Season’s Blessings

Wrapped in knitted blankets before a roaring fire, with steaming cups of cocoa by our sides,  Faery and I contemplate the little packages piled into baskets around us.  Boxes filled with dainty night lights encircled with blossom.

Byzantine bookmarks, in shimmering shades, perfect companions on a winter’s evening snuggled up with a favourite read.

What  a year it has been!

The wind whistles wildly outside and the creaking trees scratch at the window panes as they buffet and rock in the fierce gusts.  But  secreted away here, inside this little crooked cottage, we feel so warm and content.  We whisper together of plans for the coming year, scribbling lists and staring contemplatively into the fire that sputters and crackles encouragingly.  We remind ourselves of the fresh green promises of spring and the verdant vistas of summer’s bounty, knowing that without the fearsome barrenness of winter such rich abundance and newness would be impossible.

Flickering Flames

It was a magical walk through the forest this morning, for the trees in Tanglefrost are ablaze with Autumn colour.  Flickering flames dance in the canopy overhead or  tumble into piles along the gravel path leading to the little crooked cottage beside the lake.  The cool smudge of blue sky, like a glistening water-colour wash, steams in the heat, as the licking tongues of fiery haze lap and burn against it.

Faery is sitting in her usual place on the covered porch, rocking in her wooden chair, with a warm knitted throw tucked about her legs.  Surrounding her are deep whicker-baskets of burnished leaves in rich glorious shades: burgundy, reds and oranges, all glowing like smouldering coals.

She smiles in greeting as I curl myself into the chair beside her and pour us both  cups of steaming tea.

“This has to be my most favourite season,” she whispers as she twists another leaf onto the hair comb she is creating.  “How incredible it is that, in the last gasps before winter, the trees put on their most colourful of raiment in celebration of all that has been achieved over the year.  They seem to save their very best display for last!”  She holds aloft the finished comb, so that the creamy freshwater pearls that peep shyly through twisted vine stems, shimmer in the soft light.

Seafoam

Faery and I went to the beach today.  A smooth sandy beach beneath a pale, water-colour sky.  The gentle waves lapped at the shore and the grasses in the sand-dunes rippled and swayed in the warm breeze.  All was peaceful and still.

We hunted for bleached driftwood, shells and shimmering turquoise sea-glass along the shore, hoarding our treasures in the basket that Faery had brought for the purpose.  Then, leaning our backs against a sandstone bank, we watched the gulls soaring about us and the sunshine dancing on the water.

Of Tribes and Faeries.

Crunching across the gravel towards Faery’s cottage seems quite surreal after all these weeks.  Such phrases as:  “Forgive me, sweet one, for I have sinned.  It is 8 weeks since our last meeting!” skitter through my head.  But, as her little crooked dwelling comes into view, silently still beside the lake, my heart begins to race. Soon I am running across the dew-sodden grass towards the porch steps, face beaming.

For there she is, rocking rhythmically in her wooden rocking chair, twisting the stems of hedgerow blossom into new garlands and humming softly to herself.  Predictably a fresh pot of tea is steaming on the tray by her side, with two china teacups.

“Ah, my dear sweet child,” she cries, rising to her feet and embracing me warmly.  “I knew today was the day you would come.  The blackbirds are singing and the trees have a fair copper mantle to welcome you this fine autumnal morning.”  She smiles, patting the cushion on the chair next to her. “Pour us both a cuppa, then settle yourself down and tell me your news.”

As we watch the mists drifting languidly across the waters of the lake and the gentle breeze dancing through the trees, I tell her all that has happened.  The launching of edge-walking.com, an online ‘sacred space’ for fringe-dwellers, visionary leaders and wide-eyed wanderer, with its inspirational artwork and interviews, plus the Tribal forum and chat-room too.  But most exciting of all, to her atleast, that her shimmering wreaths, crowns and hair-accessories would now be sold with notonthehighstreet.com.

She chuckles.  “Do hope it won’t conflict with the steady business I have here via my cottage!” she says mischeviously.  “I’d so hate to turn away Tinkerbelle and Titania, Queen of the Faeries. It would distress them so!”

We laugh together, her and I.  How things have changed these past eighteen months:  new home, a greater confidence, wild adventures, a steady stream of orders.  She squeezes my hand.

“Ah Change!” she whispers mysteriously. “How incredible she is… catching us totally unawares sometimes, despite being a constant companion on our journey through life.  We fool ourselves into thinking that all will stay the same… getting lulled into a false sense of security more often that not.  But then, how nimble are her steps beside us, how deftly she nips at our heels…. urging us on into new challenges, fresh opportunities, unimaginable possiblities.  We ignore her at our peril!”

“So what are your plans for the new shop?” I ask, holding one of her floral crowns aloft so that it sparkles in the sunshine.

“Simple garlands and swags, maybe.  Candle-holders would be wonderful too.”  She rests her hands on the arms of her chair, brow furrowed in thought, and watches the leaves of a nearby silver birch rustling in the wind.  “Some seasonal wreaths would be perfect for the festive season.” She nods her head solemnly. “Yes, that’ll do nicely.”  She picks up another sprig of blossom and begins twisting the delicate stems once again.

I watch her for a moment as the gentle serenity of these lands bathe my soul in its rest and quietness.  Yes, there is much work to be done in the coming weeks and months, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bargains Galore!

