tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3635725320584006892024-03-18T20:32:38.160-07:00Queenbeebear.A stroll along the crooked path. Museings on the magical and mystical in nature from a traditional perspective.queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-23446745478020824092011-07-20T01:51:00.000-07:002011-07-20T01:51:16.655-07:00Future Daze<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Future Daze.</span></div>
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July, and since last Friday, St Swithins day, it has rained. Sometimes in torrents, sometimes in fine yet penetrating drizzle. Rather more October, than Summer in its pre harvest glory. Perhaps that's why I'm subtly enjoying it, the overtones of Autumn, a taster of my favourite time of the year! Already I'm looking forward to the hedgerow fruiting, and the gestating bottles of sloe gin, rose hips, elderberries and the like. I suppose I am predicting and projecting my wishes, based on previous experience, so I can easily conjure up a picture of myself involved in the whole process. So vivid is the picture, I know it as a reality, even though, in the chronological concept of time, it has yet to happen. Applying this intensity of vision to the future yet to be experienced is the art of working intention; to believe and see it as if you were already doing it, is the key. Bearing this in mind, it is easy to see how we repeat patterns of self sabotage, as we linger over past hurts and perceived failures, but as has been said, if we can dream/think it, we can do it, and so mote it be! There are many aids to focused intention, and its not a "one size fits all" kind of concept. The best activity I know to fix and evoke, is ritual. To set aside a propitious time, and to gather corresponding herbs, tools and appropriate objects, is to direct the intention solely at the aim in mind. To incantate and conjure into being. Using mandalas and charms to "contain" our wishes and as physical reminders of our desires and workings is also a part of the weaving, and to act as if its already happening!</div>
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The seeds of our future have taken root in the present, and all that is thought, said or done will bear consequences, all we need to be is "aware" It is not in my remit to judge how a person uses the skill of intention, I need no others moral compass to inform my own conscience, and I repect the right of all individual souls to act as they consider appropriate. Sorry, that sounded like a government health warning, I do apologise!</div>
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Another brilliant quote to end on: </div>
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"Dance as if no one is watching you,</div>
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Love as though you have never been hurt,</div>
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Sing as if no one can hear you</div>
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Live as though Heaven is on Earth."</div>
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queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-72724079898119035932010-10-02T01:03:00.000-07:002010-10-02T01:03:16.094-07:00WalkingThe Pennines are considered the backbone of England, and if we could take that analogy further, I live in the cervical area of this spine. A wild moorland, shaped, as much of our landscape is, by human activity over thousands of years. The most recent being lead-mining, intensively from the mid 1700s, but also from the Roman times. Regardless of such industry, today the moors are bleakly beautiful. A tapestry of rich browns and fading purple heather. Grikes and sykes slice into its fabric mantle, creating its patchwork design. On closer inspection, damp areas of sedge and cotton grass, low hideaways for birds such as Lapwing, Curlew Grouse and Pheasant. And the wind, always the wind, the voice of this hinterland. A spectacular sound sculpture, playing and often raging across the sweep of the land. Walking with the wind as a constant companion here is non negotiable. I for one, welcome her company, she speaks the language and describes the landscape on her terms. But what is this language, this dialect of sensations? When I am walking here, I find my feelings and emotions cannot be fairly expressed by language, to try and capture the "essence" if you will, is forever elusive. The Pennine wind needs no such vocabulary, her adjectives and vowel sounds are not easily interpreted, but if you've ever stood on Stainmoor, with her physical sound berating into your face on a late Autumn day, you will be in no doubt as to her meaning! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXC8LlDRDLVpTdO2evK_qDXzhb5jflswRdXkwqC5o3zdHogbTE3VzRqdtIwaTMNHmAkagg5GsZR1-uHf_Tvsc2SDFBFr_gJ246351MUo1Y1r94V1E6M_cCeJpHP-TophgFwqkY26QSaN28/s1600/north+pennines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXC8LlDRDLVpTdO2evK_qDXzhb5jflswRdXkwqC5o3zdHogbTE3VzRqdtIwaTMNHmAkagg5GsZR1-uHf_Tvsc2SDFBFr_gJ246351MUo1Y1r94V1E6M_cCeJpHP-TophgFwqkY26QSaN28/s1600/north+pennines.jpg" /></a></div>My walking is my meditation. The rhythm dictated by the beating heart of the land, its inhabitants and the weather. Shamanically, I am walking between the worlds, whilst my body negotiates the hills and stones, inclines and summits, I am also in a curious other-space, a space of crystal clear awareness where life force shimmers in every crevice. The conversation now, is an interplay of wind, rain sunlight and mist, weaving the physical and the "other-space" together, no seam visible. Gifts of stones, feathers, empty birds eggs are as jewels and harness the sacred energy of the spirit of place.<br />
I often wonder if I walk to think, or to avoid thinking. In escaping the logical method of thinking, we can think "through" using our third eye, our inner ear, our outer space!<br />
