tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50550877159863526732024-03-18T23:37:08.571-04:00Signe PikeAuthor, Traveler, and Seeker of Enchantment.Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-63563878524945291762017-02-14T10:12:00.002-05:002017-02-14T10:17:22.026-05:00A Valentine's Day Story<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8ngqb" data-offset-key="3jv5s-0-0" style="background-color: white;">
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<span data-offset-key="3jv5s-0-0" style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was in high school, I worked in a flower shop. We sold candies and chocolates and plants, christmas houses and ornaments and fine china too, but on Valentine's Day it was all about the flowers. Let me tell you something. Valentine's Day is every florists nightmare. Sure, it's great for business, but it means one blasting and terrible week full of phones ringing off the hook, and cranky floral designers with their fingers stuck full of thorns like ten-digit, wiggling porcupines. My job was to work at the cash register, taking phone orders and ringing up the purchases, but mostly helping the endless line of poor fellows who left it to the last minute throw together a beautiful </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">bouquet. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was long hours moving at high speed, but nothing is quite so ridiculous or romantic as the idea of love when one is in high school. It is still perfect then, unfractured. It is a word that opens into caverns of possibility, a place where day dreams of grand gestures and silly, romantic surprises dwell, before disappointments and heartbreaks come calling and knock the wind straight out of us. I had boyfriends in high school, and in four years must have benefitted from one or two romantic gestures on Valentine's Day, but you know, I can't remember. When I look back at the past Valentine's in my life I don't remember the ones full of romantic love. I remember the time I made heart-shaped cookies for all my classmates in middle school. Or the time my father, hearing me lamenting about one boy or another, surprised me by sending a Valentine's bouquet to be delivered at school via the high school office. </span></div>
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<i>Will you be my Valentine, Signifer?</i> His note read. </div>
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In fact, when it comes to romance, aside from one or two occasions I've tucked away in my brain, what I most recall about Valentine's Day is the feeling of loneliness, that gnawing sense of yearning for something just out of reach, just around the corner. And there is no worse occupation than working in a flower shop when you are miserably single on Valentine's Day. I would stand there for hours, building bouquets with bleeding fingers, forced to participate in producing evidence of another's love for some ridiculous and PERFECTLY WONDERFUL HOLIDAY AND WHY COULDN'T MY CRUSH JUST APPEAR ON A WHITE HORSE BURSTING THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR OF THE FLOWER SHOP AND SAY, COME ON, I'M TAKING YOU TO PET SOME GOATS AND HERE IS A MIXED VARIETY OF ROSES AND SUNFLOWERS AND LIMONIUM, THE WORLD'S GREATEST FLORAL FILLER, BECAUSE I KNOW YOU HATE CARNATIONS AND BABY'S BREATH! </div>
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Sigh. Of course, being a witless romantic, there was a side of me that loved the knowledge that I was making someone else's Valentine's Day special, too. That truly sustained me. </div>
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In the years to come there were flowers and candle-lit dinners. But many Valentine's Days and one terrible louse of a boyfriend later, I was in my late twenties when I was finally forced to take a look at the source of all that Valentine's sadness - that undefinable yearning. What did I truly want? I asked myself. </div>
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I wanted flowers! Well... I could arrange that for myself. </div>
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<span data-offset-key="3jv5s-0-0">I wanted someone to draw me a bath! Well... I could do that for myself. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3jv5s-0-0">I wanted a beautiful candle! Well, I supposed I could go out and get one, even though it was raining. </span></div>
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And suddenly going to buy myself a lovely candle in the New York City rain turned out to be one of the most romantic outings I'd ever had. Because I was <i>living</i> romance. It was coming from within <i>me</i>. I wasn't searching and longing for it to come from someplace else. I didn't need to long for others to do romantic things for me. The empowerment was real. I could manage my needs myself. Slowly, as I began to ask myself, <i>What do you truly want? </i></div>
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<i>A crepe in the park! To be barefoot! To dance on the bed! To cook to old french music! To make a salad full of edible flowers! </i>The answers came rushing as fast as I could fulfill them. </div>
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A lot of people find themselves feeling lonely on Valentine's Day. But the source of it extends far beyond any commercial holiday. The longing is fixable. Romance yourself. When you can fill your own life with the romance you are yearning for, you find any additional romance is the most incredible surprise! Even better, you find that when you radiate romance, more romance seems to magically come your way. </div>
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I wanted to share this post because it took me too long to realize this. And still, I sometimes forget. </div>
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So to all of my friends who might be "alone" on this very romantic Valentine's Day, I've written a little Valentine, just for you. </div>
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<b><i>Romantic love is lovely, it can make your heart feel full of feathers, </i></b><b><i>but loving oneself means you are never alone; </i></b><b><i>self-love lasts forever.</i></b></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8b83j-0-0"><b><i> </i></b></span></div>
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Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-16868014852135659182016-11-01T13:56:00.002-04:002017-02-15T09:35:21.617-05:00A Meditation for Day of the Dead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Honoring Your Ancestors: <br />A Guided Meditation</h1>