Roll up, roll up! Shimmering garlands and posies are being offered for sale in my Tanglefrost shop  at bargain prices: 50% off when the words ‘SUMMERFLING’ are typed in at the checkout!  And its only for a limited time too: between 1 to 5 August 2011.  So hurry, while stocks last! (Prices below are appoximate due to current exchange rates and the original listings being in $!)

Hand-sculpted haircombs: £25 £12.50:

Small floral crowns: £45 £22.50

Medium floral crowns: £55.70 £27.85

Large floral crowns: £60.65 £30.33

Enjoy!!  And remember to tell your friends too!!

‘Til next time, many sparkling blessings!

xxxxx

Summer Celebrations

Forty days and nights have passed since I last wandered through this glade.  My breath catches in my throat at the precious familiarity of the scene before me: the mists drifting languidly over the tranquil waters of the lake and Faery, rocking in her wooden chair outside her cottage, twisting tender blooms into garlands and singing softly to herself. As I wander over the dew-laden grass towards her, she looks up and smiles.

“Time for a celebration, I think!” she says simply, rising to her feet and embracing me tenderly.  “You look as though you have an awesome adventure out in the wilds.”

Looking down at by travel-stained clothes, I can’t help but chuckle,  Yet my tangled appearance is nothing compared to the changes that have occurred deep in my heart and soul.  I pour us both a cup of tea and settle down beside her on the porch.

“I have learnt so much in this World of Possibility,” I whisper, watching her over the rim of my teacup.

She nods in reply, stooping to gather more blooms and leaves from the wicker basket at her feet.

“But you know that I will be venturing here less-often now?”  My words are faltering and hesitant, and tears begin to shimmer in my eyes.

“I always knew this day would come,” she says simply.  “Your time here has simply been preparation for that which lies in store.” Faery strokes my arm.  “All the more reason to celebrate the wondrous achievements so far… to acknowledge all the glorious transformations and transitions, the discoveries and the healing, the many lives that have been touched by our creations.”  She smiles.  “I’m hosting a little sale in our shop: a glorious 50% off!! I didn’t think you’d mind. Such a special way to offer our thanks and gratitude for all the support and generosity of spirit we have known along the way!”

“And after?” I ask smiling, brushing the salty tears from my cheeks.

“Why, we will continue!” Faery hands me the hair-comb she has just created and carefully I wrap it in tissue and place it inside it’s prepared box.  “The shimmering hedgerows will still bloom in Tanglefrost and, like you,  many will desire to dance with flowers in their hair!” She finishes her tea then places her cup on the tray beside her.  “But what of your plans, my dear?”

I look out over the lake, listening to the gentle waves lapping against the shore nearby.  “To seek out fellow edge-walkers, fringe-dwellers and other wide-eyed wanderers!” I grin at her and Faery’s soft green eyes twinkle in reply.  “It’s what I know I am meant to do.  I’ve been a frequent wanderer along the ‘borders’ of life, skirting the edges of that curious place ‘between two worlds’.  In many ways I prefer it, wandering free and wild.  Yet travelling there can also be such a lonely, isolating place.” I pause, rubbing at a muddy mark on my jeans. “Over the years, I’ve met some incredible folk who dwell there also,  folk with an amazing capacity for courage, passion and wisdom.  Sadly these same precious souls are sometimes forgotten or overlooked, tucked away as we often are in the obscure places of this world.  How enriched humanity would be if each of us were truly seen and acknowledged,  and for all to know how dearly we are loved too.” Faery is watching me intently, a gentle smile dancing about her lips.  “So…. I’m in the process of creating an extra-special meeting place, just for us: Edge-walking.  I imagine it as a sacred space in a sheltered clearing, beside a roaring ‘campfire’ maybe.  Somewhere where we can dance and exchange stories we  have gleaned from our travels out in the wilds; a place to rest and replenish, to nourish heart, body, mind and soul; a secure, safe haven to be inspired, nurtured and encouraged.  What powerful synergy could be created and what sparks would fly!”  I stop abruptly and look at Faery once again.  “What do you think?”

Faery claps her hands together in delight.  “Oh, it sounds truly wonderful, just what’s needed.  Goodness, the more I think about it, there are all kinds of folk who may find themselves on the fringes of life, either for a short time or permanently: those negotiating a period of transition or maybe even supporting others through a time of change; some may be visionaries, seeking to push against the status quo and to explore alternative possibilities; while others may simply enjoy a wandering-gypsy existence and familiar with paths less-travelled.  Yes, I can see why you have pondered doing this for so long.”

What a relief it is hearing her words.  For days now I have trembled at the very thought of telling her my plans.  But then, given all our previous conversations, particularly those following my journey “Into the Forest”, perhaps none of it is unexpected.  Whatever I may say, I will never stray far from Tanglefrost as it holds such a special place in my heart and where my adventures all began.  Certainly over the next few days I will be found sitting beside her on the porch, drawing and painting in preparation for my new venture, and allowing the serene restfulness of these lands to continue to bathe me in peace and fresh inspiration.

If you are interested in finding our more about Edge-walking and how you can get involved, please contact me at jo@edge-walking.com. How deeply it would thrill my soul if you were able to join me there also.

But for now, sparkling blessing are sent to you as we celebrate this wondrous summer.