I return, lady wind at my back, leaning against her very physical reality. At home, I empty my treasure onto the kitchen table, a beautiful scrap of fluorite,detritus from the lead mining, a feather, probably from a curlew, a piece of flint, not a naturally occurring rock in these parts, so a trace of my ancestors almost missed were it not for the walk between the worlds. Sacred objects with stories and power, connections from this realm of existence to the ones that interpenetrate our denser reality.<br />
As William Blake said,<br />
" To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower,<br />
hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirXn5860YcmRrDS3QaUnciX0XrPCtrK0qatwdcqyFlCgYS2OeFQlOR440tbJSVSyG33zrbecbQe3OeteLykQWsvtHxUb-H0CEJ_BvkxQgIGNyt995zYhCAo-2Yie9BwtVATCuOYRqeBYd6/s1600/High-Cup-Nick12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirXn5860YcmRrDS3QaUnciX0XrPCtrK0qatwdcqyFlCgYS2OeFQlOR440tbJSVSyG33zrbecbQe3OeteLykQWsvtHxUb-H0CEJ_BvkxQgIGNyt995zYhCAo-2Yie9BwtVATCuOYRqeBYd6/s320/High-Cup-Nick12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Outside the clouds are glowering, and although its barely 2pm, it has all the aspects of dusk. Spits of rain spatter the window, and an odd golden luminesence hangs in the air. Back fully in this body, this house, I look out as if at a painting, an objective view, something outside of myself, but when I'm walking I am that painting, I am the weaver, I am the web.queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-5304506875452738942010-08-29T23:26:00.000-07:002010-08-29T23:26:38.911-07:00A Portent of Autumn.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9oazKXrajFquMiffy9QND2UAnwyM409rnDtUwsWmm-BEeyEPL_0SK3YauQJEozMZCC_8XJPJXmNQTUK5kSyCPzzgXHBDWXY9ffBiBq4rTRIjAgeTJBtCuOYpbjwLK-JvtinDSGcYrwYMC/s1600/september.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9oazKXrajFquMiffy9QND2UAnwyM409rnDtUwsWmm-BEeyEPL_0SK3YauQJEozMZCC_8XJPJXmNQTUK5kSyCPzzgXHBDWXY9ffBiBq4rTRIjAgeTJBtCuOYpbjwLK-JvtinDSGcYrwYMC/s320/september.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September-Woodcut. <br />
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Autumn is on the doorstep. Predictions of ground frost and a definite cooling on the breeze. Its the quality of light also. The Sunrise this morning had that tinge of gold that is the signature of Autumn, a thread that glints through the fabric of this time of the year. The unmistakable "urge" to prepare takes over! Folk are noticing a need to decorate, and clean the nest. Spring may be the traditional time for cleaning, but if you're going to spend a long Winter mostly indoors, a thorough cleaning and cleansing seems totally reasonable too. The hedgerows are also preparing. Berries and hips are swelling, getting ready to ripen, and I'm collecting jars and bottles in readiness for a preserving frenzy that will last until October, when the sloes will be ripe and good for Gin!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-H7Vz8tlQBzvLahyD85y_9Fcci_iYs4NVGbVF3d1-Ww9Jk5b8ewTYHWS2z2rU2g3ZcRbKEvRR_uzKrQcYpfffqpv87vJD_7q70vA-28pZMypQI8cYLAET3My_D1DfNT_FMe483OB_1c3/s1600/sloes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-H7Vz8tlQBzvLahyD85y_9Fcci_iYs4NVGbVF3d1-Ww9Jk5b8ewTYHWS2z2rU2g3ZcRbKEvRR_uzKrQcYpfffqpv87vJD_7q70vA-28pZMypQI8cYLAET3My_D1DfNT_FMe483OB_1c3/s320/sloes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> September also heralds the end of season glut of green tomatoes and the odd courgette that escaped unnoticed and morphed in a marrow! All gratefully received, along with other contributions to my "Donation Chutney" <br />
And so we are on the path to the equinox, Alban Elfed, the gateway of the year, where we notice a subtle change, a shift in gear, a time to honour the spirit of Mabon, as the Goddess mourns the death/sacrifice of the God at Lammas.<br />
As we travel the wheel, we are always in a state of "preparing," as ever it is the joy of anticipation; the journey rather than the destination that is the real lesson. Which proves that the moment we live in is surely the most important we have and that the charge of life is to embrace our connection to the seasons and cycles of Nature, to adapt and realign to the flow of the seasons as they occur, so as to fully engage in the unity and beauty of creation.<br />
September is the advent of the beauty to come.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-6450104432961351012010-07-31T23:40:00.000-07:002010-07-31T23:40:54.313-07:00Lammas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_Su5bOlCGOEvMZDfi2MxlI7iCQb78X2ai8dj1RfpzSTpYYkGAmaDcSfUmIc42zBkdRMhWVTtkXrtYgZJXofK2LVoJaRZYgoNE37zkVW9Q-psBo-34BLTGIpAPK9TUkgVF0PvAwlJgcY7/s1600/barley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_Su5bOlCGOEvMZDfi2MxlI7iCQb78X2ai8dj1RfpzSTpYYkGAmaDcSfUmIc42zBkdRMhWVTtkXrtYgZJXofK2LVoJaRZYgoNE37zkVW9Q-psBo-34BLTGIpAPK9TUkgVF0PvAwlJgcY7/s320/barley.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Now he lies down on the fields,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">See his life he freely yields,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Mark his blood upon the corn,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">All that dies shall be reborn</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">All that dies shall be reborn</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Today is Lughnasadh, the commemoration of the Celtic diety, "Lugh" whos name means, "shining one." Lugh was, according to the Irish Mythical History of Invasions, the leader of the "Tuatha De Daanan, a magical race that preceded the human celts. Lugh is the bright youth, full of vigor and at his height of his potentcy. As the consort of the Goddess of the waining year, his sacrifice is neccessary to provide the harvest and so ensure new growth for the future. In essence, his seed is reserved for the coming Spring, when he will be reborn, once more.