Sit someplace you won't be disturbed and close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Imagine yourself surrounded by a bright white light. Think about who you are, what you are made of, and know that everything within you is the sum of all your ancestors. From thousands of years ago, generations of people have come together over the centuries to create the person you are now. Your strengths, your weaknesses, they came from somewhere long before you were you. This is a time to honor the ancestors who formed you.<br />
One by one, think of the ancestors you know who are departed. Recite their names or your genealogy -- aloud if you like -- as far back as you can go. As you say each name, you can describe the person and anything you know about their life. An example might go something like this:<br />
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<em>I am the daughter of Alan, who loved the world of words and woods<br />and walks beside me still.<br />Alan was the son of Bess and Ned,<br />who met in New York City, dentists and intellectuals,<br />Bess was an activist and Ned was quiet, contemplative.<br />Bess was the daughter of Riva, who sailed<br />to America across the Black Sea<br />wearing a necklace of glass beads, a present from her mother...</em><br />
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and so forth. Go back as far as you like, elaborating in as much detail as you choose. Once you can go back no further, end with "those whose blood runs in me, whose names I do not yet know."<br />
Once you are through, sit quietly and ask for any guidance or messages that your ancestors would like you to receive. During this time just breathe and be aware of the thoughts and images that come into your mind. If you see an image or a man or woman unknown to you, ask their name. Speak to them. See if they will respond. If you happened to meet a certain ancestor, or their archetype, during your meditation, before you come out, take a moment to thank them for stopping by. Write down any information, thoughts or impressions they may have given you. Even if it doesn't make sense just now, it may later on when you give it some more thought, or when the time for you to know is right.<br />
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(Borrowed from Patti Wigington with my own amendments. If you like it, please visit <a data-cke-saved-href="http://www.pattiwigington.com/" href="http://www.pattiwigington.com/" target="_blank">her website</a> for more!)Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-88249286803430836382016-07-31T14:13:00.001-04:002016-07-31T14:13:22.315-04:00Our Connection to the Land <h1 class="null">
Land.</h1>
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We live off it. We fight wars over it. We worship it. We take it for granted.<br />Each place on the planet gives off its own unique feeling. Oceans. Forest. Grassy fields with hills that roll in the distance. The stark power of a mountain. I've been living in a southern coastal city for seven years now, and the feeling of the place has got its hooks in me. When I first moved here I missed my shaded forests and storybook hills. And while I still long for those things, where I first saw the flatness of the Lowcountry I now see the huge expanse of sky. Any time of day here is all about the sky show - vast pillows of clouds and vivid hues of blue or pink or red or stormy gray like I have never seen. There is the smell of the marsh - the metallic, earthy stink of pluff mud and salt, and the silty murk of the ocean where alligators and snakes can wash onshore along with jellyfish and sharks are simply a matter of course. There is something primordial about living in the South - it is a reptilian place, but remember - the Serpent holds ancient wisdom and has so much to teach. Here too, is a world of birds - the usual back yard charmers, chickadees and cardinals and doves, but a whole new cast of black capped gulls and high trees filled with ibis, of pelicans and egrets and fierce-eyed herons.<img align="right" data-cke-saved-src="https://gallery.mailchimp.com/2d7e51d7f8522ddea8f012a4f/images/4837e6e5-151b-41a8-96cb-92f536b9a067.jpg" height="266" src="https://gallery.mailchimp.com/2d7e51d7f8522ddea8f012a4f/images/4837e6e5-151b-41a8-96cb-92f536b9a067.jpg" style="border: 5px solid #000000; height: 266px; margin: 5px; width: 200px;" width="200" /><br /><br />I have spent the last seven years connecting with a sense of wonder to this land that initially felt so foreign, until I woke up one day and realized it had become a part of myself. The back yard speaks to me now - in the way the wind shifts when I greet it, sending the chimes overhanging the patio jingling, in the myriad faery lights I've seen on full moon nights in the shrubbery, in the animals that visit, each offering their own lessons. (Woodpecker says, "Quit daydreaming and get back to work!" Jumping Spider says, "There is creative magic here.")<br /><br />We seek to own land so that we can control it, whether for good purposes like conservation, or sad, inevitable purposes like development. But I've come to realize that we don't ever own land, land owns us. In both a spiritual and a very physical sense. As Charleston has laid its claim on me, I have become her Daughter of the Marsh. I do not know if I will always live here, but I know now that a part of Charleston will always live in me. </div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0sWIVR1hXw" target="_blank">Watch this six minute video</a> in which Aboriginal Elder Bob Randall talks about growing up in the Australian bush and how we can never be lonely when we understand our place in the Universe and connection to the land we live upon.<br />
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(Randall mentions being part of the "Stolen Generation;" he's referring to the policy of the Australian government in which indigenous babies were taken from their parents upon birth to be "assimilated" into white culture, a practice which took place from 1910 until it was finally abolished in 1970.) </div>
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Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-25887636297649384982016-05-31T14:26:00.003-04:002016-05-31T14:26:34.988-04:00Animal Spirit Guides<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 14px;"><strong>Whether I'm in my own backyard or another country, I'm always aware of the animals surrounding me. We can learn so much by watching other animals in nature - watching birds fledge from a nest can be a lasting spiritual experience in and of itself. But our relationship with the natural world can extend further if we let it. </strong></span><br />