Jo xxx

P.S.  Don’t forget to stop by the Tanglefrost shop to partake in our 50% sale.  It’s only for 5 days too: 1 to 5 August 2011.  Tell all your friends and acquaintances too – how wonderful it would be to see the shelves empty and awaiting new treats for the Autumn season!!

Out into the Wilds

Sorting through all the ‘treasures’, secreted away in the drawers and cupboards in Faery’s crooked cottage, I discover numerous pearl buttons and beads, antique lace and snippets of silk, fine kid leather, hand-made paper, coiling vine tendrils and copper wire, all waiting patiently to be combined and transformed into magical new creations.  The wondrous possibilities seem endless.

Once everything has been stowed away neatly, I wander out to the lake and sit on the bridge, my bare feet dangling just above the shimmering waters.

During, and since, our journey “Into the Forest” , I have realised that I am emerging once more into a new state of ‘being’.  A restlessness, that I have struggled to explain or even comprehend, has taken me by surprise: I had thought all my ‘transformations’ were over with, for a couple of years at least!!  But who was I fooling?!!  This realisation has actually been quite painful, as I have identified an obvious ‘disconnect’ in all that I was striving for: what I thought was ‘emerging’ all those months ago, was simply me being impatient to get ‘doing’ and ‘trying’, rather than simply waiting and watching and cogitating!  I can see now that I was endeavouring to remove myself from the chrysalis/shell/pond (or whatever ‘analogy’ you choose) before I was really ready… trying to match what I thought was the desired outcome when, in reality I was way off the mark! So, time to haul on the anchors and to re-align once again!

Faery had told me recently that this is all part of ‘growing up’ which, at my tender age of 44 years, I am probably long over-due!  Certainly all that has happened since crossing that ‘big 4 0′ boundary, and the growing realisation that I could no longer continue in the way I had been living without detrimental consequences, had started it all: a bit like a single taper being lit at the beginning of a firework display!  But since then, the metamorphosis into a new way of ‘being’ has been rapid and intense…. making up for lost time perhaps!!  And, just like a hermit crab, I feel like I am constantly ‘out-growing’ what I think is ‘home’ and needing to hunt for a new one!!!

So how about you, fellow traveller?  Are you too relaxing into all that you are and were destined to be in the first place: the uniquely awesome, beautiful, precious and tender-hearted YOU?  Not the one suggested by others or circumstances, even hopes and dreams, but simply resting in who you really ARE?  This requires no ‘forcing’, manipulation or struggle, just a gentle acceptance and surrender to what we are naturally meant to ‘be’.  I know I haven’t been, which is why I’m hauling on the brakes now.

I don’t know where Tanglefrost is heading, indeed, where I am heading too.  There is certainly a whole mis-mash of potential material in which to create something wonderous!  But as to what this is, I simply have no idea.  But then, that is all part of the mystery of it all: this journey “Out into the Wilds”.  I am an edge-walker, caught between two worlds: that of who I once was and what I am destined to be.  It’s a curious place this ‘space’ in between… rugged and unpredictable but spangled and sparkling too.  I wonder, if I am alone?

I look around me: at the gentle mists drifting languidly across the waters, the trees swaying in a gentle breeze and Faery sitting on the porch twisting blossom into twinkling garlands.

I scramble to my feet, leaving my shoes on the grass, and feel a mysterious lightness in my step.  No other baggage or equipment have I for the journey, just an openness of heart and a longing to simply ‘be’.  This simplicity is curiously liberating, for there is nothing now to hold me back. Glancing once more at Faery, I wave to her in farewell.  She does not seem unduly surprised but, kissing her fingers lightly, blows to me her love and many sparkling blessings.

Until we meet again, may light shine brightly on your path and your ‘knife’ be keen, as you too venture along paths less travelled.

xxxxx

Wisdom of the Grandmothers: The Two Trees

When eventually I stumble into this World of Possibility, the sun is just beginning to set behind the trees and the mists are tingling with a rosy glow.  I pause for a moment, looking out over the lake where the rippling waters shimmer like old gold, then turn to clamber up the steep slope to the crooked cottage nestled high in the bank.

Faery puts her finger to her lips when she sees me approaching and, grabbing my hand, leads me into the forest.  All around is still and curiously expectant.  Even the birds, who usually regale my presence with a cacophony of melodies, are strangely silent.

Deeper and deeper we clamber in: pulling ourselves over fallen tree trunks and dipping beneath great curtains of tangling creepers and ivy. The sun has disappeared now, but occasionally we see the bright moon peeping through the thick canopy and sometimes even a sprinkling of stars.  Rising from the soft burnished carpet of decaying leaves, the warm, musky scents of pine-needles and tree sap waft around us, richly exotic and intoxicating. But then I hear it: the soft throb of drums! Hearts pounding with excitement, we stumble onwards, tiptoeing through tangled roots and wading through great seas of bracken. Suddenly we gasp! Twinkling there through the trees, the bright flickering glow of a bonfire, in a small clearing just ahead.

As we scramble towards it, we snatch glimpses of smoky shadows dancing around the flames: leaping and spinning and stamping the ground in time with the beat. Faery smiles as the pulsating rhythms gets steadily louder and deeper still: a rich ‘earthy’ sound and ancient to, resonating within my very bones with a mysterious familiarity.  However, when we eventually emerge through the trees, the hypnotic drumming stops abruptly and, with a crackle of snapped twigs and rustling leaves, the shadowy dancers scurry off, quickly disappearing deep into the forest.  Filled with deep disappointment, I race in the direction I think they have gone.  But to no avail.

