that surround our island, perhaps we are chasing the lapwing here, seeing what we are told to see, cyclical lunacy may have little to do with the full moon, menstruation cycles rarely follow either, only to coincide on occasion, more likely to align themselves to other feminine influences than lunar ones.
If indeed we examine the tidal pull we see that although at the times when the moon is at it's fattest we also have high tides, when we look at the phase of the dark/ new moon those tides are always higher, which could illustrate a far greater influence.
Could this be why the Dark moon has greater significance to those within traditional craft, a wary time perhaps but one that is often put to good use, a time of chthonic brilliance, not Cursing necessarily, there are indeed other more appropriate activities at this time.
Are we in fact puppets of she who stands reflected in the moon? reacting to her ways, needs and plans for us.
"In fate and the overcoming of fate, lies the grail." R Cochrane.

So why go out?
What is the point?
Well, if one owns a watch there are occasions when you need to set the time, to make the connections to the divine it is important to reset your own clock to keep in time with it, what better way is there than once a month at least, the full moon is easily discernible the dark moon is less so, we are not stepping out to commune with a planetary divinity but the divine entity or source that is behind it. Regular observance of this calendar strengthens all our connections, so there is every reason to do so.

What we see with our eyes wide open to the material world is not all that is there, some times we need to view this world as a blind man would, to feel and sense our way through it without the distractions of what our eyes tell us is there.
After all Odin himself had to sacrifice one eye to enable him to see into the other realms, this is not a flight of fancy but perhaps I may have at least touched on why.

Just to add A note on my slightly morose piece last week, with regard to people who create a nuisance in our communities read on, you know who you are, we all know your dirty business and are indeed aware of your actions.

"This man is fortunate who, can get for himself praise and goodwill;
very difficult it is when a man lays claim to what is in anothers heart." Ods own words maybe, taken from the poetic edda, so those who claim to be his own men might like to take heed.

FFF. Tony.

*(The word lunatic is borrowed from the Latin "lunacus", in turns stemming from "luna" (moon), which denotes the traditional link made in folklore between madness and the phases of the moon. This probably refers to the symptoms of cyclic mood disorders such as bipolar disorder or cyclothymia, the symptoms of which may also go through phases. As yet there is no evidence whatsoever for any causal link between phases of the moon and the progression of mood disorder symptoms.) .

Thought, Memory and a frosty outlook.

2010-11-15T09:10:00.000-08:00

A cold morning, Venus burns brightly by the clouds that tower over the horizon, red, pink and grey, the imposing towers stand vigilant over this waking world as the bovine herds of pasture and field breath mist into the ether, the busy life of the countryside returns to the land of the Cunning Man.
The sun rises, as it ascends it draws the stars back to the heavens, pulling with them the strands of gossamer thread, then only to leave them hanging in the air, pulled this way and that by the gentle breeze on this beautiful autumnal day, finally coming to rest upon the steaming hides of the cattle who tread without a care.
The crisp ground is short lived, warmth is still to be taken when the cold wind of the north departs, this bright star of ours can still comfort the bones when time allows to bask in its radiance, even so at midwinter during those calmer times, blessed indeed those of us that dwell on this blessed isle.

We take what we can from where we are , finding those special moments to reflect on how fortunate we are to walk this land, we complain when it is hot and again when it is cold, often forgetting that variety is indeed the spice of life.
Here in Cornwall we can experience all conditions in a matter of moments, a blessing or a curse , you decide for yourself, but for this one it is a blessing ( providing the right clothing and footwear is available).

My mind has been filled once more with the petty machinations of others, pitfalls and traps await us at every turn as there is much deception in this world, treading carefully is still the order of the day, I despair of the nature of some.
It would seem that there are those who create and build in all areas of this life, unfortunately for them there are also those with no such talent, this failure to achieve creates bitterness and hatred, the reaction is to claim anothers thoughts as their own or just simply to tear the creation down, in the all consuming torrent that follows, people get hurt, it becomes hard to build upon dreams when it is apparent that someone else will tear those very dreams apart.

So how have I dealt with all this?
Firstly, I have tried to remember that it is not something to be taken too personally, while also being aware of how these things may affect those whom we would call our kin, it is only with absolute clarity that we can even begin to heal these wounds and deal with situations such as these, to react openly and with anger is no longer my way, mainly because that particular modus operandi has indeed cost me dear in the past, as you might know.
Look deeper, the obvious is not always apparent, the truths can be obscured in the mists of grey magic, intuition is the key, if it feels wrong it probably is, failing intuition look in what ever other way you are accustomed to, cards, stones, bones or the proverbial crystal ball will all guide, this is the time when any personal use is most justified, however, always be aware that those who would work against us or those we love are lacking any real personal talents, especially of an occult nature, the preferred method is to harass from the position of the waking world, they may be quick to curse but that really has no weight.
So armed with facts at hand that only really leaves us with the baggage that we may have to carry around, today was a good day to deal with this, I will not go into the mechanics of the Arte only that a walk off the beaten track, fast flowing water and a small island in a stream, which is where my baggage now resides.

A much needed healing experience was to lead me up to the high moors for further regeneration of the soul, in the good company of thought and memory who circled calling in the air above.
So with my spirit lifted and my stomach full, home with my precious family I gaze out to a star filled sky that heralds yet another crisp autumnal morning, there is much still to see and know, but with the load off my back I may be able to lift my head a little easier.

A lesson learned, upon the wind knowledge for those who would listen

2010-11-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

The rain beats it's persistent rhythms upon the doors and windows of the Cunning man's abode, as the wind bends the trees to the limit, preparations are underway for a midnight foray into the darkness to honour our beloved now passed beyond the veil.
Apprehension and anxiety, the lonely journey into the unknown, perhaps a secondary soaking as wet ground is trodden both with the sun and against, in the compass of living and the compass of the dead, alone yet accompanied by the shades of times past.
At the strike of the witching hour the rain ceases, the wind no longer blows and Herne's own stop the chase to listen to the voices that drift through the air between fires across the land.
One flame to light a fire and the simple flow of this hallowed night unfolds.
Rare is the occasion that things run as smoothly as they did this night, simple ritual the key together with a willingness to listen to the knowledge on the breeze, many of the spirits from this one's own past have moved on and are no longer available at this or any other time of year, even the spirit of the one so unfortunately taken this year was eager to move on to the next, as a wiser man than I proclaimed " the boy was as impetuous in death as he was in life" I never really considered him so until I pondered upon this statement, which of course is true to a point, great to see that this young man's soul was eager to have another go at life.
There were many truths and wisdom to come from the lessons of this man from the grey world, home truths and criticism together with more keys to unlock the doors to further knowledge, direct and very to the point, but I can see further now as a result of our conversation than I have ever been able to see before.
I know the things I must do and the doors in my own workings that are to be done and opened accordingly, only then will the tree truly bear me the fruit, the serpent will not impart his wisdom to the ignorant or the unprepared, only when the time is right and the subject is ready will he emerge fully from the shadow, on this occasion and in that place I did not expect to be, he showed me only a glimpse of his majesty.
The only other thing that I feel I can mention at this time with relation to this rite is the subject of being alone in my work, those who know me also know that on occasion I struggle with this concept, failure to grasp this as a gift has in many ways slowed me down by distracting me, longing for the company of others, especially my dear T, needing more than I to witness these times, the justification of like minded folk to prop up my faulty ego, who knows, but no more.
This is the way it is and I except it now as the blessing it indeed is, it will not always be so but for the time being I will make the most of this part of my journey, a true gift, beholden to none other than the Divine, the holy Fool, Odin's path ( oddly enough, I feel that this realisation was one of the keys T wanted me to find before making any foray herself in my company, a wiser soul indeed).
Interestingly, the noise that brought me home from the circle of the dead on this night was a ravens call, not an unusual sound here in my world but a rare one at one o'clock in the morning, emanating across the fields of the waking world and not the island.
I sat and watched as the embers of the fire began to fade away with the spirits of the ancestors, the gentle distraction as drops of rain started to hiss amongst the amber glow, my work was done, a meditation on the nights happenings to sort the wheat from the chaff , to bring at least some order and sense to the chaos in my head, then that was me to bed, to open the next chapter in my existence as the hunt resumed its own collections of the dark time.

To close this piece I will include part of a song written by Justin Sullivan of New Model Army, it was written about his Friend and companion Robert Heaton and I feel that it is hugely appropriate and it captures the whole feel of this time of year.

" And I'm numb, I'm numb,
like when you've been driving so fast for so long that it feels as if you're hardly moving at all,

my body rigid with tension and my soul all knotted and wound up like a twisted tree,
the way we used to be, when we sang of passion and justice;
and faith was easy and celebrated in a ritual of swirling smoke,
arms all raised up towards the lights...
And we said what we said but we made what we made

And so by now you'll be further on than I ever went. Is it still painless?
Do you get to float and look down and do all of that?
Tonight would be as good a night as any - you'll see the city alive like a great resting animal
lying in the lea of the hills and the moor-land
and breathing little patterns of fire into the cold dark coming of winter
and I'm warming my back against the heat of a bonfire, like the ones you so loved to build,
and I'm thinking about it all and I'm sorry and I'm not sorry -
our time was made up of confused emotions and little whirlwinds
and all those things we couldn't really talk about but,
most of all, it was sealed in sacred moments like these and then it was gone."

Much love and Blessings of the season to all of you.

Flags,Flax,Fodder and Frigg...
Tony

Heavenly Virtue, Truth and Lies and a Damp Seat.