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<strong style="font-size: 14px;">In last month's newsletter we took a look at animal totems and their significance in modern life. Here's what I shared with readers. </strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14px;"><strong>Why do animals want to help us?</strong></span><br />We have a very unique place in the world. We have the ability to be masters or the ability to be stewards. The better, wiser, stronger, more peaceful, etc. we are, the better shape the planet is in. Animals, being the pure beings that they are, are continually appearing in our lives in an effort to help guide, teach and remind us. These helping spirits are what many cultures refer to as totems. But the practice of watching the natural world for signs, omens and other cues is one that spans both continents and millennia. In both ancient Britain and ancient Rome, the practice of watching nature and interpreting its signs was called "augury." It was believed that seeing a particular bird for example, flying a particular direction or behaving in a certain way meant something to the observer. Initiates were trained in the art of deciphering these signs, but I suspect that much of the information was also simply common knowledge, passed on from parent to child and carried through the generations that way.<br />
The world doesn't revolve around us. But I do believe that the natural world is constantly trying to get our attention. We live in fancy boxes, sheltered from interaction with the chain of animal life and the elements, but we are still a part of the earth and connected to every living creature upon it. A great way to tune in more deeply to the world around us is to try and discover what animal totems may be supporting you. A totem is not necessarily an individual being in the sense that say, my dog Lucy is. An animal totem is a spirit. It is the over-arching spirit of that particular species. So, for example, if one of my totems is Owl, it may be a particular type of owl, let's say barn owl. But the spirit that is my totem comprises all the wisdom, knowledge and experience of every barn owl that has lived. You can reach out to your totems in meditation or shamanic journeying <a data-cke-saved-href="http://www.amazon.com/Shamanic-Journeying-Beginners-Sandra-Ingerman/dp/1591799430" href="http://www.amazon.com/Shamanic-Journeying-Beginners-Sandra-Ingerman/dp/1591799430" target="_blank">(I recommend this book by Sandra Ingerman, it comes with a CD)</a>. And to learn more about augury, Ted Andrew's book <a data-cke-saved-href="http://www.amazon.com/Animal-Speak-Spiritual-Magical-Powers-Creatures/dp/0875420281/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1462127439&sr=1-1&keywords=ted+andrews+animal+speak" href="http://www.amazon.com/Animal-Speak-Spiritual-Magical-Powers-Creatures/dp/0875420281/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1462127439&sr=1-1&keywords=ted+andrews+animal+speak" target="_blank"><em>Animal Speak</em> i</a>s indispensable.<br /><br />You may have one main animal totem, or you may have several. I have found that animal guides tend to change throughout my life, but they seem to always be connected to you (so you can always "visit" with a past guide when you miss it or you feel you need it.) Some come to help you develop certain skills you need to accomplish something you're meant to do, or to help you learn a healthier way to be. The more you start to communicate with the natural world and explore getting to know your animal guides in spirit, the more strongly they will appear to you -- I can attest to that. You may dream of them, or they may appear right in front of you, like the owl I spotted near my backyard bird feeder in the middle of the afternoon. A good way to begin to search out your totem/s is to simply be more aware.<br /><br />Are you seeing a particular animal again and again, either on TV, posters, books etc? Are you drawn to a coffee mug or another material item in a shop with a particular animal on it? Do you feel like you're suddenly noticing images or pictures or items for sale everywhere with a particular animal on it? Has an animal come to you in a dream? This animal may be a totem.<br />
I got to know my first animal totem through a shamanic journey. Once that first step is made, there are lots of things you can do to support and strengthen your relationship. Donate money to the animal via a wilderness organization or give to support their habitat. Volunteer your time to help protect, care for or work with them. Purchase a small item to keep someplace special that reminds you of your totem so that you can keep the lines of communication open. You can also talk to them (via your mind) throughout the day, or think of them and send them feelings of love and warmth.<br /><br />And a word to the wise (and respectful!) - Once you know who your totems are, it's best to keep them to yourselves. Telling others about your totems depletes their power. It's a sacred relationship, and one meant to be kept between you and the spirit of the animal. Exceptions to the rule can be if you "ask" and feel it is ok, or to help teach others who are looking to connect with totems of their own.Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-19365137793255206982016-04-28T14:57:00.001-04:002016-04-28T15:35:42.340-04:00Life, Death, and Staying "Awake"<div class="MsoNormal">
Several days ago my husband and I were hit by a drunk driver. </div>
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We were coming home on a bridge from an evening concert when Eric looked up
just in time to see a pair of dark headlights coming at us head-on. The driver
was traveling the wrong direction, hurtling against three lanes of on-coming
traffic at 50 mph with no headlights at 11:30 at night. Eric swerved to the
right and instead of colliding with us, the car clipped
the side of our car, shearing off the rear door handle and kept on going. It was as if they hadn’t even seen
us. Didn’t even realize they had somehow gotten on the bridge heading the wrong
way. We were traveling 40 mph, they were traveling 50 – a fraction
of a second had been the only thing that stood between us and serious
hospitalization, but more likely, death. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We pulled over, shaken but somehow completely unhurt, and I
dialed 911 – there was no doubt in my mind that car was going to hit someone
else, and I knew we needed to get police on the scene as quickly as possible. While
I was on the phone with the dispatcher she told me there was another call
coming in – it seemed that the car had indeed struck another car after ours. We
were told we could go home if our car was drivable and submit a police report
in the morning. It was after midnight when we pulled into the driveway, still
dumbstruck over the close call. Asa had just woken up and was crying in his
crib. I thanked the babysitter and went in to hold him against me. He buried
his head against my chest and fell back asleep. I bent to breathe in the smell
of him. A fraction of a second nearly robbed my 11 month-old son of his mother.