“Where’ve they gone?” I gasp, hurrying back to Faery.  “Why did they leave?  I thought they were calling to us, waiting for us even.”

She stands there beside the fire, reaching out her hands to warm them in the glow of the flames. “Your time will come, dear one,” she whispers. “They are just cautious.  They will learn to trust you, to believe in all that you are.  But be patient… there is no rush.  Here!” She points to some sawn logs that have been placed strategically near the fire and sits down, indicating that I should do the same.  She tosses a thick, woven blanket at me and proceeds to rap another around her own shoulders.

So we sit watching the flames: darting and hissing, popping and sparking, with the heat-haze rising in spiralling circles up into the starry sky. Slowly the ache inside my heart eases slightly and I breathe in the medley of smoky sweetness mixed with the forest’s spice-laden scents.  Then, above the crackle and sizzle, as dry leaves and twigs suddenly ignite with fresh intensity, Faery begins her tale…

“Lost were they in the forest: two sisters abandoned and with little hope.  Poor babes in the wood, if truth be told, for none cared what should befall them.  Those that should, were far too busy with their own ‘doings’ to notice their presence or otherwise and, as the days slowly passed, had forgotten even to comment on their absence.

Stumbling and forlorn the sisters wandered, gathering berries that they found, past caring if they would do them ill.  At night they snuggled amongst the tangled roots of elderly trees, pulling dry leaves over themselves for what little warmth they offered, promising each other that they would eventually find someone who could give them aid or to at least a way out of the interminable forest.  As each new day was born, they brushed themselves down, and drank in turn from the bubbling stream that they had decided to follow.

And so it came, that one day they emerged into a clearing  where there stood a tiny cottage.  It was bordered on either side by a thick towering hedge that clearly concealed a garden; for, above its rim, tall trees and exotic plants could just be seen swaying in the breeze.

Sitting on a 3-legged stool, at the open doorway of the cottage, shelling peas into an enamel saucepan, was a wizened old lady.  Her thin grey hair was scraped into a tight coil low on the back of her head and she squinted slyly at the two sisters as they walked towards her.  In faltering words, for great was their fear and trepidation, they told her their plight, hoping that in some way she would take pity on them.  When there was nothing more to be said, the old woman rocked for a moment on the stool, chuckling to herself, then slowly rose to her feet.  Beckoning them to follow, she led them through the cottage and out into the garden beyond.

What a glorious spectacle the garden was: a tangle of luscious colour, shape and scent.  As far as the eye could see, plants both great and small, bloomed in great profusion.  Following a twisting stony path through them, the old woman brought the sisters to a verdant swathe of green grass, in the centre of which grew two trees.

“These two trees look as though they are identical: each is covered in tiny turquoise flowers and lush green leaves.  But one of them is grown on totally different root-stock,” she croaked. “One will give life in all its rich abundance, the other sure and certain death!” She cackled venomously on seeing the sisters’ dismayed faces.

“But how are we to tell which is which?” they ask in tremulous voices.

“That is for you to decide!” The old woman cackled again.  Then, with a mysterious POP!, both she and her cottage disappeared.

The sisters stare around them in bewilderment.  The exotic garden no longer feels as brightly welcoming as it had done when they had first arrived, but seems to leer at them menacingly instead.  They race around the borders looking for a way out, but the hedge is so  thick and impenetrable and covered in long, ferocious thorns, that there is no escape.  Clasping each other tightly in despair, they collapsed on the grass beneath the two trees, sobbing.  Eventually, tears shimmering on their cheeks, they settled into an uneasy sleep.

How long the girls slept is unclear, but when they awoke they noticed that both trees, which had once  been covered in turquoise blooms, were now laden with large, pear-like fruit: plump, juicy and richly scented.

Heedless to the old woman’s warnings, the first sister was so overcome with hunger that she grabbed one of the pears from the tree nearest to her and began to eat.

“Oh, how gorgeously sweet this is!” she gasped, reaching up to pick another. “I don’t think I have ever tasted fruit more fair.  Why not have one yourself, dear sister?”

The younger backed away from her older sibling.  “Did you not listen to the old lady?” she whispered. “She told us that one of the trees was deadly.  How do you not know that this is the one?”

“Poppy-cock!” the older sister snorted. “Of course this is the right one.  Didn’t she also say that one of the trees would give us life in all its abundance?  This one is certainly doing that for me!” She smiled, the dark juice dripping down from her chin, and stretched up to pick more pears from the tree until her skirt was full of rosy fruit.

The younger sister hesitated.  Perhaps her sibling was right and that she had miraculously chosen correctly.  Maybe it was quite safe to eat the fruit that she was collecting so enthusiastically.  But, as the nagging doubts and fears began to evaporate from her mind, the older sister suddenly screamed, clutching at her stomach wildly, and fell to her knees in acute pain.  The younger girl rushed to her side, seeking to help her as best she could, but the older simply writhed about in agony on the grass.   With a strangled cry, the eldest reached imploringly towards her, eyes wide and face striken in terror.  To her intense distress, the younger sister watched as her sister’s face rapidly became older and more ancient, until only a skeleton remained,  huddled within a tangle of clothing.  But even this was not for long, for the bones slowly fractured and crumbled, disintegrating further into mere dust which a breeze, lighter than a baby’s breath, scattered it to the winds.