2010-11-02T02:39:00.000-07:00

The time of the thinning veil is now upon us, the wild hunt tears through the night sky removing the vestiges of the autumnal trees as is passes, the first stormy winds of winter bring with them the dark sky as the season of the witch arrives.
From those clear nights, when the light from uncountable stars shine with radiant beauty on the land of our home we awaken to a dawn of silver hue, a refection of the night sky's majesty, crisp and clean, virtue from the heavens beneath our feet.
Is it any wonder that this time in our year should be held with awe and inspiration, moving through the darkness to find the bright fires of chthonic wisdom and knowledge, to reach out , to seek the truth, as the Hornet seeks a warm shelter, a place to rest out the biting winds and bitter frost, so we depart upon our quest, warm clothes and stout footwear are indeed the order of this season.

Commercially speaking, the Halloween festivities are over, to become transformed into the gross commercialism of the yule tide, which as the word tide suggests might well and truly drag away any spiritual importance out to sea with the rest of the detritus cast upon our shores, unlike the supermarkets and chain stores I for one am not ready to move into this phase this is not a discussion for today, my own ritual of the ancestors has not yet taken place, soon though.
The youngest in my home spent the calender night of all hallows eve terrorising the local village with other members of her clan, tired yet satisfied with her lot she returned to the house less a few bits of costume and with a full stomach of sugar based confectionery.
So the night of the 31st passed quietly, no visitors here as usual but then our own outlook is considered to be perhaps a little spooky for those of less understanding.
The Air itself seemed not to speak of other activities, like the etherical leech I went out to listen and soak up some feeling but alas, there was little, I feel in my heart that although this time is considered sacred to many within the pagan community, there appears to actually be some lack of understanding, as if there are many who somehow miss the point, perhaps this is in part due to the media and the saturation of the festival by corporate bigwigs, who knows? Only that the wind brought with it less activity than it did back at Lammas or indeed at any full moon.

As we embark on our voyage toward the truth, how do we know what we see, hear or feel is indeed that truth, does truth in any form really exist?
There are some definites, you are born and you will die, what you come in with and depart with is another matter, to assume that would be nothing may well be considered a greater Lie, perhaps that first statement may also be a lie, philosophy has long argued about such issues, but to get to my point I am reminded of one of Robert Cochrane's wiser sayings, and one I consider to be an undeniable indeed absolute truth;
"Truth is variable – what is true now, will not be true tomorrow, since the temporal truths are dependent upon ethics and social mores –therefore wisdom is possibly eternal Truth, untouched by man’s condition"
Not that it would be my place to say, however I would also add that "What may be the truth for one may be considered a lie to another", concepts globally and locally will vary considerably depending as is said above by the pressures and social mores of life which may in turn reflect an others perception, what I may perceive as a shade of green another may consider it to be a shade of blue, what we see is true for us the individual but not always for others, even the concepts of Good and Evil may be treated with suspicion, no evil act is ever committed for evils sake and vice-versa, this is merely another journey into the moral considerations of personal geography, where we stand at any particular time, who would argue that the deployment of nuclear weapons against the Japanese at the end of WW2 was an act of evil, even though those who perpetrated this atrocity would deny this, even consider it to be a good thing.
So, the search for truth although laden with pitfalls and traps has to continue, it is not important to justify your own perceptions to another as long as in your heart and at that time feel that it speaks true to you, and do not ever feel that time may well have been wasted when tomorrow the truth has turned to dust, it is particles of wisdom itself, there may be truth within the dust.

So as we move toward the Dark moon of this celebration, anticipation and a touch of anxiety reside within my bones, I am ready to pay my respect and dues to the others who built the styles and tracks of the hedges I cross and the twisting paths I walk, their knowledge is there upon the wind for any who will listen (RC), and listen for it I will even if it means cold ears and a damp seat, amidst Cornish mist and November rain.

Blessings of the season to all who read this and some of those who don't.

FFF. Tony.

Hidden agendas and hovering foul

2010-10-24T03:03:00.000-07:00

The fire burns, it's amber light throwing dancing shadows across the walls of the Cunning man's abode, warming the souls of this house as the coming of winter creeps into the outside world, there is a darkening of the land, an urgency in the local fauna that might suggest the preparations for the oncoming colder time, the flora now descends into it's quiet repose as ripened fruit begins the journey to the realms of rebirth.
The skeins over the house are now a regular event and the local corvids do battle for supremacy, fights erupting in the grey sky over the last few grains and graves on the fields and by ways of our home.

Welcome to the time of thought and preparation, need fire and night journeys.

A great week for this one, as the bitterness of hate and loathing of another turns to serve in part as cement on love and friendship.
Visitors from the north kindly descended upon our family, people whom I have spoken of as those whose wisdom and authority I can admire and respect, people who within this strange culture of neopaganism might well have been washed away in the tsunami of shallow belief, power games and intolerance, but fortune has smiled upon them and indeed myself, for the visit was of great boon and encouragement to one such as I , often alone in this world but now feeling that no longer.
It sometimes takes another not only to show you the doors but to give you the courage to go though them, it was not my place to drag T back into the compass but the right person has perhaps given her the curiosity to take a swim within the currents and pools of chthonic wisdom, an elder spirit resides in her and I am given to wonder that perhaps she is a key to further unlock my own understanding, this is not to be pushed by me and she may or may not decide to tread the mill with this old fool, time and fate will tell.
A beautiful morning on the moors upon the high places and standing stones, the lapwing calling from the dips while Huginn and Munnin gave voice on the summit, a worthy encounter for what I hope will become a firm friendship, far removed from the noisy gobbling of an incessant psychopath.
A warm welcome to Our family my friends and long may we be so.

A warning to those who seek enlightenment in recent times seems appropriate following a conversation with my dear friends.
In this modern age of computers, networking and perceived information, great care must be taken, the way a search engine works has no reflection upon the content of the site that it may direct you to, words lie hidden beneath pictures and other words , put there to pick up on searches and elevate personal websites to higher altitude among the lists, this is no guarantee that the top of the list has any real virtue or authenticity, it is no reflection of the wisdom there it is only a different kind of cunning.
When searching for information on the craft this is especially true, trust instincts, ignore the great promises and be warned, where there are pictures of robed Wizards,velvet clad maidens and crossed bones there may be only pretty pictures and poorly conceived theology at best, falsehood and trickery at worst, where there is personal appeal dig deeper and research further, what you may be looking for might well be further down your google list, do not be fooled by the first on your search, html is a fine skill for those who have knowledge of it, often those who don't have that skill may have the actual knowledge that you seek.
I will further add that you may find something of value wherever you seek, first or last I only urge to take caution, certainly if some kind of actual contact is desired, tread carefully for there are many traps awaiting in the form of promises and false prophets.
For those who wish to look there are links at the bottom of this page, these sites also contain links, if you are interested in Traditional craft there is a great deal to be found there.

So I am left to ponder further upon the mysteries of both worlds, having put to rest the demons of the Internet in a small way, to put to good use the gift given and to further consider the conversation into the world of genetic manipulation, the legless chickens who might be forced to levitate and hover as their wings are of no use, property of Coronal Saunders and the hapless clown of fast food convenience, I have also to mention the devious cunning of one who sold me a car with heavily disguised faults, precious time wasted again, T is insisting on dealing with that one as I am tempted to draw the thorn.
A reading list that seems to double by the day means that I have to reincarnate as it has got so big that I would have to give up work in order to complete it in this life, I wouldn't mind but my lovely family insist on being warm and fed, and the everyday happening of teenagers is often one of noisy distraction.

FFF&F Tony.

A sad farewell and the coming of age.

2010-10-11T06:37:00.000-07:00

It would seem that, considering the time of year we now seem to be in the middle of a mini heat wave down here in the wilds of Kernow, at least that is the way it is on those days when I don't have to work outside and can spend by time wittering to you on here.

The Roses about the hedgerows here are laden now with the red fruit of autumn and corbies circle the lanes and fields clearing up the waste and casualties of the road, in the early morning we hear the wild geese in the distance preparing for the daily journey to the estuaries and coasts of our county and the bountiful feeding that awaits them.
Reynard has seen in his wisdom to at least leave us a few hens for the winter, one that yesterday hatched a small black solitary chick that as I speak is running the gauntlet between its two possible sires, natural selection together with fate shall decide if or not the little fellow is to survive, there will be no interference from us other than remembering to shut the door of the pen when we go to bed.

While on the subject of poultry I am pleased to report that the not so wise but very noisy Norfolk Bronze seems to have returned to its own coup, the inane gobble from this most unpleasant species of turkey seems to have died away, they did say that if we could manage to ignore the creature it would most likely just strut off and go and bother some other unfortunate soul, amazing really that it can read as it seems not to be able to write anything worth mentioning.

Yesterday was a sad day indeed here as we said a farewell to our dog “Bear”, he hasn’t passed away but gone to live with another family, for most of his life he has been my constant companion, often coming to work with me, we spent most of our time together, this past year work has changed and I am not able to bring him along any longer, we decided that it was deeply unfair to leave him alone for long periods so we have found him a new home where he can once more have constant companionship, sad for us to let him go yet better for him we feel, he will be sorely missed.

The choices of life are not always simple and the wiser decisions can be the most painful.

Knowledge and wisdom are difficult bedfellows, in the world of communication it is often wiser to keep ones knowledge to oneself, less it be mistaken for arrogance or worse still ignorance.

I am reminded of this situation by the appearance and self-introduction of a young man on a discussion forum to which I have membership.

The Individual in question is undoubtedly an intelligent and well-versed person, but unfortunately opened his introduction with claims and opinions, which could only really serve to at the very least annoy and offend other members of the group, which of course it did.