His father. I was angry, humbled, relieved; I was in shock. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day we found out the person who hit us was dead. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The passengers of the other car involved in the fatal crash
were like us, somehow miraculously unhurt. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There were hours of police reports and insurance calls. In
front of me, the phone to my ear, I read off the driver’s name. Their driver’s
license number. They had recently had a birthday, their twenty-seventh. I
learned about their final hours, the hours that had preceded the crash, from
the officer who came to take our statement. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Obliterated,” he’d said. They’d been at a bar with friends,
and in just a few hours, it seemed, had managed to get “blind drunk.” The
driver’s parents were helpful. My heart cramped for them. I’ve gone about my
life because I can’t just stop, these past few weeks, and in my private time I’ve
been grappling with a snake’s nest of displaced anger, sorrow, and confusion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Brene Brown, an author and thinker I respect a great deal,
talks about empathy and compassion. She argues that it can help us get through
the muck and mire of life to understand (or in the very least tell ourselves)
that other people are doing their best. They’re doing the best they can. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been sitting with that. The driver who hit us, and
another car, who killed themselves (completely unintentionally, I now know): Were
they really doing the best they can? Or were they just surfing through life on
the surface, not thinking about things like consequences and the good fortune
we all have to be alive, not thinking about other people with babies who depend
on them, other people who want to think and breathe and live more deeply, who
want to survive so they can offer something to the world? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, I told you: anger. Someone lost their life, what right
do I have to judge? I almost lost mine. That gives me the right, the Grudge-Keeper
in me says. My child almost lost parents he hadn’t even built a memory of yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Does the soul choose the moment? Is this person’s death,
like some might say, part of God’s plan? Part of me wonders if we were
protected. Part of me reminds myself that I am not special. There are
mechanical physics and gravity and time to contend with. No one is special.
There is only the science of luck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know where this leaves things or why I had to share
it. I suppose that at the heart of this is the importance of being awake. It
feels right in my tribute, to them, these past two weeks, to re-commit myself
to being awake. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To share this moment from my corner of the world to remind
you to be awake too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Was the driver truly “awake” to their life? Were they doing
the best they knew how? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Know more</i>, I wish
I could say to them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m sorry. I’m so
sorry you lost your life</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know we all do
stupid things</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know we all make
mistakes</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to tell them these things now, wherever they might be,
whether they are in a place of knowing now, or just energy, or whether they are
just a piece of the earth’s story now, a ghost. But the reality of it all is
that the earth just ticks on and on. We move through our days, each approaching
the end of our own stories. They may leave us full of pity or sorrow, of
triumph or a sense of completion. But each story, no matter how it was lived,
or how it ends, is equally meaningful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-12364413768178772992016-03-31T12:38:00.003-04:002016-03-31T12:38:39.681-04:00Enchanted Destination: Fyvie Castle <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/AVvXsEhfT6C4OjaHZUBoawjK28KRdZdXOipRrbHkKmdZeQAINb-NiZT_1qiLce7zwEL89leOlEmHGxWtYM-NQyO5_s856V6A6-FTzF5PeyzzROr2eyey-iVeggRIcOlQU-8_RzGpP2ty3kBLzOU/s1600/fyvie+spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfT6C4OjaHZUBoawjK28KRdZdXOipRrbHkKmdZeQAINb-NiZT_1qiLce7zwEL89leOlEmHGxWtYM-NQyO5_s856V6A6-FTzF5PeyzzROr2eyey-iVeggRIcOlQU-8_RzGpP2ty3kBLzOU/s640/fyvie+spring.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fyvie Castle, Scotland (Photo: National Trust for Scotland)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Located in Aberdeenshire, this 800 year-old castle is steeped in mystery and haunted by rumors of a powerful curse.<br /><br />Legend has it that in the 13th century, famed laird Thomas the Rhymer roamed Scotland, traveling from court to court dazzling the people with his incredible gifts of prophesy. (It was said Thomas received his gift when he spent time under a hollow hill with the queen of the faeries.) Now these were days in which superstition yet ruled, and to offend a traveling bard or poet was a grave offense indeed. So when the Meldrum family of Fyvie heard that Thomas was making his way toward the palace, they sent a servant to thrust the gates open so that he would know he was welcome and take no offense. Though the servant did as he was told, a strong wind came and gusted the gates back on their hinges. When Thomas arrived and found the gates to Fyvie closed, he was furiously insulted. He lay a curse upon the home, swearing <span style="line-height: 1.6em;">that no firstborn son should ever survive to inherit the castle.