Clutching the remains of her sister’s dress to her face, the young girl sobbed into the tattered folds.  Through her tears, she looked up into the tree from which her sister had harvested the fateful fruit.  She noticed that the few pears still remaining on the branches, appeared to be melting in thick wax-like globules and dripping down onto the ground below. She backed away from beneath it for, as the dripping continued, the tree exuded a foul stench attracting flies and other venomous insects who duly arrived to feast on the decaying refuse. 

Shuddering and horrified, she skirted the grass until she was on the opposite side of the lawn.  What a contrast was the second tree, with its still swollen pear-like fruit, that continued to glisten enticingly in the sunshine.

“I wonder if this tree is also evil,” she whispered to herself, drying her tears and endeavouring to calm herself.  “Afterall, it had seemed identical to the first. How can I believe that what the old lady said was true?  Is it really possible that this one offers life in all its abundance?” She watched the tree curiously, partly to distract herself from the buzzing frenzy that was occurring on the other side of the grass.  To her delight, a family of red squirrels scrambled into its branches from a  towering bush nearby, the larger squirrel seeking to share the fruit with the smaller ones.  Similarly a family of blackbirds also arrived and began to feast enthusiastically on the rich bounty available.

The young girl seated herself on the grass watching them, enchanted, as the creatures skitter about the branches sharing the fruit one to another.

“Perhaps it is safe.  Afterall, none of these dear ones have been harmed so maybe the fruit will be safe for me too.”  She sighed.  It had been many days since she had savoured even a meagre feast and her hunger was deep and terrible.

Stepping onto the grass once more, she reached up into the branches of the second tree and picked one of the pears.  How silky smooth its skin and how rich the rosy glow!  She held it to her face, savouring the heady scent.  Then, slowly and carefully, she took a bite feeling the gentle burst of juice spraying her cheeks and chin with sticky sweetness. How divine it tasted, melting on her tongue and exciting her senses with its cool, rich tang. 

She sat down, leaning up against the trunk of the tree and took a second bite.  To her dismay, she realised that hers was now the only tree in the middle of the garden and the plants growing all around her no longer looked evil and foreboding but profoundly beautiful once again. In addition, she noticed a tiny gate in the hedge which, as she watched, suddenly swung open.  Through it, she saw a roadway, snaking to the top of a hill and topped with a scattering of little cottages.  She scrambled to her feet, clutching the half-eaten pear to her chest and ran towards the gate, fearful that the tantalising view would somehow disappear. 

How amazing it was to look out of the garden to a world of shining possibilities.  The sunshine sparkled down on her and on the pathway ahead.  She could just hear a melody being played in the village beyond and glimpses of fluttering flags and bunting hanging from the windows.  And, as she watched, a procession of dancers, progressing down the roadway towards her, clapping and chanting, some playing flute or fiddles, others carrying colourful banners and streamers.  “Rejoice!” they shouted to each other, beaming broadly. “Let us celebrate and dance! For a child has been lost and found again, was dead but now lives once more!”

Faery laughs.  “I’ve always loved that tale.  Not the elder sister’s demise, maybe, but definitely the ending!”

I smile.  I know what she means but the truths behind the words resonate powerfully too.

“So many warning tales are told of ‘disguised’ enemies:” Faery tells me, “from the wolf in Grandmother’s clothing, dangerous spinning wheels and sweetie-covered cottages.  In most cases, much disaster would have been avoided if victims were more cautious and less hasty in making judgements.  Sometimes their decisions were naive and fool-hardy, whereby they were too trusting and eager to always see the good.  At other times they did not feel the need to protect themselves as thoroughly as they should. ‘Wickedness’ can disguise itself in numerous ways and be exceedingly cunning too.  It pays to exercise the ‘wild nature’ in being cautious and always watchful for the slightest suspicion or clue as to ‘origin’.  As in the case of the two trees, it’s the ‘fruit’ that is the best indicator.  It’s impossible to pick grapes from a thorn-bush, or figs from thistles.  A good tree cannot bear bad fruit and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. It’s all down to the ‘root-stock’.”

“Why do you tell me this, dear friend?” I ask, looking into her beautiful face, which shimmers in the firelight.

“Because we often have to make choices and decisions, identify those ‘wolves in sheep’s clothing’ and discern that which is evil from live-giving hope!” She smiles tenderly, reaching out to stroke my arm. “Being precious and dearly loved doesn’t make us immune from trials of all kinds. But watchfullness, inquisitiveness and a refusal to be impulsive, are wise qualities to treasure and frequently good guides too!”

I nod.  How easy it is, in our vulnerability and hunger for richness and love in our lives, to reach towards that which we first see as alluring and fair, that appears to be the answer to our deepest longings.

Observe.  Reflect.  Decide…. my new mantra as I continue on my journey as a ‘wild one’…

Wisdom of the Grandmothers: The Bone Collector

“Perhaps you can see her: one of the Wild Ones,” whispers Faery, pointing along the steep, sandy ridge in front of us.  Just at the top, struggling to walk along the edge, is a woman, large bag in hand, her long hair whipping about her face in the fierce wind.