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We are living in a time of altering awareness, and I think even those we know with a very scientific approach to the world, are noticing a "shift", an indescribable feeling of "otherness." For some it manifests in huge changes, marriage breakups, job losses, or an inexplicable urge to throw the towel in and do something totally inconceivable to them only a few months ago. That we need change in our lives is evident, without it we would stagnant, have no motivation or stimuli to grow and create a future. But it is a scary and often difficult thing to embrace....to leap empty handed into the abyss, or to accept a dreadful loss as an opportunity.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This was where I was at Lammas last year. After a 3 year battle with cancer, my beloved Ray left this world, and behind him a devastated field. The people who loved him were shocked and paralysed by his absence, unable to even consider at that point, that his sacrifice would facilitate amazing growth and realisations.So this is the cycle culminating in harvest, yet again, but the first for me and my tribe without our "corn king." In this year passed we have experienced terrible grief, and such "dark nights of the soul" as to wonder if oblivion was our destination, but as with all death, it is but the passage to rebirth, to another day undeniably different but holding its own unique promise and potential.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Often the nature of sacrifice is perceived as unneccessary and a waste, but in my experience the nourishment and knowledge we have gained from the past has grown the seeds for our future in the present, think of it if you will, as a meal you have lovingly cooked, with wonderful fresh ingredients, and have presented to your family/tribe, and they have eaten it with relish. The tribe is nourished and has imbibed the love and attention you put into that meal, but you can never eat it again. Does the thought of its transience stop you from creating another meal?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The harvest comes to us all in our lives, without the cycle of life death and rebirth there is no joy, no creativity and no soul in our lives. The present moment is where we are at any given time. I wish you all a very blessed and meaningful Lammas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-40959670597037083502010-07-11T00:03:00.000-07:002010-07-11T00:03:56.478-07:00Quest on Sunday<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NuC5rOBMLloZDSj7ZP1JyVF4CpDV_uGGtPWo4wzkyyrvT2FYGGqtAsMo2D_gRkUfILARF8wC2piYFW_e2qJZK8SskOvJ1NDaw1CSrjxDkkf-MpNTnZM_SqWfHfEHl3wZUvopZOV1OvRp/s1600/greenwich-park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NuC5rOBMLloZDSj7ZP1JyVF4CpDV_uGGtPWo4wzkyyrvT2FYGGqtAsMo2D_gRkUfILARF8wC2piYFW_e2qJZK8SskOvJ1NDaw1CSrjxDkkf-MpNTnZM_SqWfHfEHl3wZUvopZOV1OvRp/s320/greenwich-park.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greenwich Park, looking uphill towards the Observatory and Wolfe Monument</td></tr>
</tbody></table>What awakes me at 5.30am, on a Sunday morning? Well, initially, Margot the cat, but I could just feed her, let her out and go back to bed for a well deserved snooze...well, it was what I had in mind... but, when I got back upstairs, tea in hand, my senses settling into place, that <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="wasnt">wasn't</span> going to happen. This week has been full of <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">synchronicities</span>, and has altered, or perhaps re-tuned my perceptions. So today, I thought I might try and sift through, find the thread. I have always been aware and felt very connected to the ancestors. My ancestors, your ancestors, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">alot</span> of my craft workings are concerned with re balancing their energies in the landscape, or at least connecting with them and hearing their song and story. Its what <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="Im">I'm</span> here for I guess, because I've always been consumed by history, archaeology and feel more affinity for the past than the present a lot of the time, but not in an escapist nostalgic way, but as in reviving and uncovering the treasures that informs our lives today, in honouring our ancestors we are respecting ourselves and tribe...where would we be without them?<br />
I received a copy of Jack Gales, "Goddesses Guardians and Groves" (<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Capell</span> <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Bann</span> publishing) A book about the sacred landscape and energies of Greenwich Park, essentially. It is an interesting book, written in a very personal style, which I liked very much. The more I read, the more I was connecting to Jacks experiences, and it <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="openned">opened</span> a closed door on some of the encounters I had had in the area when I was a teenager. As a teen, I completely shut the world of spirit out, I wanted to rebel, be a punk, get pissed and take speed...there was no tomorrow and I wanted nothing nothing to do with it! That, however,( and very fortunately) <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="didnt">didn't</span> mean that spirit had given up with me, thank the Lord and Lady! My "<span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="commitee">committee</span>" kept an eye on me, and every so often showed me things that I <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="couldnt">couldn't</span> ignore, quite a few of these moments happened in Greenwich Park. Standing at the top of Wolfe Hill, on a crisp Autumn morning, just dawn, no doubt returning from an all night shindig in <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Blackheath</span> Village, I stood awhile gazing at the lights and returning day. Its a wonderful view, ever changing even from my <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="perpective">perspective</span>. There was no Canary Wharf when I was a teen, no <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="Millenium">Millennium</span> Dome, Nat West Tower etc... but for a few moments, there <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" goog-spell-original="wasnt">wasn't</span> even a Royal Navel College, or any of the iconic vistas beloved of this spot, it was an uninterrupted scene of round houses, settlements and what looked to be terracing. Fires and smoke, just folk getting on with their daily lives, the river seemed further away, but it could have been the low tide. It was a tiny moment, and then I was standing, gob-smacked with the busy dawning of another 20th century day in front of me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlPi0ShoG13_hvpPN8-_uwObq7h-E1sKRkJ229Fp0Sb3Diiygsi_8kF7PIIyGHszwyFbZtROS1WKqVVRVp3eMo8N2Lc-TpqGu08MwAPN0DDsWZxh-rdUJjjnGbmGhByXVt06QqKtWNWJL/s1600/Holda.