The opening gambit was one of how Gardnarian Wicca and Traditional Craft were basically one and the same and that Wicca had actually had more of a bonafide right to call itself authentic or “traditional" than most of us think, that Traditional Craft was in fact a mere pretender by drawing insights and knowledge through and from Mr Gardner and not through any kind of bonafide lineage. I am sketching over the facts here a little so as to provide you with the jist.

This may to some be a valid point but definitely not one I would agree with, what I could agree with is the fact that there are many practitioners of both disciplines who at some time have been part of the other, Knowledge and method learned through the neopagan practices could indeed be seen as a kind of evolution of the older Craft, as us such we might be considered foolish to ignore them.

Also to talk in terms of Pagan and Neopagan among those who practice “The Craft” is also a little presumptuous, paganism is not a prerequisite to the craft in any way, personally I happen to consider myself pagan but this is of little consequence to any of my own workings, there would as once said by Robert Cochrane, be nothing to stop a Christian becoming well versed in the arte of witchcraft, to which I would agree, in my youth I would not have seen how this could be possible, as I have only recently discovered , it very much is.

Witchcraft for this fledgling is all about learning and method, nothing at all to do with the acquisition of grand titles or power, this could be seen as a major difference between us and them if you like, as mentioned previously, those promises and declarations are well to be avoided

The Forum itself is a great resource of wise and knowledgeable people, there are no absolutes only opinions and once again tolerance, there is much to learn and discover from such places, I hope that the impetuous actions of a young soul will soon be forgotten and this young man can face the consequences then continue in his voyage of discovery, we all have knowledge and opinions yet it is wiser on occasion to keep them to ones self, or at the least be prepared to face those consequences, if not great opportunities could be missed for one who could achieve good things.

After all, if any of us hadn’t made mistakes in the past we would be a sorry bunch of fools indeed.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.

Tony.

A welcome Muse,Frankenstein's monster and avoiding the noisy apes.

2010-10-04T06:40:00.000-07:00

Another stunning autumnal day here in the southwest, one or two butterflies persist in their search for sustenance, tired and battered wings seem to carry them still against the chill of the oncoming storms of the season. A steady fall of leaves cover the damp ground, a carpet of warmth and nutrition to ensure the return of nature, soon to be overturned by the hens of our household who's mission it seems is to turn the garden into a swamp, a fitting place for this old Ogre some will doubtless think.
As the nights draw in and the morning rises late, the muse returns to the house of The Cunning Man, the canvas stands proud upon its easel awaiting the shapes and texture of this one's reflections, adoration and love, the layers build while the fire of the hearth welcomes her into my home and it is there where she reflects the heat and passion of the midsummer, dark inspiration to bring light to the darker times to come, I hope to do justice to all that she gives, patience, careful thought and planning are required once more, unnecessary distractions must be put to rest finally.

The pages of the calendar continue to turn, four weeks or there abouts to the biggest celebration in our yearly schedule, I am reminded by a visit to our local city, whereupon my visual senses are assaulted by a cacophony of plastic skulls, plastic pumpkins, hooked noses and Frankenstein's monster masks, the trappings of All Hallows Eve, all the fun and games for children and adults alike.
Am I offended by this crass commercialism?
The answer is... Apart from the fact that most of this stuff will end up in landfill, and the personal creativity of our own youth seems to be going the same way, not really. Yes, It has fallen victim to the real monsters that lurk in the dark, the retailers and supermarkets that creep around our over consuming society. It does not reflect what we do in our own celebrations however, it is still celebrated, there is a gene in all of us the globe over that recognises this time, even the church acknowledges it(though I suspect they rather wouldn't), one even has to give credit to the church for doing so, as their celebration there is closer to what we do, a thinning of the veil, for us it may be reverence, acknowledgement, contact and affirmation of the wisdom and love of our ancestors, a link to the divine through them, for the Reverend it is a similar celebration only here it is reverence for those within that community that have shown wisdom or performed divine acts, The Holy Saints, the bridge between man and his god.
A million miles from Transylvania's blood suckers and bolts through the neck, let them all have their fun, and why not?
The bobbing apple is after all a close relative of the rose.
A great night to tell the children stories as well, possibly the best night in the year, wired into the event young minds find the will to listen to chthonic tales from the underworld, even absorbing the finer details on occasion.
I have to sadly add here, that we live far enough from regular civilisation that we do not have to endure the fouler aspects of this wonderful time, we used to take our children to the nearest village to do the trick or treat thing, a "jack o lantern" in the window of the home would declare if a welcome treat could be found, but a mile down a dark muddy lane to the house where the witches live will tend to stop the little darklings coming here.

Communication with the wider community brings further lessons, my base animal instincts which I have relied on solely for too long need to be kept on a leash, reaction to offence can cause further offence perhaps even to those to whom you might never consider" if in doubt best not lash out" a pitfall might await the careless traveller indeed.
The greater realisation, at least on this occasion, is that those who we truly count as friends, those whose support and nurture we value, are not afraid to let you know when you are treading close to the line, those who's wiser council is to move on and let the sleeping dogs lie, rather than teasing them with tempting morsels and tit bits just to see if they will bite, they do bite, it is not as bad as the bark, but ultimately if we are quiet they will just fall back off to sleep.
A solitary existence has meant that within my close circle I have been sat atop a proverbial tree, not akin to a wise monkey and on the occasion throwing stuff at those who I see below.
I see before me a much greater tree and there are those within its many branches that may may be willing to help me to climb it, but only if I can continue my journey with wisdom and integrity, it is a great thing to know these people are there.

So as a word of warning, when strolling around the esoteric forest, Do not always head for the first tree off the path, avoid the easy climb, as the one that may be harder to climb may well have the best fruit, most importantly steer clear of the windblown especially if there is a bunch of rather noisy simians on its branches, there is no fresh fruit there, doubtless there ever was.
So it is heads up, treading quietly, avoiding the sticky mud and ignoring the distracting noises from the easily climbable trees, doubtless having to dodge the odd projectile on occasion.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony..

Hermes, a mooting and the simple Craft.

2010-09-27T07:55:00.000-07:00

A cloudless sky greets the dawn, the lady Celeste still resplendent amidst the azure blue, in the far off distance the geese herald the first real call, announcing that autumn has now truly arrived, Jack has yet to set heel to field but soon his feet may tread the soil.
A mercurial time of messages and messaging, some good and some not so, transport issues now sorted much to our relief, not to mention the viral blight that has plagued my family for the last two weeks is finally in remission to the disappointment of messieurs Smithkline Beecham.

The hearth and the chimney are swept clean in preparation for the onset of colder weather, a good opportunity to brush away other issues also, the simple tasks are easy to transpose into magical ones, action becomes action of a different kind, the black soot of the home disposed of along with the unwelcome aspects that hang around the Cunning man's household, our home can once more breath again, the spirits of the house prefer a clean hearth as does my own.
I have always been drawn toward the simplicity and useful attributes of the kitchen witch, often simple in their structure and operation, and even more often over looked by others, a way to retain the connections we make at major workings, cleaning becomes a kind of exorcism, the preparation of food combines and provides actual physical sustenance and spiritual also, all tasks are capable of taking on magical attributes, from locking a door to taking a bath, they become those small rituals that bring magick into our everyday lives, our home becomes a castle, a sacred place in it's own right, safe and protected by everyday actions.

I have often in the past been very scornful with regard to gatherings of "pagans", the politics and personal power games that take place are not for me or my tribe, attendance leading to bitter disappointment has meant that we long since gave up going to moots and such like, I feel now though my mind could be swayed, at least a little, by an event we briefly attended this weekend.
Congratulations on a job well done go out to Chris and his friends who put together the Pagan Pride southwest event in Plymouth on Saturday, we were only able to pop along for a short while but from what we saw it seemed to be a good affair, the mood was light and there were many happy faces, untypically celebrating that which we have in common and not harping on about differences or making claims to correct methods, authenticity and so on, Conducted with pride and honour by all those involved.
Very refreshing, and not just the north wind, I think it went well and the work put in over the recent years has payed off, it will be interesting to see how this will grow over the coming time and if this will become an annual event, great to catch up with a few people that we do know and respect as well.

So we may well, as we are invited, attend a small moot that is as I write this being planned by the above, by our own choice we have managed to fly beneath the Pagan radar for so many years, now may be the time to break cover and get out more, meet some people, and greet them with a better view and less trepidation, I am looking forward to meeting others, soon to be here and early next year the Macleods are flying north.

This has been the year of communication for me, I have found Hermes and he is very much lighting the way, he even allows me to leave Cornwall on occasion, I am very much enjoying the contact with others, an indulgence that I have let go for far too long, there are those in this world that I feel have a fighting chance at understanding my nature, people that in my ignorance I thought could never be found, an acceptance of fate it its entirety and I find myself happily at the start of a new life, I have a bunch of keys but I am at a loss with which door to open first. A student at the first year of college once again, keen and eager, hoping to learn but dreadfully afraid of failure.

There is a door that I cannot open that concerns my own fate, past, present and future, perhaps one day I will have the key to that one, I feel at this time that it is one that may have to be opened for me, a dear wise friend told me of this many years ago and at that time it was not right to open that door, I now reckon the time draws near to perhaps have a peek around the corner.

I have enabled anyone to be able to leave comments on this page, I will moderate so as to avoid those of bad motive and malice, so feel free to speak freely, if your opinions are valid you will of course not be anonymous even if you are a Norfolk Bronze Turkey with delusions of grandeur.

FFF. Tony.

The Night Queen and the mystery of Cunning evolution.

2010-09-22T09:55:00.000-07:00

Cunning.

–noun

skill employed in a shrewd or sly manner, as in deceiving; craftiness; guile.

adeptness in performance.