Faery has brought me to the edge of the forest and we sit, beneath the folds of a richly painted awning on great embroidered cushions, looking out over a pale, barren desert.  At first, I had thought we were back on the beach close to the Netturbino workshops, where I had travelled on earlier adventures.  But I was much mistaken.  For there was no cooling sea to lap with soothing waves against its white-hot skin.  Instead, as far as the eye can see, great hills and valleys stretch out their pale limbs:  rippling and undulating, burnished by the fierce heat of the sun and an unyielding scorching breeze.

“You have often mentioned the Wild Ones.  Are they to be feared?” I ask. “I have often thought so.”

Faery shakes her head. “Yes, that is a common misconception: the idea that ‘wild’ means evil or danger.” She sighs. “That is why anyone showing any desire to answer to its call is so frequently discouraged or, at worst, ostracised by their community.  No, ‘wild’ means free and un-tamed, abiding in its ‘natural’ state and living in the way that was originally intended.  Look at the birds, flowers, indeed any living creature which lives out in the wilds.  They trust in the One who created them to provide for all their needs.  They know no human-made restrictions or shackles, but are in-tune with the natural rhythm of life and death, of intense passion and generous loving too.”

“So tell me of the Wild Ones,” I say softly. “What of the woman up there: what is she doing?”

“Why she is a Bone Collector!” Faery laughs. “As are all those who answer to the call.  For through them whispers the great Life-giving Spirit herself!  You will often see them, searching diligently across the great plains or ‘rubbish-heaps’ of the world, looking for those enduring fragments of life.  For bones take ages-long to decay.”

And we watch as the woman kicks at the sand, occasionally crouching and burrowing down, endlessly looking.

“You will see them: old and young, man and woman, responding to the call of a very ancient grandmother from long ago… let me tell you of her.”

And Faery sits, like a magical Scheherazade, a-top the cushions while we watch the woman sliding carefully down a bank of sand, searching.

“So she wanders, the Bone Collector, her skirts always dipping at the front from endless stooping.  About her head a kerchief is clamped securely around her steely curls and her sharp blue eyes, that peer out through wrinkled skin, miss nothing.  Clasped in her weather-beaten hand is a bag, in which she stows the bones she finds.  She knows that death and life are closely intertwined, and precious to her are the enduring remains of what was.  No concern has she from whence these bones have come.  Her desire is simply to collect them while there is light: to salvage what hope still resides in the midst of decay and loss.  The wisdom to which she clings is an ancient one: that nothing dies which cannot be resurrected from within, into new life once again.  How hard it is to watch when something, that we have loved so dear, reaches its end.  Yet she knows that, without its passing, fresh hope cannot be born.

And when evening comes and her bag is full, she shuffles her way back to a darkened cave in which she lives, her stockings hanging in weary folds about her ankles, her mouth set firm and grim.  Carefully she sorts all that she has found, grouping them one to the other: joint to joint, pair by pair, until a unique skeleton is formed.  Somehow she knows that which works best: what to discard for another time and what to treasure.  Then, closing her eyes, she seeks for the great Life-Giving Spirit herself. Slowly her wrinkled lips begin to sing: a song of recreation.  She lifts her hands and face to the stars, and starts to dance about those dry bones, serenading them with lilting notes of hope and beauty.  Slowly, oh so slowly, tendons begin to grow between them, muscles, organs and skin. And then, suddenly the ‘being’, for that is what it has become, rises up and dances with her: spinning and skipping in time with the gentle melody that resonates around them.  For a moment they twirl together, intimate and close, then with a cry they break free.  And the renewed, spirit-filled life leaps away out into the beyond.  The Bone Collector sighs… for her job has been done.  She carefully stows away the remaining bones, and wearily retreats to her rumpled bed in the corner of the cave.  Tomorrow begins another day for re-birthing fresh hope.”

Faery adjusts her position on the cushions and we look out once more across the undulating sands.  The woman we had seen has now disappeared behind the dunes and the sand is stirred for a while by a teasing breeze.

“You say that the spirit of the Bone Collector is in the heart of all Wild Ones,” I remark softly.  “How is this so?  Does it mean that I too am destined to trail the deserts and rubbish heaps of life looking for bones?”

“Perhaps,” remarks Faery tracing her finger along the pattern on the cushion. “I think all Wild Ones spend much time looking for enduring remains within their own lives and around them too: situations that have ‘died’ in the past but which still possess qualities that can be given new life once again.  Certainly, for those who have only recently answered the call, there will be much to reflect upon.  Often they have had to discard the intrinsic ‘bones’ of who they have been created to be and these need to be rediscovered again somehow.  There may even be aspects of their current selves that now need to die, so that new life can be born from amidst the ashes.  For the very nature of life is to embrace the recurring pattern of birth, death, rebirth in all aspects of our being.”

She looks out over the sandy plain, and puts up her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the fading sun.  “The life of a Wild One is hard, not that different to living in the desert sometimes.  Survival here requires great endurance, courage and stubborn determination.  Flowers will only bloom at the coolest times of the day, seeking to preserve live-giving moisture as much as possible.  Roots run deep, burrowing to tremendous depths in the search for nourishment and water, and also to provide strong anchorage when buffeted by fierce winds.  So for the Wild One too.  Much activity goes on ‘underground’, deep within her soul, for that is often the only way to endure and survive.”

I gasp when I see the woman once more rising up above the dunes and walking along a distant ledge.  She pauses in her walking and waves to us, a warm smile dancing about her lips.

Then she hails us once more and finally disappears over the ridge just as the sun begins to set behind her, bathing the burnished sands with a rosy glow.