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Interestingly enough, he mentioned that there was one way the curse could be broken: the family had to locate three sacred stones within the castle and return them to their rightful place. The stones were known to remain dry when all other stones were wet and weep water when all other stones were dry. The stones were never discovered. And for 700 years, until the castle was sold to the National Trust in 1984, the eldest males of the five families that owned Fyvie throughout history came to end after horrible end. Not a single male heir survived to inherit the family home. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: 16px;">What I find so interesting about this tale are the historical details - the "kernels of truth behind the legend."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">- In ancient times, Celtic bards like Thomas were an order of the druid caste. Often thought to have great powers of prophesy, they spent decades in training and then roamed the land seeking the patronage of kings. They were revered, respected and most of all, feared because it was believed their words held the power to bless as well as to curse.<br /> <br />- Thomas the Rhymer, also known as "True Thomas," is believed to have been a real historical figure. His given name was Thomas of Erceldoune, son of Thome Rymor of Erceldoune, and he is mentioned in two charters from the 13th century. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">- "Weeping stones" are a phenomenon I've witnessed - in neolithic tombs. West Kennet Long Barrow in Wiltshire, constructed around 3700 BC, has just such a stone. A wet rock, limestone I believe, has a place of prominence in the deepest chamber. I sat with my back to it and it soaked my jacket although all the other stones in the chamber were dry. A porous rock, limestone is thought to absorb water and when the humidity and temperature is right, release it again. <br /><br />If you're Scotland bound, Fyvie Castle is an enchanted destination not to be missed! </span></span></div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-35675209513789362702016-02-19T12:18:00.001-05:002016-02-19T12:22:09.704-05:00Enchant Your Life: Scattered Petals - An Offering From the Heart<h1 class="null" style="color: rgb(96, 96, 96) !important; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 40px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 50px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: black;"><span style="font-size: 24px;">Enchant Your Life: </span><span style="font-size: 24px;">Scattered Petals - An Offering from the Heart</span></span></h1>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJfOkWBumf2FPuCQON-PETEz6XhB1ciSmCndxrL8b1ZcoU2Y8LHb7Sj2Kgk8doVmcLK6hEx2qxPGdVv9xUMDXAmzMhXBYr1WrrzQrNriGkROAMR__rzqoa_ZoLhX9TpD2qxdtewDtJKY/s1600/6d7b7dcb-1fe6-40f8-bc17-6e581f4a1edf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJfOkWBumf2FPuCQON-PETEz6XhB1ciSmCndxrL8b1ZcoU2Y8LHb7Sj2Kgk8doVmcLK6hEx2qxPGdVv9xUMDXAmzMhXBYr1WrrzQrNriGkROAMR__rzqoa_ZoLhX9TpD2qxdtewDtJKY/s1600/6d7b7dcb-1fe6-40f8-bc17-6e581f4a1edf.jpg" /></span></a><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">Whether you've just moved into a new house or are simply seeking a deeper connection, scattering flower petals is one of the easiest ways to begin to forge a relationship with spirits in nature, especially with those in a place you visit often - think your own backyard!</span><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">It's an ancient tradition to leave offerings of flowers in sacred places - but my own practice was born from a healthy modern convention of convenience and a desire to connect. I love to fill my house with flowers, and buy fresh blooms to make bouquets a couple of times a month. It's a great way to bring the beauty of nature inside, and I find that they serve as constant reminders that life itself is an everyday miracle. I mean, stroke the velvet of a snowy-white rose petal and tell me that doesn't make you wonder at the utter genius that is mother nature! But as my roses began to fade, it always filled me with sadness. So I got into the habit of -- at the first sign of drooping-- plucking the petals and placing them in a basket or bowl to bring outside. I take a moment and step out onto the patio, take a few deep breaths and just relax, and I greet the yard. Just a mental greeting usually, or sometimes I'll reach up and gently touch my wind chimes to let them know I'm there. Almost always I can feel the atmosphere shift. It breezes with an awareness of sorts. I move about the yard, scattering the petals in places that I feel are specially charged, usually with the simplest but heartfelt thought: </span><em style="color: #606060; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">Hello. These are for you. Thank you just for being</em><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">. </span><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">Some people may differ on this, but personally, I don't feel it's necessary to speak out loud - in fact, for me, it diminishes my experience. After all, I don't hear nature spirits and other spiritual beings "speaking" to me in the physical world, I feel them in my heart or I "hear" them as a suggestion or thought in my own head. So to reply to them in the same way feels only natural.</span><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">The beautiful thing about this gesture is its simplicity. It only takes a few moments, but I always return inside feeling as though I've just had a meaningful connection or experience. If you decide to give this a try, be sure to listen. What do you hear? What do you feel? Often times when I'm out there the wind will pick up, but I'll notice it's only rustling the leaves in my yard. Sometimes I'll be startled by a particular bird fluttering close overhead. Magic abounds. I encourage you to give it a try and enjoy the deep sense of peace this can bring.