–adjective

showing or made with ingenuity.

artfully subtle or shrewd; crafty; sly.

Informal . charming or appealing

Archaic . skillful; expert.
7.
Having Knowledge- Kenning or Knowing

The time for anonymity is over, those who follow this blog are mostly aware of who "The Cunning Man" is anyway.
When integrity is bought into question one has to stand by ones principles and if necessary take it on the chin, the question of anonymity was never really an issue for me anyhow, a Cunning man is perhaps more what I would be inspired to become rather than a title I lay claim for myself, it is for others to decide if and when I ever reach that goal.

The morning awoke to thick mists once more, appropriate for this time of the year subtly reflecting the mood in my own head, a feeling of not one thing or another, a confused state of being waiting for the change in season proper, roll on the dark nights of hidden knowledge and pleasure, shorter days of work governed as they are by the light of our solar chieftain, from the darkness spring forth great sparks of light and inspiration. Perhaps that spark which inspires may take the form of dear friends that hope to visit prior to all hallows eve, there is much indeed to look forward to as lady fate lays down another thread for this one.

Knowledge and the pursuit of knowledge takes my mind to the British museum once more, for many years I have(as I have mentioned previously) studied within my social and ethnic sphere, rarely looking around the world for the inspiration that may lie there, happy to sit in my muddy pool of ignorance, often where the answers to my questions could never be found or at best confirmed.
It is by looking around the world and examining articles of another faith that the truths can indeed be confirmed or enlightened upon, again we touch on what is similar over those petty differences and see that in the past of all nations the world over there were and still are many common methods and goals.
There was a time when this one would have considered it not applicable to gaze upon a Asian statue depicting The Night Queen goddess of death, dismissing it as something belonging to another culture from an unconnected civilisation, yet from beneath the blindfold of ignorance I see her, she is beautiful and I know her, she may have a different set of features to those I have seen but it is she that I will one day dance with, one and the same, no stranger at all.
Throughout the museum this can be observed , within the hypnotic carvings the statuary and the art, all pointers to that common ground, signposts that tell me that I am indeed on the right path to becoming that to which I aspire.

Another thought;Could it for one moment be supposed that the Human race reached its peak of evolution thousands of years ago, we have been so wrapped up in the idea that this primal need should be judged on the basis of technological advancement, at the cost usually of art and the spiritual needs of mankind, the pleasure found within the everyday objects used by our worldly ancestors points to this possibility, evolution is a must but how are we to gauge what constitutes evolution.
Gazing into the countless cabinets from across the globe and across the ages of man I see value, not in the way we count it now but in a way that explodes with an understanding of the cosmos, lost to so many in the rush for the latest phone or computer, the artisan craftsmen took delight in the decoration of plates, cutlery and glass, and the owners of such would then in turn taken great delight in using said items, food and wine a pleasure and a gift to be celebrated and enjoyed, not something served on a plastic tray by a modern day slave, processed food in front of a flashing screen that gives imaginary insight into the lives of imaginary people, a meal to fuel the body but no longer the soul.
If we cannot take pleasure in the simple things in life, a meal, a sunrise, art and music, the way the clouds part to reveal the lunar radiance above, then we miss the point of life altogether, our ancestors knew this and I propose that this is why everyday things had to be things of great beauty, a celebration of all aspects, love, history, joy, yet modern society often dispenses with such simple pleasures, Evolution? I think not.

looking deeper into the collection we find the ritual items we can gain even more understanding, the knives, pots, cauldrons and cups, staves, cords and sickles, the obvious importance of the sharpening stone, these treasures were placed within graves or found concealed in that special place the world over, things that to us as witches still have great significance.

The clues not to mention the keys of knowledge are all there in this one building, from Britain to Babylon, England to Egypt, similarity, familiarity the world over, what a place, if any who read this have the opportunity to visit you must, there is too much to talk about here, discover for yourself, the Edwardians and Victorians didn't pinch all this stuff from around the world so you could ignore it.

In a glass cabinet within the Greek section of this storehouse she resides, not pride of place but easy enough to find, no taller than five inches yet gigantic in her stature, our lady of the crossroads stands amidst her kin, dark and terrible, enchanting and inspiring, wise and fair.
And I guess most importantly, not available in the gift shop.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony Macleod (aka The Cunning Man (maybe))

Politics, the Greedy bird and a beer with the Beast

2010-09-14T03:03:00.000-07:00

A return to the autumnal beauty of Cornwall after an hectic weekend in the big smoke, I can see and feel the sky once more, a great relief after the claustrophobia and oppression of the tall buildings of central London, the Oak, Ash and Thorn of my residence resplendent still with green, tinged with the browns of the coming season, there is a tired restful nature in the trees now empty of the summer visitors to our land, as they prepare for the more dormant time of the year.
The hearth of my home still yet to feel the warmth of the winter fuel, yet I feel it will not be long before the radiant flames cast their shadows across the walls of the Cunning man's dwelling.

London itself is a strange creature, it works with a hive like mentality only in reverse, lack of cooperation seems to persist, busying about life without any acknowledgement of those who surround you seems to be the key to survival there, it works well and is a demonstration of the evolution of a species that is not really designed to live in such large groups.
To step out of our own land into this world is a challenge to say the least, but a good one, our capital is not only filled with people ignoring each other it is also home to some of the greatest cultural diversity you can hope to experience on this island, art and architecture to marvel and astonish are absolutely everywhere, but despite what any might think there are good people there also.
So why was I up there? As some of you might know the book by Doreen Valiente titled "Where Witchcraft Lives" was launched this Sunday past, my illustrations are on the cover so I was asked to attend and accept my copy upon the stage, a nerve racking moment for one that has opinions and observations yet does not actively court publicity, although by writing this there are further clues to my identity for those who do not know me.

The event was the work of John and Julie Belham Payne and their "centre for pagan studies/the Doreen Valiente trust", the couple them selves made me more than welcome and it was a pleasure to meet them, the event was an interesting collection of speakers that included Professor Ronald Hutton and Philip Heselton, all of which delivered an interesting biography of the late Gerald Gardner, I left the event with a greater knowledge of the man although it did not alter my opinions of Gardner himself, his legacy or many of his subsequent followers, I have come to realise that many are acceptable even decent and honourable people, those willing to listen and learn, unfortunately, due to the actions and behaviour of certain people I am sad to say there is a rotten core, back to the noise of the shallow end once again, far from bringing the pagan faiths into the realms of general public understanding, there are those who would bring the flaming torches and pitchforks of the past back into our world for their own selfish purposes. I will say at this point that this opinion does not have anything to do with the above event or any of the organisers.

A moot in London as a distraction from the above event is the cause of my anger, I knew it would be so was foolish to attend, the focus of one man and his visitors from across the ocean, here to distract attention,politicise, perpetuate falsehood and promote a writing on which I will not comment as I haven't read it, in fact I have no intention of doing so.
T and myself do not perpetuate the stereotype of modern neo paganism so we attended the moot as though we were just visitors to our capital having a drink in a real ale pub, no announcements or declarations, just a quiet drink and the dropping of an eave or two.
The conversations that took place were appalling, the drunken volume negating the need to hush and listen, foul sewage erupting from the mouth of one man, a friend of the moot organiser, a torrent of swearing and opinions, declarations of the fact that no one would be able to teach him anything , he felt it was pointless to even attend the event as he knew it all( he must have complete divine knowledge), yet he still went, slurs and slants against those who have in recent times become very dear to this one, and those also passed from this world, All of this at a decibel level that could have alerted environmental health while wearing a t-shirt that advertised his pagan beliefs like the neon signs of our capital city.
Those visitors from across the pond conducted themselves with the dignity of normal folk even if the entourage did not, all bought together by one clucking bird, keen to build his castle and line his nest with the straw from anothers roof, creating politics where there is no need, forgoing the truths of the world in order to appear the great modern day occultist.
Any castle built of straw with no real foundation will one day burn to the ground with the very fires of corruption and deception that it took to build it, and there will be nothing left at all, so tread carefully, for you do not know whose feet you are stepping on, or who may be listening.

So we have arrived at the same place once again, noisy shallow end of the pool, those who seek to obtain titles and claims of wisdom they do not have, politics and faith are not good bedfellows, so we must avoid all those who try to politicise issues of such.

Back to the British Museum on Monday morning then off to have a pint of beer in the Museum tavern with the spirit of the great beast, into the Atlantis bookshop( possibly one of the oldest Occult bookshops in the world) and back home to the west country.
A great long weekend, Interesting and invigorating in a different sense to what I am used to, regretfully I did not get to meet a friend that I was hoping to meet, but will settle with the phone conversation we had outside the above moot for now.
Grey Sky's and a sense of pleasure in the knowledge, that both physically and metaphorically I have a slate roof, to heavy for the lazy bird, yet a welcome shelter for those whom I hold dear.

fff

Wild Dartmoor with the ladies who take tea.

2010-09-06T00:17:00.000-07:00

A weekend has passed beneath the beautiful yet changeable Dartmoor Sky's, the first night in the company of the entire cosmos, shooting stars and flashing planets, the sickle hanging low above the towering fortresses of the moor, cold as ice yet invigorating for the soul. The second night thick cloud culminating in the orchestral cacophony beating its overture upon the canvas of our shelter, precipitation removing any hope of a good night's sleep.