The sky slowly embraces the dusk with her rich, red veil and, as the golden orb dips beneath the horizon, I feel certain that I can hear the soft lilting notes of a song drifting towards us on a cool evening breeze…

Wisdom of the Grandmothers: Sowing Seeds

The sun is still rubbing the sleep from her eyes when I venture into Tanglefrost this early morning.  A solitary blackbird heralds my arrival and Faery, who is sitting in her wooden rocking chair on the porch cradling a cup of  tea, looks up and smiles.  She is clearly expecting me, as another cup is laid out upon the tray with a slice of hot buttered toast. (No marmalade maybe, but I can’t expect everything!) I settle myself in the seat beside her and look out over the serene waters of the lake as sunbeams, fanned into life by the gently swaying trees, scatter in twinkling showers.

“The Spirit of the Wild Ones stretches back to the dawn of the years,” she whispers mysteriously. “Few answer to her call but countless tales tell of her presence, despite much persecution over the centuries.  If you look back over your own family heritage you will see signs of her: tales of hope and adventure, for those who responded, but much pain and heartache too.  For many hear her, longing to run free into the wilds themselves.  But, sadly, some never follow and end their days heartbroken, bitter or grieving for all that they might have known.” Faery sighs and squeezes my hand tenderly.  “The tales I will tell are ancient beyond all reckoning but timeless too.  They will guide you on your own journey out into the wilds and as you become all you were created to be.  I will begin with one told to me by my own Grandmother when I was very young.  It is a simple story really, about seeds and their planting, which seems curiously apt given what has happened in recent days.  Other tales are much darker and more mysterious, better suited to being told deep in the forest around a roaring fire, while the flames spit and dance… but we will save those for another time!”

She pours us both fresh tea and, as the mists drift across the waters of the lake and waltz beneath the trees, she leans back in her chair and begins…

“Once upon a time, long long ago, there were two sisters who lived with their Grandmother in a cottage deep within the forest.  The sisters were both very beautiful and much-loved too.

One day, in early Springtime, it came for them to leave their Grandmother’s house and to set up homes of their own.  They found two quaint little dwellings, next door to each other, on the edge of a nearby village. 

How it thrilled their hearts that they should be able to live so close yet not too distant from their childhood home.  Many tears were shed as their Grandmother kissed them goodbye, for she had gifted each of them with a tiny seed and a beautifully bound notebook.

“You will not see me for a year and a day,” she told them. “But plant this seed in your gardens and write down all that you wish to tell me in your little books.  And next Springtime, when the buds begin to burst again with new life, I will call on you both again so that you can share with me all that has happened.” She kissed each sister tenderly on the forehead and bid her fond farewells. “My blessings on you, my dear sweet Grand-daughters!” she called, waving to them, as she made her way along the path and very soon she had disappeared back into the forest.

Somewhat perplexed and exceedingly sad that it would be so long before they saw their Grandmother again, the two sisters each went into her garden.  They saw that they were quite bare of any plants or trees.  But the loam was rich and freshly tilled, so they each planted their seed deep into the soil.

I am sad to report that, as the days drifted slowly past, the sisters spoke to each other less and less. For the first sister spent increasing amounts of time hidden away inside her cottage, writing feverishly on the pages of her book.  The second however was often in her garden, watering the ground where her seed had been planted and hoeing the soil round about.  At other times she would sit on the porch step looking out over the trees and the plains, or else venture into the village for provisions and to visit the friends she was making there.

As the months of spring began to blossom into summer, the garden of the first sister began to sprout with many shoots of green.

“Look at my garden!” called the first sister to her sibling. “See how it grows and flourishes. Won’t Grandmother be proud when she sees.”  She leant over the wall to look into the second sister’s garden.  “Oh my!” she sneered. “What has happened here?  I see that you have only a single stem to show of your labour.”

Sure enough, a tiny fragile shoot, looking so forlorn amidst the great expanse of dark soil, was the only sign of life.  The first sister flounced back into her cottage secretly pleased. But the second sister breathed in the beauty of the fresh new day, watered the plant tenderly and paused to watch the swallows swooping along the lane.

Soon the first sister’s garden was a-bloom with exotic flowers of every shape and description, swaying and  nodding in the gentle summer breeze, a-buzz with bees and insects.  In the second sister’s garden the shoot had slowly grown in strength and was now crowned with a few narrow, glossy leaves and a single bright red flower.

“Six months have passed already,” called the first sister to the second. “It won’t be long now before Grandmother visits us.  How deeply I desire to share with her all that has happened.  Already my notebook is half full and my garden is beautiful to behold.  How pleased she will be.”

The second sister smiled as she watched a bee burrowing itself into the tiny red flower, then busied herself once more in hoeing the soil round about.  She had heard that there was a new family just moved into the village and she hoped to call on them later in the day.

So came the Autumn mists and chills, blowing away the petals from the flowers in both the gardens.  Soon the winds blew the seeds from the garden of the first both near and far, leaving stubborn stalks and limp brown leaves in their wake.  But in the garden of the second a rich red fruit was beginning to swell on the tiny bush growing there.

Just as winter winds were beginning to nip and bite, a frail woman came to call on the two sisters.  She was very sick and back home her family was fairing much worse.  The first sister refused to even open the door to her, so scared was she of being contaminated in some way.  Instead, she screamed at the woman through the letterbox, entreating her to leave her alone.  The second sister though was quite the opposite, for she already knew of the woman’s plight.