</span><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><br style="color: #606060; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;" /><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;">And don't worry about the spirits seeing these sorts of offerings as "sloppy seconds!" The flowers have spent time in your home, where they've been admired and appreciated. Now they'll grace the dwellings of the spirits that frequent your yard. It's the message you carry with them that is the real offering. The gesture, the reaching out. Days will pass and my busy life will sometimes take hold -- but it only takes a momentary spotting of those scattered petals on the ground by my bird feeder to remind me that I am plugged in to the enchanted world that surrounds me -- just as we all are. It never fails to bring me back to that moment of quiet, heartfelt connection, and then the wind picks up, and I smile. </span></span>Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-76469042986753732142014-12-15T12:00:00.001-05:002014-12-15T14:35:21.971-05:00Clearing the Tree near Fairy Bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXVW46yrrmbA3DLcxLSxaxtdf-oBpCyNU8GQbxoApPiC7ax97jor1obBT1abdGSqJrr5tM-qbTtmFoUSwOLQVTogHxgrGXfzR5OXSm2jMO4L2Jijb6X4RSSEgZ8_diUL5dNp20UZz6YU/s1600/fairy+bridge+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXVW46yrrmbA3DLcxLSxaxtdf-oBpCyNU8GQbxoApPiC7ax97jor1obBT1abdGSqJrr5tM-qbTtmFoUSwOLQVTogHxgrGXfzR5OXSm2jMO4L2Jijb6X4RSSEgZ8_diUL5dNp20UZz6YU/s1600/fairy+bridge+.jpeg" /></a></div>
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Recently <i>The Manx Independent</i> published an article (<a href="http://www.iomtoday.co.im/news/isle-of-man-news/fairy-bridge-and-tree-cleared-of-clutter-1-7004645">"Fairy Bridge and Tree Cleared of Clutter</a>") about a man who's taken it upon himself to remove some of the bike helmets, plastic dolls, mirrors, scarves, necklaces, and many notes for deceased loved ones that had been in some cases stapled to the tree that sits beside the famous "fairy bridge" on the Castletown Rd.**</div>
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Those of you who read my book <i>Faery Tale</i> know of the beautiful places and people I connected with on the Isle of Man, and so, being such a fan of the incredible island, I like to keep up on the happenings there. People on Facebook (many of them Manx, from the feed I saw) were outraged.</div>
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While I can certainly understand the controversy, they could bear reminding that according to folklore, in ancient times if any thought to remove (or even so much as touch) a rag tied to a fairy tree, they were believed to risk taking on the illness left in hopes of curing by the petitioner - or in other cases, risk the wrath of the faeries themselves. So if this man's displeased the Good People, they needn't worry about justice and retribution, the faeries would take care of that.</div>
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<b>However, I'm not so sure the faeries would be displeased. </b><br />
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The man raised an excellent point, and it's one I've been wanting to write about for quite some time now.</div>
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<i>"'I’ve driven past it often, and thought that for a while now it was getting out of hand,' he said. 'I had a day off today, so I thought I’d just come down now and do it quickly.’ He admitted he wasn’t sure if he had the right to clean up the area, but felt that not everyone was comfortable with the state in which the landmark bridge had been left."</i></div>
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When I first began venturing to fairy sites I was touched and astounded by the sheer evidence of human pilgrimage to these sites (as I wrote about in the book). I found the things left behind to be novel, kitschy, fascinating. It was only in visiting site after site since the publication of my book that I began to understand just how serious the impact of "leaving offerings" can be. Things like bike helmets, plastic toys, sunglasses, figurines, laminated paper, metal, beads or glass should never be left behind. <b>As a result, some sites I've visited look more like landfills than they do sacred places. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaT9n_IvqGYBf0TbyoatN25hVIMLoR994vgRW7OFJD4LxnJo-7kqhWNkiCOQ03N-XbjuVLwOlj2Xgz3S1A1A0B8I_wcvdvjAo6Z1IdAfr0Q7fn8PyfFPDS6jk2K3Cg3ayO0RQiC5BZlc/s1600/man+fairy+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaT9n_IvqGYBf0TbyoatN25hVIMLoR994vgRW7OFJD4LxnJo-7kqhWNkiCOQ03N-XbjuVLwOlj2Xgz3S1A1A0B8I_wcvdvjAo6Z1IdAfr0Q7fn8PyfFPDS6jk2K3Cg3ayO0RQiC5BZlc/s1600/man+fairy+.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fairy Tree, Isle of Man</td></tr>
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Places that do it right are places like the Chalice Well, where even candle wax is scraped from the stones by volunteers careful to preserve the site's "unmarked by man" sense of purity. </div>
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Before I understood the impact, I was guilty of leaving things in places that didn't belong there - even though they were things like shells and natural stones I'd picked up on my journey to that place - leaving them behind was still a distraction to others who came to those places after me, seeking to have their own experience. Untainted by other "pilgrims" who'd visited before. <b>We have only to visit places like St. Nectan's Glen in Cornwall to see the sad and astonishing impact that "just leaving one special thing" can have on a sacred place in nature.</b></div>