Rivenstone, a small festival in the heart of the Devon moors, put together by Nigel Shaw and Carolyn Hillyer on a small farm which they have made their home for the past fifteen years, a truly wholesome place that these two have quite literally put their hearts and souls into creating, musicians and artists both truly in love with this piece of land, only too happy to share this adoration with others, Cairns, stones and even a reconstructed iron age round house, artworks subtly hidden down secluded woodland paths, so much to see and share, the spirits of the rolling landscape content within this sanctuary.
I was more than a little apprehensive with the Idea of spending the weekend with the Ladies who take tea, this tired remnant of the new age movement, the angel and crystal procuring people of the last century, I have never really seen the world as they do and the same can still be said.
However, As my tolerance has grown so has theirs, belief and methods not really discussed with strangers, only between Friends, as I sat upon the grass basking in the early autumn sun sipping my beer I could hear various conversations, on the eaves as it were, the crystal therapy women discussing which of the gurus they had studied with and the cleansing properties of the by products of Uranium mining, all at a festival to promote more sustainable living and how we can be in touch with the land, our land.
These Ladies were few and far between, often found meditating in places set up by the guardians of this farm, I found myself being "tutted" at several times for inadvertently disturbing a meditation in the roundhouse, missing the point a little I feel, as such a place is not a temple but a gathering point for Friends, family and clan, a place for song and story not for quiet thought at a festival, those were my feelings on the place anyway and I did not deliberately force my presence upon them, I just made my apologies and removed myself.
I have to say at this point that I did meet some fabulous people, the organisers and supporting crew were wonderful, as were many of the other traders, the public also were by and large.
Music,discussion, food, dance and the banging of drums, not exactly my cup of tea really but overall a successful weekend, we made money from the sales of our artwork alone and good money too.
I must also add something of an opinion of Nigel's and Carolyn's music, especially a piece called Dartmoor Symphony, These two people are not of the moors, or the west country for that matter, it would be easy for me to dismiss such a piece of music as a deluded attempt to understand an alien landscape, I cannot.
This one musical work alone demonstrates the connections to this land they have made, I am a west country man, the moors have always been and will always be my spiritual home, and this is true also of the writers /performers of this symphony, moving the Cunning man almost to tears, capturing exactly the sound and the very nature of the moor, its birds, streams, its stone circles and the way the wind moves, the noiseless aspects of nature are somehow even captured and through a musical alchemy transformed into sound, even the sun decided to throw his radiance down upon the performance at an appropriate moment.
As Far from being an insult to my beloved land as it could conceivably be, it is in fact a celebration and an act of love, perfectly executed, thank you, this landscape seems to have adopted you both as much as you have adopted it.
Their site can be found here. http://www.seventhwavemusic.co.uk/home.html
Tolerance within some parts of the esoteric and artistic communities is winning through, we are looking more toward the common ground and excepting the differences between us, this is once again the ultimate goal on the path of understanding.

The rain is battering the windows of my home, a day to sort out one or two things then it is back to the restoration work tomorrow, this weekend has been good practise for next when T and I are up to London for the book launch, hoping to meet some good people there also, I don't know how we will fit in with the attendants of that event either.

There are people in this world that do share more common ground with us, those who will welcome us to their hearths relationships that are due to be cemented properly, but those connections fate has decided to postpone till next year at the latest, hopefully she might step up her schedule a little sooner.
Learning to communicate with others has always been a stretch for this one, acceptance and tolerance are my own personal demons, learning I am however, and I for one will be more prepared to take tea with the ladies, especially those ladies who like to enjoy the occasional beer.

fff&f

Mother goose and the key of Solomon the king.

2010-08-31T12:15:00.000-07:00

The nights are noticeably drawing in now, a welcome cry amidst the familiar beat of wings as Dame Holda returns once more to our magical isle, her flock in pursuit pulled along in her magnetic wake.
As the wildness returns our friends and masters of the air prepare to likewise make the long voyage, back to the welcome warmth of the African continent, fly well my friends and see you once more at the change of tides.
The fruit of the may now hangs heavy with waxen red haws, the sloe and the elder both black with fruit where only yesterday it seemed they were heralds of white and blossoming summer, Blackberries, Chestnuts, mushrooms and the return of the biannual Jack o the hedge, the wild harvest springs forth to tell all that autumn is arriving.
This is our time, the season of the witch if you like, as early dusk comes to shelter us from the outside world and our chthonic activity can go unnoticed , when the fires of the midnight rite bring warmth to our bodies as well as our hearts, venturing out to those places we love rarely to be disturbed by others, too cold or dark for the normal folks.
Tales told and woven, seated before the open hearth fires, plans discussed, deals made and sealed, the Dame brings with her the beginnings of all these things, excitement is rising within the craft community as the time to get things done draws near.

It has been a disjointed summer for this one, work has dominated the past five months, great in the financial department, yet distracting from the real passions of life and living, reading, learning and exploring the nature of the worlds, life and love all continue, yet at a slower pace than the Cunning Man would like.
In this time of plans and reflection I have got to thinking of the similarities of my own activities to those of others, in order to try and understand the esoteric nature of things I have found it better to do this , rather than just randomly dismiss that with which I seem to have no love for.
The key of Solomon has been and interesting peruse of recent times, the foundation,( or one of the foundations) to the nature of qabalist magic and ritual, much of which I find does not fit in with my nature, I do not like the idea of one who demands service of anything, many might disagree but there is much in common with Gardnarian Wicca a fact that proponents of both might find quite disturbing, there is also common ground within this text with traditional craft.
This begs the question of origins, Wicca aside as this is only a reconstructed faith of modern time and as such can be ignored within the context of this piece, but does Traditional craft have its beginnings in the key of Solomon, perhaps it does, or maybe all esoteric work has to have some common ground.
Preparations prior to ritual, the tools of the practitioner and such like, the symbology of shapes and numbers are common to both, the main difference being that one seeks servitude while the other seeks to become more one with the divine.
There are no real Ancient texts on Witchcraft, yet we know that there were witches in the time of Solomon, perhaps Solomon was the Gardner of his time, perhaps he has taken knowledge from the craft practitioners of his day and transformed it to suit himself and the ruling elite, who knows.

So before we openly dismiss an others practices we must at the least attempt to understand them, there is usually some common ground, and common ground is better than hostile ground.
There are too many claiming to "know" and many of those stopped looking a long time ago, to Know all is to be divinity, it may be our goal but it is not attainable in any sense of our time here.
Wisdom is to be a student and to want to know.
And we do not all have to be naked and spank each other to start learning, unless that is your thing of course.
fff.

Peering into the mists of truth.

2010-08-23T02:27:00.000-07:00

As the pea soup fog of the Cornish summer persisted about the house of the Cunning man, visibility down to about ten yards and the company of my Beloved, my dear brother and sister and the dog Bear called for a trip among the ancestors high upon Bodmin moor.
A precarious drive along the short distance to the hill tops and out into the invisible world of swirling mists and wild ancient spirits, rendering us instantly wet the wind only serving to wash away the dirt and detritus of the everyday world.
Dogs running out of the grey, seemingly wild with the pack only a few steps behind, dodging between the shadows of the stallion ponies and their harems, the stones in circles appeared to walk toward us, not us to them, greeting us with a warm welcome as they have many generations previously
The Moorland here I know well, but at this time all was alien to even me, my usually sharp sense of direction threatened to throw us all into the untamed wilderness , caution was uppermost, even for this seasoned hill walker but instinct and trust soon guided us to the stacked rocks that have throughout their being seen so much of the human story on the high moors of Stowe's hill.
The wildness of nature is rising once more , standing on the top of the stack upon an precarious stone outcrop, the mist so thick I couldn't see ten steps ahead, the wind and moisture almost pushing me off the top, voices from the past scream into my soul, ripping away the negative association with modern society .I am alive, I am part of the cosmos and I am whole, complete once more, the missing parts of this wayward spirit forced back to the confines of my body, connected to the web in perfect union, these are the moments we all live for.

Just as well to make the most of our visit, on return August Fog soon turned to august rain, in the comfort of this house we regained our dry states and embarked on a little bit of feasting, happily accompanied by my brothers latest tipple, Pimms!
The clouds persist outside my window, although lifted in my heart by an unexpected invite, unable to fulfill said invitation due to family and work commitments, the suggestion was greatly received and there was much pain in having to decline, hopefully other times will come.

Within all faiths and religion there would seem to be a need for reassurance, a mentor or Friend to guide and give encouragement along the way, to pick you up when you are down and to put you in your place when you are out of bounds, this role is of course filled by Maids and Magisters, high priests and priestesses, the solitary Witch often needs guidance too, and that will rarely, if ever come from one who shouts from the rooftops.
How do we find such people when there are those of us who have little to do with anything or anyone beyond the sphere of our own existence?

The answer is, with caution.
There are many with truths and wisdom out there, together with those who would seem to have neither, beware the false wisdom of others, if a question posed is returned with absolute answer then maybe the answer is wrong, more often the wiser teacher will return the question with yet another question.
Beware those who place themselves in positions of authority, there are some who make claims to heritage and authenticity who have no such claim to make, not always easily spotted they are often quick to criticise and will try to undermine those who may have bonafide lineage, they may be charlatans and bullies and as such should be given no quarter, the genuine will never mind that you have researched them a little, after all it is a small token of commitment to any path of enlightenment, the truly wise will care not for a title or the right to stamp authority over an individual, the world is large and time is short in each lifetime, there is much to do and even more to learn in the blink of time it takes to go from birth to death and back again, too short to pursue falsehoods and lies at any rate.
Those who I have met in recent times have been kind , courteous understanding and encouraging, there was a time in this ones life that he feared he would never find such, when standing at the door to the pool of religion it is difficult not to ignore all the shouting in the shallow end, it is worth learning to block it out and proceed to deeper water, there is wisdom and kindness to be found there.
If any are interested in the deeper end, there are links to some good sites at the bottom of this page. So pop on your spiritual water wings and esoteric rubber ring and dive into the pool, you will find much of interest there.
fff

Fare thee well Mr Barleycorn by the light of Hecate's black flame.

