Friday 6 February 2015

Growth

Searching through my old notes on my spiritual journey I re-discovered Frank Herbert's Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear from his book , Dune. In order to learn you have to fail, most people fear failure and that fear grows with age in my experience. It ties into my youthful philosophy around improving my skills as a sailor, windsurfer and cyclist - if you don't crash you're not trying hard enough. Now I'm older my body physically can't handle the crashes as well but that's no reason to stop pushing your limits, it's just about knowing where they are...

"I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

Monday 2 February 2015

Imbolc blessing

Smooring the Fire

The sacred Three
To save,
To shield,
To surround
The hearth,
The house,
The household,
This eve,
This night,
Oh! this eve,
This night,
And every night,
Each single night.
Awen, Awen, Awen.

Adapted from the Carmina Gadelic number 84, I was reminded of this blessing by Michael on the OBOD forum. Our boiler had broken and it was the first time that I'd started a fire in the fireplace. This seems the correct blessing for damping down the fire before going to bed on the night of Imbolc.

Imbolc seed thought - silence

The snowdrops white flower heads are here, closed against the icy wind. The dark Hellebore flowers have just appeared and the other bulb's green shoots are nosing their way towards the light. Here in mid Sussex the sun is promising the warmth of spring whilst the north wind is keeping it's icy grip and the feeling is wintery. It is perfect Imbolc weather. The seed thought came to me yesterday morning as I rode through my local country lanes. These ancient lanes from the low Weald to the high Weald give mixed views of arable land, hedgerows and are interspersed with the narrowing vision when the sunken lanes are held deep within a tree lined tunnel. The leafless branches forming a lattice work overhead.

One of the nice things about a single-speed bicycle is that, when set up properly, they are almost silent. With gears, derailleurs and longer chains, comes flexibility and with it rattles and creaks. The tight chain line of the single geared bike has no sound. Just the occasional light clattering as it races down the pot holed, rough and loose tarmac of a downhill section. The silence of the bike gave space to hear the world, up some of the short, steep climbs of the high Weald the focus was internal - the beating of blood in my veins, the gasping for breath and the hammer of my ageing heart. On the flat all that could be heard was the whisper of my tyres, the bluster of the wind across the landscape and various songs from the birds. The bird song that reappears around Yule, having faded at Litha, now has more desire and urgency within it. Certainly not the full chorus that is here between Eostre and Beltaine but it brims full of the optimism that the returning sun brings.

In the narrow tree lined lanes, banked higher than my head with my eyes at root and burrow level I could reflect how nature rapidly breaks up mans effort to control the surface.
In the narrow lanes in this cauldron of silence, speared by the midday Imbolc sun and with the cleansing sword of an Arctic blast I could reflect upon the opening gateway to the year that is Imbolc.
I could travel in the peace of Frige
Then narrow lanes opened, revealing open countryside and the green walled vista of the South Downs and the warmth of home, the heat of the hearth and the love of my loved ones. Thankfully I could return there.