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Sacred sites like stone circles, hut circles, raised burial mounds and ancient ring forts (aside from mostly belonging to governmentally-operated preservation societies, or in some cases farmers and other individuals who kindly let you trespass on their property to experience a site) do not belong to you. Or even me, as much as I'd like it. The people who truly act as guardians for these sites realize they belong to everybody.</div>
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It discouraged me to read in the same article that <i>"In 2009, Sonya Bowness, who lived at the Fairy Bridge cottage and owned the land on which the items were being left, grew exasperated as the popular tourist spot turned into an eyesore. However, her plans to have a visitors’ centre and a public access space built on land next to the bridge were denied." </i></div>
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Ms. Bowness was clearly only searching for a solution that would still allow visitors to leave objects while simultaneously preserving her own sanity! However, Tynwald is considering installing a letter box near the tree so that children and adults wanting to leave notes no longer feel the necessity to staple and otherwise affix them to the tree. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HPHulHpnthhrCRlG3CuOW0KmrO9kTBn6h4uqs4M2c9hckYvFGuAOfHi-z4JHkRe5IVAbEoHRBPeOJyFDo87j2688fxAvtDHecJFWgrL3Q2tfJLq9uKM6Yc_-tcMm0Y2_kNSa1IZFPJ4/s1600/wishing+tree+st+nectan's%2Bglen.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HPHulHpnthhrCRlG3CuOW0KmrO9kTBn6h4uqs4M2c9hckYvFGuAOfHi-z4JHkRe5IVAbEoHRBPeOJyFDo87j2688fxAvtDHecJFWgrL3Q2tfJLq9uKM6Yc_-tcMm0Y2_kNSa1IZFPJ4/s1600/wishing+tree+st+nectan's%2Bglen.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A"Wishing Tree," St. Nectan's Glen</td></tr>
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Some might argue that in many cases (like on Fairy Bridge on Isle of Man and in St. Nectan's Glen) these items have been left as a memorial to honor a loved one. Especially on Isle of Man, where many of the items were left by family members of bikers who died in motorcycle wrecks on the island. My heart goes out to them. </div>
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But I would say, if you want to make a shrine for a lost loved one, why not do it on your own property, where you can visit it daily and offer as many things as you'd like in remembrance? After all, their spirit isn't on the Isle of Man, it's much more likely with you, and the others who they loved during life. If you must leave something, leave an offering of flowers with a biodegradable string - these things go back to nature and it's the gesture, not the object, that carries the true meaning. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJs4gljKKTwWGKUzv03QkHuYsXGLsHdUoBDr6l1qewIrqMGFtVEzoaJT2SegsjOIqYYS2rsLlC6pVySuS55DUlie7gStKy0R6PmxRRiRBLL1m1PXrbLl6LwNGQZWgVIZUf08vxStjGuk/s1600/nectan's.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJs4gljKKTwWGKUzv03QkHuYsXGLsHdUoBDr6l1qewIrqMGFtVEzoaJT2SegsjOIqYYS2rsLlC6pVySuS55DUlie7gStKy0R6PmxRRiRBLL1m1PXrbLl6LwNGQZWgVIZUf08vxStjGuk/s1600/nectan's.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a few of the thousands of trinkets <br />
left behind in St. Nectan's Glen</td></tr>
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I've seen a lot of trinkets left behind in my travels to ancient and folkloric sites. But of all the memorial objects I've ever seen, the thing that effected me most powerfully was a simple bouquet of wildflowers left beside a forgotten burial mound in southern Scotland. It was impermanent, unintrusive, and an astonishingly beautiful anonymous gesture that said, <i>I honor. I remember. In this moment, I remember. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Just like our temporary, beautiful and impermanent lives, the inherent message was that this too shall fall into the ground and pass.<br />
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And that, if you ask me, is how it really should be. </div>
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**I know of two other fairy bridges on Isle of Man, one is the one I write about in the book, and the other is kept a close secret by only a few locals. That one I pray they will keep a secret, even from the likes of me. </div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-77292811484982395722014-12-09T11:55:00.003-05:002014-12-09T12:04:42.253-05:00An Easy Way to Help Animals in Zoos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As someone obsessed with animals, I -- like many -- have conflicted feelings about animals in captivity. My love for animals goes back many years - as a child I wanted nothing more in the world than to be a veterinarian, and then in my first year of college at George Washington University, I had my heart set on becoming an animal behaviorist. Unable to resist the call of my fascination for wild creatures, I would skip out on calculus class and take the metro to the National Zoo, where I would sit and make observations in a notebook about the resident orangutans. (I would not recommend this as a highway to success, but I did have some beautiful experiences with the animals over the course of that year. )</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While there can be no denying that good zoos often provide caring and stimulating homes for animals that, for a myriad of reasons, are no longer suited for or capable of having life in the wild, there are an equal (if not greater) number of zoos around the world that trade in illegal wildlife and treat animals abominably. In honor of Animal Rights Awareness Day, I wanted to share this powerful article by animal communicator Anna Breytenbach. I encourage you to take time to think about what you might be