2010-08-10T02:22:00.000-07:00

Another marked turn in the wheel of the year, The corn king has been felled, the loaf has been baked and the offerings have been made to our lady of the crossed roads.
My celebrations were marked beneath a crystal canopy below the white ribbon that is the milky way, a silver sickle poised to strike somewhere within the dark, its presence felt but unseen by this one, as shooting stars scorched the night sky and all of nature cried out in celebration and clarity, a welcome break from the rain that has continued to fall since the children finished school for the summer.
The ultimate sacrifice, our local farmer friend was finally laid to rest yesterday, appropriately at the dark moon, our small village church was packed to the roof and speakers were placed outside the building to allow those who could not squeeze in to hear the beautiful tributes to a man who has left an abyss where he once stood. A life perhaps shorter than many would have liked yet rich and full none the less, R's family were visibly moved and the relief in their hearts was obvious, finally after a month of bureaucracy and pain now finally being able to grieve with sincerity and allow their own worlds together with the community to move on, May your spirit find it's peace my friend.

Lammas, Lughnasgh or the feast of Hecate, call it what you will has been a time of great interest and consideration within the mind of this Cunning man. As those who ponder my ramblings will know, I do not use the calender for any more than as a guide to the timings of any rites and workings, it is the privilege of working alone that one does not have to arrange suitable times when all in a group may gather, due in part to the necessity of the above, together with instinct I chose the last night of the waning moon for my feast, the side effects of which were sent with love to the Friends and family of the deceased, to bring them strength in the day to come, there was much from the mill to send, an energy of hope and love from the black flame.
The Blackthorn rod was with me, intended for its general purpose, however it's use seemed inappropriate for this time, a warning was sent, a link conceived and guidance led me to protecting the recipient of this mans ignorance and cruelty instead of inflicting further upon the oppressor, this act seemed a somewhat better use of my time on this holy night.
There is an interesting point I have to make concerning those who do work to the calendar dates. The night of the 1st of august and indeed through to the 3rd were wild, little sleep for me due to the general mood and activity of them all, I found myself often out on these nights as well, the magick raised through the celebration of the calendar year is fantastic, drinking deeply from this pool of chthonic radiance, it fills my heart to bursting to know that you are all out there, communing, dancing and chanting, I feel your rhythms, hear your voice and share in the love of all worlds, the parasitical hedge pig that takes sustenance from the unwary sow.
My nights are usually much quieter, often when timings cross I will pick up on the workings of another or others (usually through thick Cornish mists), but nothing like the nights marked down within the pages of a diary, One night I was besieged by a chant of what sounded like Three blind mice, so loud and with such intent I can still here the echo of it now, perhaps another was working close by, I have yet to discover this mystery.
If I were once more to work within a group it would have to be akin to a lifeboat or fire station, with one to send out a call to arms "TONIGHT is the night", even then it could be almost impossible for all to agree, after all there are many truths, we all need different things from the year and align ourselves to different aspects, perhaps there is no absolute all encompassing truth .
So with ritual timing there can really be no right or wrong, due to the nature of the modern worlds and the plethora of commitments there in, a calendar is indeed a good and valid way to plan a year of ritual and gathering, the fact that the rites are observed out weighs the idea that the timing may not be perfect, we are not all tied to the land anymore, most do not have my privilege of working out side, so celebrate when you can.

There were three men come from the West
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three made a solemn vow:
"John Barleycorn must die."

They plowed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
Threw clods upon his head,
'Til these three men were satisfied
John Barleycorn was dead.

They let him lie for a very long time,
'Til the rains from heaven did fall,
When little Sir John raised up his head
And so amazed them all.

They let him stand 'til Mid-Summer's Day
When he looked both pale and wan;
Then little Sir John grew a long, long beard
And so became a man.

They hired men with their scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee;
They rolled him and tied him around the waist,
And served him barbarously.

They hired men with their sharp pitchforks
To pierce him to the heart,
But the loader did serve him worse than that,
For he bound him to the cart.

They wheeled him 'round and around the field
'Til they came unto a barn,
And there they took a solemn oath
On poor John Barleycorn.

They hired men with their crab-tree sticks
To split him skin from bone,
But the miller did serve him worse than that,
For he ground him between two stones.

There's little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl,
And there's brandy in the glass,
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.

The huntsman cannot hunt the fox
Nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker cannot mend his pots
Without John Barleycorn.

So, to those of you who are reading this, please feel free to comment, this year has been one of great communication for me and I wish for it to continue, shared thoughts and wisdom, discussion and all, only serve to increase knowledge and wisdom, please feel free to email as not all would wish to publicly nail their colours to the mast.
email. thecunningman@googlemail.com

May the fires of truth burn brightly for all, whatever colours they burn for you.

fff

Dark lunar blessings and the fox among the hounds.

2010-07-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

Green turns to muted gold as the cycle of the year continues, Mr Barleycorn grows in strength awaiting his fate and there is a lethargy in the air that high summer only brings, bovine herds graze upon lush meadows blissfully unaware of the loss of the one who with love helped them into this world.
Life continues and I am reminded of the beauty and resilience of the human condition, the darkness that surrounds our home has lifted somewhat, the needs of the land once more take precedence over grief, life has to go on.
I feel that those who have that connection to the land, agriculture, farming in general and the craft, may find that by necessity the mourning process is shorter than for those without such blessings, an inbuilt understanding of the cyclical nature of this world, life and death may hold less of a mystery for those who choose to truly live with it day in and day out, for myself, linked through the craft and my working life this is true, often seemed to be callous by those who perhaps have not had the opportunities that I have had, my thoughts of those past are constantly there, acceptance of another's fate is not so cutting for me.

The loaf mass will most likely take part at the darkening of the moon, instinct and need will most appropriately be my guide, despite the above, my celebration will be coloured by the life and passing of another, maybe joined within ritual as can often be the case ,a celebration it will be none the less, the wheat that arrived in my garden as a blessing ( or perhaps as chicken food) has yet to become the alchemical wonder, and when he turns bright with his gold, ready with the knife I shall be to fell him.
There is work to be done, the witch bottle in my window has become black, perhaps an offence has been caused I know not as yet, there is another who by his actions and inactions encourages the Blackthorn to sing to me, on that issue I am still seeking guidance, ethics and the right to intercede on another's behalf without their knowledge, a tricky area and a highly complicated issue, abuse of an innocent cannot go unpunished, integrity and trust are the virtues of restraint thus far, I will also not be governed by anger or hatred and with all such matters endeavour not to do so.

On a lighter note The Cunning Man and his beloved are off to the big smoke for the launch of Where Witchcraft Lives in September, the accommodation booked so only travel to arrange, looking forward to the day with a certain degree of trepidation, as the launch takes place at A day for Gerald b Gardner and Wiccan I am not, there are many good ones out there , I readily admit and thank the man for his contributions, there are few even within traditional craft that have not been influenced by him in at least a small way, even embracing some ideas as evolution of the craft is important.
So hope to meet some nice people up there, if any who read my observations would like to say hello I would be happy to make your acquaintance, look for the man in black who looks like a fox who has just walked into the huntsman's kennels.

FFF

Cunning man's house of tolerance.

2010-07-21T07:42:00.000-07:00

The oppressive heat of the burning sun, together with the emotional turmoil of recent times has given way to summer storms and welcome relief from some of this months tension, the land that was fastly turning a shade of brown is once more resplendent in its coat of emerald cloth, nature breaths a sigh as sustenance pours down apon her from the heavens and fruit is born to the jungle that dwells within the house of glass, as the Devil's Apples now also green begin to turn to their scarlet hues.

Soon the rites of Lammas shall once more be upon us, I for one require the need for ritual focus, the pressures of work and other social commitments have left me with a void in that department, communion has been little and I await the festival with the excitement of a child, Hecate's own son in the time of Mr. John Barleycorn shall fell and cry the neck.

The questions of faith yet continue to perplex and confuse this student of Cunning, If one has true faith and has required the necessary knowledge to make it work for them, then that individual will not be threatened by the faith or the uncertainties of others, regardless of the origins of that others belief, to state that your way is the only way shows a lack of personal belief, to refuse to except that what works for one may not work for another is a sign of complete ignorance.

Of course acceptance of other opinions by the Semitic or Abrahamic faiths is by their own rules not allowed, as these faiths are governed by scriptures and rules that must be followed (usually to suit themselves at their own convenience), this fact does not mean that we do not have the ability to accept the beliefs and opinions of them, indeed there are lessons to be learned from the scriptures and holy books of the new religions, as well as those produced by our own.

For many years I studied the nature of my native land, all aspects seen and unseen, trying to piece together bits of the old faith, alone pretty much, but with the aid of reconstructed “British” pagan rituals and Ideas, ignoring the Deities of other lands in order that I should connect better with those of my own soil, supposing this is how it might work, paying to much attention to the wrong people, attempting to bring order to that which demands chaos, looking at reconstructs and not trusting instinct.

This was the beginning of this fools journey, when you build a house you start with foundations, this is a truth, for without solid foundation the house may easily fall, A house of straw, a house of sticks and finally a house of bricks, still not all was right, it worked but there were leaking holes in the roof.

