Forcing change and embracing the Rites of Spring..

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.

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.

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.

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.

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..

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.

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.