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlPi0ShoG13_hvpPN8-_uwObq7h-E1sKRkJ229Fp0Sb3Diiygsi_8kF7PIIyGHszwyFbZtROS1WKqVVRVp3eMo8N2Lc-TpqGu08MwAPN0DDsWZxh-rdUJjjnGbmGhByXVt06QqKtWNWJL/s320/Holda.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Holda</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>All week, references to Greenwich and its environs have been popping up, like relatives you'd forgotten you had, am I being asked back for some specific reason? I am intrigued, and understand enough about the mechanics of spirit to know that this isn't random, it is timely to my process. Jack Gale talks of the very Northern Tradition of some of the sites in the Park, Northern as in Saxon and Teutonic. There is a Saxon cemetery, and Saxon round barrows. He speaks of the "Snow Queen" a very forceful energy that holds sway in that area, he relates her to "Holda", the Saxon Goddess, and of all the "Winter" references in the Park, Snow Hill, the Snow well etc...interestingly, I adore this place in Autumn/Winter, and it is the time when I feel a keen opening up. We all have our seasons I suppose, and the close of the wheel is mine. Time for a quest perhaps? More questions than answers, and that is just as it ever should be, the journey being the most important part, rather than the destination.queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-88283226036241649692010-07-03T00:42:00.000-07:002010-07-03T00:42:38.502-07:00Ground Force<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zATvsUE31kJHUveEr1Ziscvpcu_BhcRAPqDjbqL58l4WgIldNsVPqg8ebHKY34DxgAH304H3q-N4oQ5dd15EmtDjQE2fIOSSBJF-GagYT1_6QmXgpigVtGtiyW5hoPtOE0dCSVpq3EN0/s1600/june+29+2010+014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zATvsUE31kJHUveEr1Ziscvpcu_BhcRAPqDjbqL58l4WgIldNsVPqg8ebHKY34DxgAH304H3q-N4oQ5dd15EmtDjQE2fIOSSBJF-GagYT1_6QmXgpigVtGtiyW5hoPtOE0dCSVpq3EN0/s320/june+29+2010+014.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Whenever possible, I walk the 3 miles to work, down a disused railway line. Often I'm wondering what the place would have looked like before the line was dug into its landscape. How many ancient, sacred and votive places were carved up and now perhaps shore up the bank of the very path that I now walk upon? The route itself is glorious at this time of year, lush and verdant, buzzing with bees and frantic <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">flys</span>, all sampling the riot of flavours in the hedgerows. Elder, with its florets of creamy white blossoms, and the <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">pinky</span>-tinged buddings of the Hawthorn, weaving with the Dog Rose and Rowan along either side. Swallows swoop and <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">di</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ve</span> among the tops of the bushes and nesting birds shrill their alarm on my approach. The Line is situated amongst farmland and hills, a land that has supported man for thousands of years. The resting place of Carin, a bronze age chieftain, is but a stones throw from here, and in his citadel of "Kirk Carrion", he surveys his lands and his descendants from his Pine strewn grave.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_820sXuAfs2ehwbncL-u5RzxbAgmnjkHEyOhxeVve1oauFNnm25uUoDSmxtQnBFYDhYe3wnplEw3ELhAIR1zODcdHP6x5EDKBMWUmGjpCvqK8mf0lbEw-CScIa2c3ay7EP_UYwl16dJk/s1600/kirkcarrion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_820sXuAfs2ehwbncL-u5RzxbAgmnjkHEyOhxeVve1oauFNnm25uUoDSmxtQnBFYDhYe3wnplEw3ELhAIR1zODcdHP6x5EDKBMWUmGjpCvqK8mf0lbEw-CScIa2c3ay7EP_UYwl16dJk/s1600/kirkcarrion.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kirk Carrion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The presence of those ancestors is never far. Is that a natural outcrop, or is it fashioned by man in some way? Is that an erratic, or a dressed stone placed deliberately as a marker or perhaps to divert or attract energy? A sacred place. A place our predecessors knew held potent forces, or perhaps the<span style="background-color: yellow;"> </span> dwelling place of a guardian spirit? I cannot travel anywhere without summing up the landscape, flora and fauna in this way. I may not be a qualified landscape archaeologist, but I'm plugged into the vibrating web of space time and place, as we all are if we but stood still and silent awhile. To my left I pass a particular combination of stones, and am drawn to it. Not only does it look as if it is contrived, but it resonates with a past time, with old bones and memories. Today I'm exploring, as today the cows are out of the field. The first thing to say about the arrangement of the site, is the "spine like" <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">qu</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ality</span>. It travels uphill for only a few yards, but protrudes from the incline like a backbone. It has 4 main stones, all large, and not the sort of stones used in dry-stone walling. The first, facing me down hill of the railway line is large rounded stone, and between this and the other 3 stones are many smaller stones, much destroyed. Standing guardian in the middle of the feature is a Hawthorn. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwfcYVgQ2gUZQ9fxj2ncS58f_MdfIKIxlP8xrEV2qEY8GTEGw_WDdGzWDaHfs4DL1us2UEP7yE3DAEguE8tkevBCzVzYAkOelU0NOihA90A0ClymRlW4ZEmvuooZ5wpsbQNjsFrlX9QeQ/s1600/june+29+2010+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwfcYVgQ2gUZQ9fxj2ncS58f_MdfIKIxlP8xrEV2qEY8GTEGw_WDdGzWDaHfs4DL1us2UEP7yE3DAEguE8tkevBCzVzYAkOelU0NOihA90A0ClymRlW4ZEmvuooZ5wpsbQNjsFrlX9QeQ/s320/june+29+2010+003.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Guardian Hawthorn<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I sat and waited. I asked for permission to approach the spirit of the place, the guardian who has forever the duty to safeguard the sanctity of this place. It felt like ages, and I sensed a reticence to engage at all. Hardly surprising, as the railway line would have driven through the fabric of the structure and spun all the carefully constructed stones, memories and energies to the four directions. Sensing this, i tried to reassure this spirit, that I meant no harm, and that I was seeking to know more of the history and to give respect to the ancestors who's remains were honoured there, and that their labour had built. The Hawthorn shook as a breeze from nowhere rattled through his branches. I felt the atmosphere change, and the hairs go up on my forearms, I was in the presence of Spirit<br />
"Blessed be the spirit of this place,<br />
I come to you in peace,<br />
to bring you honour and praise,<br />
and to ask for your permission and protection, <br />
I walk these, your denizens and domains.<br />
In the name of our mother the Earth Goddess,<br />
and our father, Lord of the Wild woods"<br />
Blessed Be,<br />
<br />
I was certainly in a space between the worlds, on the spine of a serpent that <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ribboned</span> across the <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Teesdale</span> hillsides, in a landscape once littered with stone circles, tumulus, megaliths and sacred sites. The vibrancy of that feeling was alarming, today although very beautiful, there is very little evidence of what must have been an important ritual landscape, just as in <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cumbria</span>, only across the <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Pennines</span>. But there was blood, and tribal affiliations that were in dispute, and the "tale" I received was of a power struggle, and much death and sorrow attached. The grave I was experiencing was of the head of a family. His punishment was to be laid here, but his family banished, so as not to have the opportunity to honour him in death. A dreadful thing to his descendants, and a massive slight to his soul in the other world. It was like newsflash! Then i shuddered and realised, I hadn't taken a breath! The vision evaporated, the spirit had downloaded the memory, and was standing back, weighing me up, as I felt sick, and had a massive "head-rush" I started to breath again, coming to, swigged from my water bottle. Stood up slowly stamped my feet, shook my body from top to bottom, I tried to shout, to ground myself in this world, but I couldn't hear myself...was I deaf? No, birds were singing, cars were passing on the little lane beyond...more stomping, and more water, and all had slipped back into its place. I was back in this realm, in this body.<br />
I thanked the spirit, and asked if I might be allowed to commune again with him, and that I might make this <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">sacre</span>d space one of my <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">liminal</span> places, to come and collect <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">sprowl</span> and memories for my work. His, and indeed it was very male, response felt warm and encouraging. I left an offering of wild bird seed, and some sanctified drops of potion, blessed all my relations and walked onto work...late!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39U-vmMeJO5PRAiju2rzFA2aF4qcg2UOdCUV9bcF4ModmNNpMHLrVc5KxwJt9v9tYxB0gzbTEZaCKNBoPF6u7Fn3yV4jBKhNPri0b7rlGYTIAzuZzl83WUH7u1_2piMYGARZnbj1xWw4n/s1600/june+29+2010+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39U-vmMeJO5PRAiju2rzFA2aF4qcg2UOdCUV9bcF4ModmNNpMHLrVc5KxwJt9v9tYxB0gzbTEZaCKNBoPF6u7Fn3yV4jBKhNPri0b7rlGYTIAzuZzl83WUH7u1_2piMYGARZnbj1xWw4n/s320/june+29+2010+005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Three Stone alignment</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbf1MyzvrO0V5fdpcmlXexM1DE6sQqdtC2YRBpfegEMLXOaW47qyv_VwAi7woIU0T3ono-8OLY9dTI2ycdmNt9TymRW3uAW3o2up6vIIW3zGBtKxEw0NjYrYxAXdrF_UTP5IiBIF34gFs/s1600/june+29+2010+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbf1MyzvrO0V5fdpcmlXexM1DE6sQqdtC2YRBpfegEMLXOaW47qyv_VwAi7woIU0T3ono-8OLY9dTI2ycdmNt9TymRW3uAW3o2up6vIIW3zGBtKxEw0NjYrYxAXdrF_UTP5IiBIF34gFs/s320/june+29+2010+006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stones and their Guardian Hawthorn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-63781706708454537322010-01-01T03:52:00.000-08:002010-01-01T03:52:28.239-08:00Over the Moon.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Montol is a week passed. My blood imperceptably reacts to the incremental growth of the new born sun/son. The Blue Moon of 2009 haunts my wakeing world, as much as my dreamtime. How potent and swollen was she? Hoisting her mighty glowing face above the hill in the East. I listened. The scuffling of the fox in the hedge,stalking tiny mammals in the powdery snow. The Moon mother illuminates the wide horizon like a phosphorescent globe, the countryside bathed in a fine blue shimmer. This is the landscape of the omen, the portent. All is symbol, for shapes are decernable, colour and context is not.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQ_AHqVATzvfdYpoZRYviAKr4oA7Tt528ekmxBYvpaqCvy0Pwed1XwC-vYR_7y6Qt6U_ziVpn2KHMgG_mRdJycr3m6E2JPJKbY18uAM4T6rv4hU6s883unJDreUZYIv90ZU8nVvyrucru/s1600-h/dec%202009%20006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQ_AHqVATzvfdYpoZRYviAKr4oA7Tt528ekmxBYvpaqCvy0Pwed1XwC-vYR_7y6Qt6U_ziVpn2KHMgG_mRdJycr3m6E2JPJKbY18uAM4T6rv4hU6s883unJDreUZYIv90ZU8nVvyrucru/s320/dec%202009%20006.