In order to find the holes and make my faith absolute I had to look else where, to other faiths and systems, to compare the truths found there with my own findings, the world over there are more similarities within spiritual beliefs than there are discrepancies, it is often only the methods that differ, in many ways it makes more sense to look to those in other places to piece together the current within our own land, India, America all have systems that are more relevant to the seeker of knowledge than pieced together parts and loose assumptions, Egypt and Mediterranean ancient history, the first writings of human kind hold as much knowledge as the stone circles of our own land, and they are so similar to our own as to be completely valid, the Celtic peoples of northern Europe embraced these ideas and so should we, it is not about adopting an alien way of working but adding richness and substance to our own, fixing up the house and making it stand strong.

Bickering among our selves, creating hatred for those religions that threatened our ancestors is not an answer, neither is trying to create a fictional past life in order to give ones self credence, If every neo pagan wiccan I have met in this life was burned in a previous life, then the souls of such must have split in to many pieces, so many tales of the like I have heard, all those claiming to be in Britain at the time, few were burned here, most were hung.

We should accept and receive knowledge from all people, we must stop trying to “reclaim” what is an untruth or is not ours to reclaim, and we must never stand up and declare that our way is the only way, ignorance is lying to oneself first and ignoring the knowledge of others second.

Look at the holy books for what they are, not as an attempt to mock those who choose to follow the rules therein, but as a way of understanding why they choose to do so, there is knowledge within as a bonus. Let our tolerance and faith evolve.

Ritual form within our own community is another mine field, again many stand atop the stone to declare that their way is correct and others are but falsehoods, many of which are only re writing what others have written before, changing few words and invocations here and there, bright domes of blue fire, a popular visualisation technique and one I have used many times over the years, having to cut a door with a blunt knife in order to collect the chalice that I left outside the circle.

The circle, a sacred space cut off from the outside influence of the world, a place between the worlds, trying to work naked in this country requires working indoors most of the year demanding the presence of spirits and gods, these things I have done and were true for me once, now however they are not, that does not mean that I would ever say that these things will not work, only that they do not work for me any longer.

The outside wildness of my land, away from the new gods of computers and television, that is my sacred space, my compass is but a marker, a gate way, it is an announcement to all, it connects me to the divine, I am not prisoner within its confines and I am free to pass through its edge whenever, clothes or robes allow me to work in all seasons (mist, fog and rain here usually), there is no commanding but an invitation to those who would join with me, seen and unseen, and aid me in what I do, I would not now seek to have domination over nature or to isolate myself from its very being, intuition is my path to knowledge and there are many others who walk that path also.

A driving thirst for knowledge is the forerunner of wisdom. Knowledge is a state that all organic life posesses, wisdom is the reward of the spirit, gained in the search for knowledge. Truth is variable – what is true now, will not be true tomorrow, since the temporal truths are dependent upon ethics and social mores – therefore wisdom is possibly eternal Truth, untouched by man’s condition. So we must come to the heart of the People, a belief that is based upon Eternity, and not upon social needs or pressures – the ‘witch’ belief then is concerned with wisdom, our true name, then is the wise people and wisdom is our aim.”

Robert Cochrane 1931-1966

Remember if a wall should collapse , you can rebuild, you do not require planning consent to build an extension either.

Tolerance over ignorance, love. over hate.

FFF

Medieval mayhem and the art of not haggleing

2010-07-13T02:27:00.000-07:00

A weekend spent away from the covering storm, that is understandably set to continue here for some while into the future, the air is thick with the grief as those who mourn the departed struggle to deal with their loss and the loss to our community, time will undoubtedly heal but not within the foreseeable .

T, myself and the girls departed for the Tewkesbury Medieval festival, a welcome relief from all of last week's tragedy's, primarily we were there to trade (artwork, woodwork and Oli's smith craft), but the main reason for attending is really to party with friends who we only ever see at such events, some of who have become exceedingly dear to us.
The event is populated with the most eclectic bunch of people you would ever meet, every odd one out within normal parameters can find themselves amongst the same, the dispossessed and the rejected, those shunned and scorned from within our "normal" and overly judgemental everyday society have home and comfort among their like and kin, a chance for those with secret passions to indulge and yet not be judged, for within the legions of armoured reenactors at the evening muster can be seen those who's outfits are expressions of another side of their own nature, the hidden passions of the man who wear a ladies frock or the cloak and sabre of the Jedi order, free to parade in an environment where the participants will not persecute or judge them .
Belief and religions from every faith, both Abrahamic and the raggle taggle Pagans, stand side by side, similarities are discussed and yet the arrogant are few and far between, all the aggression of the modern towns seems to get placed in a box for the weekend, I once witnessed a drunken individual trying to start a fight at this festival a few years back, as he staggered aimlessly bumping into heavily armed and armoured people,spilling drinks, growling with alcohol fueled hatred and swearing and glowering at all in his path, not one would rise to his challenge, so thereby defeated he retired to sleep it off.
The groups that attend such events are often ridiculed by the members of the public when they are not entertaining them with reenacted battles, but we should never forget that these same are the people who keep history alive, some live as they would have in the time of the original battles, keeping the old skills of outdoor living alive and even contributing greatly to archeology by doing so, educating those who would perhaps laugh at other times, they are often intelligent well beyond normal consideration, and for many of them it creates a connection to the past and therefor an honouring of their own and all our ancestors.
This one however does not feel the need to cook myself in armour under the radiant heat of the midsummer sun while my friends hit me with swords, nor the need to wear a cocktail dress and high heels, but I am proud to be counted with those who do and all those who accept them as well, thank you all for another great weekend.

Another thing you will find at these events, is the artisan craftsmen and women who supply the weapons and costumes to the armies of medieval would haves, weavers, leather workers, blacksmiths and potters to name a few,so one is often able to pick up suitable bits of ritual kit when needed.
After last month's labouring in the hot weather I went to the festival with the hope of finding one such item, I have never owned a specific knife for ritual use, often grabbing the nearest thing from the kitchen (when needed) on my way out the door, I am enjoying the use of tools in my rituals and beginning to appreciate the idea of having such items set aside especially for that use, Ritual now has more meaning to me that when I first practised it many summers ago, so I thought I might treat myself.
Haggling over the price of such items is of course forbidden so with this in mind I set off upon my search accompanied by T, as she wanted me to make a purchase and was fully aware that if she didn't support me in my choice I would most likely return empty handed.
Up and down the rows we went, stopping often to admire some piece of art or item of worth until we came to the Smith, a coal black, knife making smith, and there it was, among the rack of grand designs, all functional and sharp, yet one stood out, bronze fittings and a handle made from bog oak, the blade itself a pattern welded or Damascus blade, beautifully shaped and definitely way out of my price range, not to mention the fact that any haggle would not be able to take place for this one.
On seeing me admiring his work, the smith removed the item from the board and placed it in my hand, he explained to me the origins of the component parts and informed me that if he was to tell the price I would most likely fall over, the temptation to make a bargain was there, time for some Cunning.
I asked how much the knife cost and nearly fell over when told, he straight away took twenty percent off the price, I then asked how best to look after such an item were I to purchase it, he told me and took off another ten percent of the cost, I thought deeply for a second then asked him how much the knife was? five more percent of the price put the blade among my ritual items.
I obeyed the law of bargaining and let fate and a little cunning lead the way, I am sure the man was happy as am I, after haggling with himself on my behalf, we both got a good deal, and played by the rules.

FFF

A dark cloud obscures a dark moon!

2010-07-06T11:24:00.000-07:00

A black cloud has descended over the tranquility of the cunning man's abode, so a short piece by way of an elegy.
Things on a personal level are all going well, however we have learned that earlier today one of our friends was taken from this existence in an aeroplane crash, a young man in the prime of his life, leaves behind a loving family, and it is through their pain and not mine that I am writing this.
R leaves a large hole in our local community, a farmer with vision and passion for this land and the world as a whole, production on his farm paid careful attention to animal welfare, the well being of his staff and a dream to make the farm one with the earth, carbon neutrality was one of his goals, indeed it was while exploring the ideas of anaerobic digestion in Norway( in order to attain the above) that today he has met his end, these systems have been up and running in Scandinavia for a time now and that is where the accident appears to have taken place.
In this day and age when many landowners are only to happy to chase the youngsters from the countryside, R always encouraged children to do what children do, they are free to explore hedgerow , woodland and farmyard, always happy to oblige the young in last minute camping trips, giving our children the freedoms all children should be able to experience in order that they too become at one with our beautiful land, it is also he who has allowed me to be who I am, the woods and Fields are our larder, the fallen trees our heat, never one to bat an eyelid at this old witch's midnight fire.

You shall be missed by all in our household, and by others within the tribe that you have met at our annual gatherings, tonight I light my fire to you and a glass has been raised.

Travel well my friend.

The wild Rose blooms.Honouring the man in black and the Witch who was burned.

2010-06-27T05:45:00.000-07:00

The wild Roses are reaching their peak in the Cunning man's tame and wild places, the timing of which is somewhat appropriate to the passing of Roy Bowers, to whom the fires were lit this week in honour of his passing many years ago.
Honouring those who have built the paths that we now travel is an important part of our Craft, those who still linger within living memory are equally as important to us as those whose shades have walked the circles edge for Milena, often they are one and the same, working alongside us all, unseen by all without the wit to look .

The blossom on Her tree has already started to turn brown and it seems it will not be long till the branches are heavy once more with the black fluid laden fruit, Bees are swarming and last night's full moon shone bright with orange hue, in reflection perhaps of her lover at his peak.
Restoration of the farmhouse has this week left this one burnt to a crisp, mixing Lime mortar in the full heat of the midsummer, building walls and removing the old materials, while my skin begins to turn to leather my mind is very much prone to wander.
Laborious tasks and Witchcraft are not great bedfellows, a tired body makes for a feeble mind, the craft demands more of creativity and thought than brawn, my working arrangements fit within my own structure and I soon will be able to blossom once more with my creative energy, comfortable with the fact that I have provided the proverbial flags, flax and fodder for me and mine, it is often plenty enough for me to return home covered in the dust and dirt of the building world to see the beauty in the creations of my beloved, who upon Fate has provided a fresh muse, one more week to go then some time to the self.