“I have nothing more I can give you,” she whispered, holding the woman close to her heart.  “But perhaps this will help and bring you some hope in these dark days.” She went and plucked the single red fruit from the bush in her garden and gave it to her. “I will call on you later today and tomorrow and whatever it takes,” she said tenderly. Throwing a coat over the woman’s pitifully thin shoulders, they walked together down the lane towards her house.

Long and  hard were the winter months, as fierce gales and snow frequently barricaded the two sisters inside their homes. Yet each day, the second sister cleared the snow from around the little bush in her garden and then trudged along the lane towards the village with a basket of provisions in her arms.

Slowly the ground began to thaw once again, the frosts less sharp and bitter.  The sun began to grow in warmth and kindness, chasing away the forlorn grey clouds, and the blue sky began to sparkle again with spring-time hope.  The little bush in the second sister’s garden was already sprouting new stems and fresh buds of green were beginning to burst with life.  However, the first sister’s garden was a very sad sight: tangles of dripping leaves and stems, that had been squashed and flattened by the heavy snow, glistened damply  in the sunshine.  And it was on this day that a little old woman emerged through the trees in the forest, face beaming brightly as she walked along the path towards the sisters’ cottages.  It was Grandmother.

How delighted the sisters were to see her after all this time.  For it had been exactly a  year and a day since she had bid her fond farewells and given them her blessings.  She hugged each in turn, reminding them of how deeply they were loved.

“Show me your gardens, my darling granddaughters,” she laughed gaily. “For I have longed to see them and how the seed I gave you has grown.”

So to the garden of her first grandchild the old lady wandered and such sorrow filled her eyes at what she beheld. “But Grandmother,” the first sister pleaded, “it was a truly wondrous sight last summer, with so many flowers and rich blooms.”

“But what of them now, sweet one?” sighed the Grandmother. “For their progeny have now been scattered to the wind and tragically the single precious seed, that had been given to you as a gift, has been quenched by them; there is now nothing to show that it had ever been planted here at all.  And the notebook, my dear, what can you tell me of that?”

The first sister scurried back into her cottage and returned carrying a much-used notebook in her hand, the pages looked crumpled and creased from frequent readings and feverish writing.  The Grandmother opened the book and began to thumb through, reading a page here and there.  “Oh my dear, sweet child!” she said softly, tears shimmering in her eyes.  “So much anger and bitterness, anguish and sorrow stain these pages.  How it breaks my heart that it should be so.”  She wrapped her aging arms around her and held her close, stroking her hair.   Then taking her gently by the hand, she led her into the second sister’s garden.

Here the ground was rich, crumbling and dark.  And there, resplendent in the centre, a strong bush grew: of rippling green leaves and buds of bright red flowers ready to burst into bloom.

As they stood together looking at the verdant plant, they noticed a line of villagers walking along the lane towards them.  Each of them were carrying pots where the tiny shoots of fragile plants could just be seen swaying gently as they carried them.  Leading the procession was the same woman who had visited the sisters’ cottages months before.  Far from being sick and ailing, a fresh rosy bloom danced about her cheeks and that of her children scurrying along at her side.

“Look what we have brought you!” the villagers called to them, their faces bright with happiness and love. “The single fruit you gave us was rich in healing.  Like a pomegranate it was, with juicy flesh around  the numerous seeds packed inside it’s shell. How much it has blessed us with wholeness and hope!  We planted the seeds as a  gesture of our thanks and gratitude.”  And kissing the second sister tenderly, they left their flower pots at her feet.  Then, together hand-in-hand, they danced back down the lane towards the village.

“Let me see your notebook, gentle grand-daughter,” the Grandmother whispered to the second sister.

Shyly, she removed it tenderly from the pocket of her apron, her face blushing deeply.  Like the first sister’s copy, it was much-used but the words it contained were very different.  It spoke of the wondrous beauty of the world and in the faces of the folk that she had been blessed to know in her life, including that of her sister.  It held so many promises, declarations and words of love and encouragement, that the Grandmother gasped and clutched her heart in happiness.

“Those who go out weeping, carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them!”  She murmured, looking out across the fields and hills.  “We must be careful to tend the fragile plant growing in our hearts daily,” she said, “for it can too easily be overcome by other cares and woes.  Each have the potential for creating ‘seeds’ but one is more enduring and bountiful than the other and with a greater guarantee of lasting contentment too.”  She turns to the first sister.  “All is not lost,” she says tenderly, “but much work will need to be done in clearing the debris and refuse away so that new life can sprout again.  For fresh growth will occur, even in the midst of death and decay.”

Faery sets her china teacup back in its saucer and sighs.  “Such is this first tale of the Grandmothers.  Predictable maybe but profound in wisdom too.  It needed to be shared at the very start, as the seed in your own heart begins to grow.  It is not an easy road out into the wilds, allowing ourselves to become all that we were created to be right from the very beginning.  It requires diligence, discipline and a fair amount of courage but the richness of the rewards are great.”  She loads the tray up with the cups, plates and teapot, and stands in readiness to carry it back into the cottage.  “Another time I will tell you a tale of the Bone Collector – a quite different tangled tale entirely!”  And with these words she trips lightly through the doorway and disappears from view…