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>Sailing by the stars, yet out shining their sparks, she floats in the Maryblue heaven, her course true and finite, her purpose as the Queen of Tides, resolute and ageless. Snow flakes drift like ash from a paper fire, small spells landing upon the icy field walls, wishes and dreams sent through the veil at this portal in the turning yearqueenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-53864151540199890422009-11-10T00:00:00.000-08:002009-11-10T00:04:56.609-08:00Tracking the Sprowl of the ;LandThe Sun casts a cold single eye across the moors. It is early November, and in sharp contrast to the oddly balmy last days of October, there is a clean chill in the air, and a quality to the light that expresses the intention of impending Winter. A good day to wander the land and to partake of the life force that huddles in the liminal, magical places. Coiled like a beautiful serpent, sprowl gathers and collects in the "places in between" where the line 'twixt the earth and the other realms of existance is thin. To some this is "ley" energy, a matrix of lines of power running in alignment, and whilst Sprowl is an energy, its body is more amorphous, and its power more sublime; in order to use it, you must build a relationship with it, and like any sutble force, Sprowl must be treated with respect and deference.<br />
<br />
<br />
The first frosty mists hang across the field on the Kings Walk like a departing ghost, and the glassy beads of dew quivver as if gently touched by an unseen finger. There above the field is my quarry, a style in a predominantly hawthorn hedge, planted hundreds of years ago and now home to a myriad of lifeforms, insect, mammal, bird and fey. The flustered clacking of a startled pheasant kick starts the adrenalin as I leave the stoney path, and up onto the slippy edges of the field. Im up on the style, perched like a novice gymnast in a move that needs more practice, but im comfortable enough and wrapped warmly enough,just to sit and gather my thoughts,, and breathe in the extraordinary beauty and otherworld quality of the land before me.<br />
<br />
I feel a tingle, a friction of static in the air. I welcome the coming of the spirit of this place, I give praise and thanks for being here, I ask for permission and protection to the guardian, and thus prepared and the way opened, I settle into the reverie that is the embrace of the Serpent energy of Albion, and the genus loci of the hedge and boundary. I have with me several objects and tools for the collection of Sprowl; sacred and trusty friends that by their continued use and constancy will serve me well and know my methods. For an animist, such as myself, all that lives, and ever has lived has life force, and is treated with due honour and courtesy, as befits any of natures creations. I chant my charm of reaping and gathering, letting the energy flow to me and rest within these holy familiars. Coming out of the dreamstate and into this world again, I give thanks and praise for the great honour afforded me, and offer bread, seeds and wine in the spirit of reciprocation which is central to my path.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjlu11nYIcHtV7D45upSAY0c9CWnu3aXgOmHEo3R2h0hGNhE5ZTlgDio2b7DEJbflChhlXhySi9xwjZKR1FBzFHc1-7CEkGuSPUmd3n0d45cKBXNRyeer_WdcTjCPO4mqBi819PoP-fVAv/s1600-h/hedge+between+the+worlds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjlu11nYIcHtV7D45upSAY0c9CWnu3aXgOmHEo3R2h0hGNhE5ZTlgDio2b7DEJbflChhlXhySi9xwjZKR1FBzFHc1-7CEkGuSPUmd3n0d45cKBXNRyeer_WdcTjCPO4mqBi819PoP-fVAv/s320/hedge+between+the+worlds.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Im feeling chilly, although the Sun has risen and the mist has long since disapated, I have been sat on a fence, in the same position for about..well I dont know how long. Time has no relavence in these matters. Stamping my feet, to make sure and solid connection with this realm, I walk, a tad more biskly, back along the boney path of tree roots. Birds are singing, although ore muted than in the feeding frenzy of the breeding season, Crows are calling and carousing above the newly mucked fields, and so I wend my way home, thankful for the beauty of the day,and the precious gifts given by the serpent mother.queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-69068365672223751882009-11-06T07:18:00.000-08:002009-11-10T00:03:42.615-08:00<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKXYdQA480HVOlYQseJGggpKfpp1soqSlGZUDo9zxQyOiKwtCAv2IkUrPjSUYjsrBK94dIFeU280npGZfDzFlk6gLfucDSF2re9Y8uvzNBgVdDG9qDF0dz5I265QjVB6mHNpC2p_kllhI/s1600-h/eskdale+to+wasdale+corpse+rd.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401027244427144946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKXYdQA480HVOlYQseJGggpKfpp1soqSlGZUDo9zxQyOiKwtCAv2IkUrPjSUYjsrBK94dIFeU280npGZfDzFlk6gLfucDSF2re9Y8uvzNBgVdDG9qDF0dz5I265QjVB6mHNpC2p_kllhI/s400/eskdale+to+wasdale+corpse+rd.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipk7Wf3hx0kaEyxEwGcIFum_6eIcm_VQLUQ0uxEOvm0iHtjj_uT95_IzvX3fHp865iH6yqJB_pPQC8BLKvEWnQVIzlC9ehED6BVK8TT7l_n4-HAW3icOhsqhzSfHFbTtTs7u5Bicl75Dyd/s1600-h/292733-6-ancient-pathways.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401020086849072290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 263px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipk7Wf3hx0kaEyxEwGcIFum_6eIcm_VQLUQ0uxEOvm0iHtjj_uT95_IzvX3fHp865iH6yqJB_pPQC8BLKvEWnQVIzlC9ehED6BVK8TT7l_n4-HAW3icOhsqhzSfHFbTtTs7u5Bicl75Dyd/s400/292733-6-ancient-pathways.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />
<br /><div>Frost insinuates the iron hard earth, and the stoney outrops like cabouchon jewels, glint in the lowering sun. Boney as long-ago skinned knuckles, the worn tread of the Ancient pass, offers up its snaking spine before me. Beneath my feet are the imprints of a millenia of journeying, a layered time cake of footfalls and wanderings, occasionaly glimpsed in a moment at twilight, or whispered on the wind when she barrels down the hillsides. In the wilderness of the heart, the Pass is a naked and vulnerable route. As darkness seeps across the raw and jagged outcrops, Shadows of travellers past call their dogs to heel, and gather the herd. A fragment of voices, a spark of torch and candle, as the procession of ages keeps vigil beside the horse and cart bearing the body of a loved one, the final walking of the pass, the artery that crosses the high body of the fells, becomes the silver thread, that when the destination is reached, is severed. </div><br />
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<br /><div></div></div></div>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-15188528116987572262008-03-03T23:28:00.000-08:002008-03-04T00:09:09.755-08:00MARCH #1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfZwwzSbp5AJLf8zMd4qskX9gMImFN5rlciz7xILd9lZYrSfkjkJJ4YhculcRk0Tym6NMA27mAW7H5HXAzVQmkgyuNnYawcwFf5QVs1kqHGS12rTBVHjtAH02KIYH_IURO0tJocnzrBM-F/s1600-h/153.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfZwwzSbp5AJLf8zMd4qskX9gMImFN5rlciz7xILd9lZYrSfkjkJJ4YhculcRk0Tym6NMA27mAW7H5HXAzVQmkgyuNnYawcwFf5QVs1kqHGS12rTBVHjtAH02KIYH_IURO0tJocnzrBM-F/s400/153.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173795366824335138" /></a><br />March is here and I am aware that many of us are feeling quite unsettled at the moment.Alot of my pagan friends are experiencing a certain "out of phase" effect. I wondered if it could be something to do with the earthquake we had a few days ago? The one that I slept through, although Im not sure I know anyone who felt it here! But then, there does seem to be a marked sense of confusion about, the issue of climate change can be one culprit, as the fauna and flora are breeding and budding when they should under "normal" circumstances be sleeping and resting. The last time I remember a similar vibe was in the lead up to 9/11, which affected me very profoundly. So disturbed was I by my increasing feeling of despair and dread, I thought I was going bonkers. I was talking on the phone to a sister in London, telling her I had a terrible feeling that something catastrophic was about to happen. When we watched the planes hitting the towers, it became obvious. At the time most of us felt life would never quite be the same again; the order and predictability of life had been shaken. It is either a testament to our powers of recovery or a damning indictment of our arrogance, how quickly we seem to have recovered. I dont think it has left such a impression as many at the time said it would, with the very obvious exception of those who lost their loved ones and were directly affected. As a species, we dont seem to learn from our mistakes, and our delays are costly.<br />Spring is an itchy feet time anyway, with the urge to shake out of the winter slumber, and hoover out your brain cells and your domicile! Longer days and more light make us all feel more upbeat and energised, so Im going to take this apparent shift in awareness as a wake up call to bring into being all the plans and ideas I've had gestating since last Samhain (halloween) sift them through, and apply myself to some creativity! There will always be disasters and vile things happening in the world, and some of us have a heightened awareness when the "web" is vibrating. Our task is to remain focused and use this energy in a positive way, and try to stay sane!<strong></strong>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-89880123612189478932008-02-22T09:20:00.000-08:002008-02-22T10:25:33.956-08:00LANDSCAPE AND RESPECT<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaR3mRb3cHMxANtyDisWjHIrLvOBfe5BGTxiZZKHXJCdEj2KkxcYBO9rPAT7wok3rdAejz7_mOgdVqjyzGsRcQqIjVkWlRQ6gp4T9kCf3mhD9XtBitZpz3xFV7n2TciMzA10gmuCFKqYh/s1600-h/043.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaR3mRb3cHMxANtyDisWjHIrLvOBfe5BGTxiZZKHXJCdEj2KkxcYBO9rPAT7wok3rdAejz7_mOgdVqjyzGsRcQqIjVkWlRQ6gp4T9kCf3mhD9XtBitZpz3xFV7n2TciMzA10gmuCFKqYh/s320/043.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169871391529830786" /></a><br />Hello dear friends, Hope you're a patient lot, as these blimmin' blogs are rather sporadic Im afraid, but nevertheless, heres the latest from the land of wind and squally rain. My last missive on the subject of the desecration of the landscape of Tara, has got me thinking about the British attitude towards enclosure and landscape; we do seem to be obsessed with parcelling up land and proclaiming limits to where we can go, and what we can do on it. I would probably have to include allotments in this, but as their very existence is as a consequence of the common people being denied ground to feed their families from the Norman conquest, and subsequent violations by various feudal hierarchies thereafter, I consider them a triumph for the people, albeit a rather diminished one. In the Anglo Saxon period the land considered waste by those that owned it was apportioned to the common man, as "common land," in order to gather fuel, or to graze livestock, this being the only way of life the common people knew, so to be dispossess of this way of life lead to one of two things, leaving to the ever expanding towns, or starve to death, under the noses of their Norman landlords. Territory, and the gaining of it seems to be the upshot, and owning the land means owning the people, and lets face it, you'll never find a more developed class system than here in Britain. In the intervening year many noble beings have tried to bust the stays of the aristocracy and gentry by refusing to play the game. Gerrard Winstanley was the instigator of the "DIGGERS" a band of renegades who set up their own agricultural community on private land in Surrey, in 1649. They were protesting at the increasingly prohibitive inclosure's act, which made it more difficult for those not fortunate to be born with blue