I met some good people today, perhaps the call has been answered, only time will tell, but I think Fate has thrown in her hand once more, she has guided me thus far and continues to do so, it is all about going with the flow, just occasionally having to swerve to avoid the eddies and pitfalls that happen along the way, a touch of twisting here and there and she takes good care of the rest, if it ever gets too much just step out of the flow and rejoin it elsewhere, ultimately she will always look after her own, as one of the above mentioned today.

The sky here is once more filled with Raven song, soaring high above the green yet slightly scorched fields, far above their dark brethren who flit between cultivation and pasture tutoring the fledged in the skills of avian survival, old Bran has been a large presence in our lives this year, when we came he was a rare sight, now he is ever present, even manifesting in T's artwork. As the messengers of Odin they bring wisdom and learning to my house, far from the portents of doom so often associated, one mans poison is indeed food for another.

Stonehenge, my initial joy at the smiling faces of the solstice celebration has turned to bitterness, due to those who decided to treat our sacred place as a makeshift landfill site, shame upon all those responsible, may they all be rendered infertile and unable to create any more over consuming filthy spawn, don't they realise that the local police and English heritage want one excuse to shut the whole thing down, graffiti started the whole thing(maybe deliberately by the above, we shall never know), stay at home next time, watch the sun rise over your local landfill instead, many of those are too young to remember those who fought for the right to be there, sometimes literally, show some respect to your ancestors living and passed or stay away.
So like wise, may all those who helped to clear up the detritus of these morons be blessed with love and happiness, as it is only through your actions that the party is able to continue, a big thank you all whoever you are from one who once but no longer walks the stones.

World cup fever grips the nation, our team, simpletons who are payed far to much money to kick an inflated pigs bladder around a grass field, Glastonbury festival, now not about the music as much as the being there and Wimbledon, Cliff , Champagne and Strawberries, not a Womble in sight.
Sorry about the rant everyone! as I said, tired body, feeble mind.
Time to throw the TV out of the window

FFF

Mad dogs and an Engish Witch go out in the midsummer sun.

2010-06-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

Here we are, the Solar year has reached its peak.
This morning's news with pictures of all the people having made the pilgrimage to the henge fills my heart with joy, for what ever reason they go and weather or not I agree with that reason, it points to the absolute fact that we are still very much tied to this land, both physically and spiritually, long may it continue.

No such grand pilgrimage for this one however, a special time in a place that is of significance to me, high upon the Cornish hills a view that explodes with beauty in all directions, to the North the rolling splendor of Bodmin moor and to the South the sea, newly Shawn lambs bounce around this ancient hill fort, almost too large now to take the sustenance from their mothers, but persist they do, the hairy bees take to the wind between the Furze and the Fairy Glove, and all manner of tiny weavers bask in the radiant sun amongst the tufts of wool and drying grass.
A small amount of witchery and a longer meditation, soaking up the fire at the Zenith of the suns energy, I even lit my incense using an hand glass and letting Lucifer do the rest, a perfect day which began with me watching a Bumble Bee trace a perfect double spiral in the grass at home, pausing at each end before a return trip, I have never seen this kind of beehaviour before.
A truly remarkable day so far, one that beautifully reflects what has been a fantastic weekend.

The whole tribe gathered to celebrate my dear brother Andy's fortieth summer, together in an orchard in Worcestershire, new Friends and old, some who I haven't seen for many a year others more often, meeting with some of the newer editions, youngsters, the uncorrupted minds of the future that are as yet untouched by our often cynical world, proud to welcome all of you to our strange collective.
Much food and drink was consumed by all in an atmosphere of love and joy, to think there were those that at some point probably didn't think either Andy or indeed I would ever make it to this age, I often wonder how we managed it, the children who hedonisticly flowered as nettles and brambles to hinder what was then Thatchers Britain, yes it did feel good at the time, naughty boys we were indeed, too much substance abuse and not a care in the world, saved by my T and the craft itself to tell you the truth, I still like to think I can be the fly in the ointment of authority, but no longer in such a selfish fashion, there is still far to go and so much to see.
On the way home we popped in to see my friend the blacksmith, Oli has been at me for so long to visit his forge and what a pleasure it turned out to be, his work is a delight to see, as is his family, his daughter is truly the flower among the thorns of a deeply harrowing and turbulent relationship, circumstance beyond the control of her father, who has bounced back with the enthusiasm of the above mentioned Ovis aries. http://www.oliverdakersblacksmith.co.uk/

So this brings me to that point, news and thoughts of the ongoing season, for me the influences of others have been brought to the forefront, those people who have been there as we mature and ripen to a hopefully fruitful time, people who's work has been of significance, as writers mentors guides along whatever road we are on, many of my perusings have gone this way recently, as this year has been a one of new contacts, finding people within the craft whose authority I can actually respect, they are few and far between but they are there and they know who they are!

One such influence on my journey was and is the remarkable Doreen Valiente, I was a young petulant youth when I happened across a book called Natural Magic, the metaphorical metaphysical light went on as it were , it still shines brightly in the head of this petulant adult.
Because of this lady's work I went further,I kept looking much as she did in her own life, an exploration of the occult sciences and it varying methods of achieving the truths and wisdom, I kept reading, looking and asking questions, it was through her that I became aware of "the Man in Black" and a certain Mr E J Jones, those methods and his legacy, are ones that still fuel me on today.
this brings me neatly to my news.
The Centre for pagan studies and the Doreen Valiente trust held a competition to design a cover for the re issue of Doreens first book "Where Witchcraft lives", I submitted a painting of mine and I am overjoyed to tell all that my Artwork will grace the books jacket.
Many years ago, Doreen showed me that in order to find the wild natural magick, one was to look beyond and often into the wild places of nature, so I did, I found it and learned to work with it on many levels, both practically and esoterically, I still look, I still find and I am still learning to work with it today.
For my work and my name to appear on the same publication as Doreen Valiente is a complete pinnacle in my life and a true honour. This lady's work set me upon the path many years ago, Thank you Doreen, and may you continue to watch over this wayward child.

Flags, Flax and Fodder.

Midsummer,Tubelo's green fire and Storm

2010-06-13T03:01:00.000-07:00

A new moon and a glide into the heady warmth toward the peak of our solar year.
The May trees that seemed only yesterday to be heavy with the bounty of white blossom, have turned red to brown, our winged fellows roam the Skies above field and hedgerow in constant search of sustenance for their constantly hungry broods, meanwhile Reynard steals into our garden at the break of day in order that he may provide for his whelped, by helping himself to one our our chickens.
Needs must my red coated Friend, a lesson learned and I guess a willing sacrifice, we have hens a plenty and new chicks growing by the day, not to be unexpected when one dabbles in the arcane art of poultry keeping, the others are locked down a little more securely now, so dine well my foxy fellows, for next time your meal may not be so easy to catch.

Fate has once more stepped up to the mark to ensure we have some finances coming into our home, another months work renovating a beautiful old farmhouse, flexible days as well to allow for my own chthonic activities.
The world continues to turn as I ponder over the coming change of tide, I am comfortable and secure upon this solitary path for the moment, my ritual is lead by instinct still and until I truly find my place in the space of others this is the way it shall be, this fool will enjoy the company of the hidden and not have to suffer the company of other fools ( until I find the right fools of course).
My midsummer will be little more than a walk and a meditative time ( a picnic perhaps) within the wild places of my land, beneath ( with some luck) the rays of our sun at the zenith of its power. An Englishman among the mad dogs, my thoughts already reaching out to consider one mans decision to sacrifice himself upon this day, which in turn leads me back to a work of study that has consumed much of my time over this past month.

Tubelo's green fire, a collection of essays by Shani Oates, maid of the clan of Tubal Cain.
Well, what can I say, a book that has taken me and continues to take me on an intellectual an spiritual voyage, through the ideas and constructs of the clan itself. Never one to blindly except the writings and opinions of others, this book has guided me toward cultures and concepts which I have often considered to be out of my cultural sphere, therefore of little importance to me, each to be examined in greater detail, together with a re-examining of things I had already known, A collection of work that has forced me to address parts of my intellect that I have found were indeed lacking.
Not a Grimoire full of spells and invocations, but an aid for the study of the greater truths, for every door opens to reveal more doors, no answers only pointers to aid the seeker of knowledge.
I had always thought of myself as well informed, only now to realise the human capacity for ignorance, a refusal to step beyond the comfort zones of ones own ideas and my own ethnicity, the similarities between my own cultures and that the world over are astounding, origins, history and faith, love, beauty and understanding, my world is richer for having read this book, although I worry how much my Simeon brain is capable of holding. Thank you Shani, I think the above mentioned would be overjoyed at the evolution of his clan.

There was good news for the Cunning man this week, a connection to one of the great Women of the craft, a true honour for me personally, unfortunately I am not able to elaborate any further at this time, but I hope to at a later date, needless to say this one is in euphoric mood.

Finally, I would wish to confer the blessings of the solar year upon my youngest, it is her birthday on Thor's day this week, somewhat appropriate as she has always been known as Storm, a name conferred on her by her own fairy godmother as a baby, even then she would smoulder quietly for a while before unleashing an hurricane upon the household, she has become calmer over the years but is still prone to the occasional tempest, happy number twelve J my love, I am very proud to have shared my time with you,Through the ups and the downs you have enriched my life and often forced me to examine my own failings, I love you, and your sister very much indeed.

FFF