blood to feed their families. The landowners retort to this was to destroy all their crops and burn them out of their houses! It all got a bit out of hand which lead directly to the "Riot Act of 1715" which was read aloud by the landowner to any rowdy starving crowd who might be just a bit tetchy at having their existence on this earth plane threatened. With the odds still stacked in favour of the landowners! All this and the countryside fenced off so that only those privileged few born into wealth and position can enjoy it, and you can see how abused the land and its people have become. We do now have extensive "right to roam" unless you roam into an oncoming tank or missile on MOD land, which will curtail all future roaming. But Landscape and our connection to it is so very integral to our culture and our expression of ourselves as natives of these Isles. Our ancient and most sacred monuments are testament to a culture attuned and connected to the rhythm of nature, the land and its seasons. The Earth was to be placated and treat with honour and respect, as it was the provider of all, to all. Arguably territorial ism emerged when hunter gatherers became agriculturalists, and by the nature of growing crops became a static population, and if you'd ploughed hard graft into your plot, you might not be best pleased when some other tribe muscled in on your plantation. We dont know, but I would like to think that you wouldn't stand by and watch your neighbours starve. Presumably the art of barter would be put to good use. What is being practised here is an existence where needs are met, and all are fed."Communist" I hear you cry, well, der!! Common sense and fairness, I reply! Anyway, Im too much of an individualist to be communist!<br />Banging Weekend to you all, lovelies1<br />xxxxxxxSparkyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxqueenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-46566338887269532622008-02-15T01:17:00.000-08:002008-02-15T01:52:52.111-08:00VOTE FOR TARA!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSnY10P5Ln-802C56azXOlhdA0O4_KEzsXxPKoJhnuVp0ynuQzhAonB_tdNx6tKLlu641Ap2ZWUl2t0j-WDxXu-XtKS3zwjIPXeT2ydtB9axHyjq205HBajhdnnfHms-2sEtrJmaS6Hzs/s1600-h/taramap.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSnY10P5Ln-802C56azXOlhdA0O4_KEzsXxPKoJhnuVp0ynuQzhAonB_tdNx6tKLlu641Ap2ZWUl2t0j-WDxXu-XtKS3zwjIPXeT2ydtB9axHyjq205HBajhdnnfHms-2sEtrJmaS6Hzs/s320/taramap.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167142614123088242" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The irish government, for reasons completely unfathomable, is bulldozing and destroying some of the most ancient and sacred landscape Ireland possesses, to build a motorway. Why are the government refuseing to listen to EU directives, why are they refuseing to listen to the people of Ireland and the rest of the committed campaigners who tirelessly represent the views of the majority by their physical presence at the Hill of Tara? </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Are they too blind and ignorant to realise that they are shooting themselves in the foot? By destroying this most beautiful and mythical place, they are laying waste to millennia of culture, history, archaeology; surely the building blocks of a proud and poetic nation, and a heritage to positively exploit, in terms of tourism, and indeed pilgrimage. For thousands of years this most holy and sacred place has been the graves of our ancestors, the venue for ceremony and process of law, the crowning place of the Irish Kings for goddess sake! I cant shake the notion that there is more to this than meets the eye. The sheer bloody mindedness and deafness to public opinion stinks of something else beneath.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">So my dear friends and all those who care that our past is of as little consequence as a bloody motorway, vote on the irish post website <a href="http://www.irishpost.co.uk/">www.irishpost.co.uk</a> and also drop a letter of protest at press@heritageaction.org , afterall what would happen if they decided to bulldoze Stonehenge and pile a dual carriageway through salisbury plain?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">If you are ever fortunate enough to get across to Tara, the protesters camped there could always do with food and blankets etc, and im sure you can donate to the appeal.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Blessed be,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Sparkyxxxxx</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363572532058400689.post-43530488147700615432008-02-13T23:37:00.000-08:002008-02-14T00:10:54.386-08:00FIRST OF MANY!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj607eljBAr8-b0tGWskw5RZjAHvsrcMPHplK84delsehj9BAIqdyDXLVkCj0Ghgvk0za9W7asBwQ3oTELrTV7P6f-vcVYA4cEzFmD9jxrS4f2YenaRnC5W1VIsEEodEEQFCYavMmd4mLWW/s1600-h/001.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166745183619320130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj607eljBAr8-b0tGWskw5RZjAHvsrcMPHplK84delsehj9BAIqdyDXLVkCj0Ghgvk0za9W7asBwQ3oTELrTV7P6f-vcVYA4cEzFmD9jxrS4f2YenaRnC5W1VIsEEodEEQFCYavMmd4mLWW/s320/001.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Hello chums, welcome to my new blog site. Looking forward to sharing the contents of my addled mind with you again, on this Valentines Day. You'd be forgiven for assuming that theres not a lot of love in the world at the moment given the tradgedy in Darfur, Kenya and a miriade of human rights abuses being perpertrated world-wide, and it is very hard to keep positive amidst all the bad news. I think some people will also feel guilty about feeling good when so many others are suffering. Empathy and compassion are the cornerstones of good society, as long as apathy and indifference doesnt set in.<br />Shorty to start with friends, just to say im back and send my love<br />Sparky xxx </div>queenbeebearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01648381748597009531noreply@blogger.com0