able to do to help wild animals today, whether it be donating time or even a small amount of money to your favorite organization. But Anna shares a technique you can use that doesn't cost a thing, and I invite you to try it the next time you find yourself facing an animal in captivity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"Seeing captive wildlife in zoos can be very upsetting for people who care about the distress the animals may feel. The vast majority of animals in zoos or recreation centres are living a miserable life of confinement and overwhelm. Unable to exercise their bodies or minds nor live a natural lifestyle with normal relationships, they suffer dire mental, physical and emotional consequences. When we witness these sad states, we can ourselves become upset, angry, sad or despairing. Unfortunately, us being in those states is not at all helpful to the very animals. If we indulge our emotional reactions and end up pouring those out in the direction of the animal, they feel so much worse about their situation and themselves. Feelings such as pity and anxiety add to an animal's stress, compounding the problem.<span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"></span><br style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 21px;"></span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Of course we need to be authentic in acknowledging our feelings. They can also be wonderful motivators of positive, productive action - inspiring great acts of support, assistance and transformation.<br />However, when we're in the presence of any animal in distress, it's important to adjust our thoughts and feelings in the moment. Here's a simple 4-step process to do that:</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>1. Take a moment to calm and quiet your mind. Even in a busy environment, simply closing your eyes and focusing on your regular breathing rhythm can achieve this quickly</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>2. Allow any unpleasant or unhelpful emotions and thoughts to leave you. One way is to visualise them running down and off your body like muddy water</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>3. Bring your attention to your heart centre and feel a sense of calmness</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>4. Think of positive or uplifting emotions and states of being - one at a time. For each one, feel like you are projecting that particular feeling towards the animal, imagining it landing upon them and wrapping them in the soft light of that particular energy</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Throughout these steps, contain and ground your own energy within yourself. This is a non-intrusive process aimed at supporting the animal without expecting any feedback or outcome. We're not trying to force anything upon the animal; we're simply offering energetic assistance by providing the kinds of frequencies they may not be call upon on their own due to their circumstances.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>By humans witnessing and caring in this way, animals feel appreciated and seen at a deeper level than the average person who only "sees" them visually and superficially. Most visitors to zoos put a camera lens between themselves and the animals they are supposedly there to experience. Far better to set aside all technology and distractions and simply engage with the animal directly with your full awareness. Even very distressed or depressed animals will sense your connection and compassion, and their experience of their day will be the better for it." </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">For more information on Anna and her company AnimalSpirit, visit <a href="http://www.animalspirit.org/">http://www.animalspirit.org/</a></span></div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-63402109292429148612014-11-25T12:35:00.002-05:002014-11-25T12:50:00.695-05:00Writers Are Very Busy Striving to Reach New Levels of Procrastination<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We love writing. We really do. Storytelling, whether it be fiction or non-fiction is an obsession, an art, an all-consuming devotion. For many authors, there is a part of them they'll tell you, that would shrivel up and die if they ever <i>didn't</i> write.<br />
<br />
And yet, writers will devise the most ridiculous excuses to avoid the writing chair; because it's hard, because we're worried we'll fail, because we're stuck, because we're feeling absolutely drained of energy, because we don't want to kill off a character, because we know how ugly this revision is going to be, or maybe because we just want to see how difficult we can make life for ourselves before we actually -- out of sheer desperation and a now <i>truly</i> terrifying deadline -- must finally turn to the task at hand.<br />
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To that end, I thought I'd share some of the ridiculous and <u>one-hundred percent true </u>things that I or my friends (some of whom are <span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">best-selling authors </span>with VERY SERIOUS DEADLINES - <i>you know who you are)</i> -- get up to, for some reason, when we're trying to avoid the very thing we love the best.<br />
<br />
I like to call this list:<br />
<br />
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Top Ten Asinine Ways to Avoid Writing Your Book</span></u></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQi7dgL-CGiGI8u1OkwYXpBfE0-OqwVw054MgLhx19FyUGECteLgM2m4B-EJwDMUXN9DNBC7Y2DgZtYAL5C1x9G-W1FJaqJ7C6bJ3nVo1fNeydrRijol0K6LlC6zyd6nT-Q0DgYycrx4E/s1600/cleaning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQi7dgL-CGiGI8u1OkwYXpBfE0-OqwVw054MgLhx19FyUGECteLgM2m4B-EJwDMUXN9DNBC7Y2DgZtYAL5C1x9G-W1FJaqJ7C6bJ3nVo1fNeydrRijol0K6LlC6zyd6nT-Q0DgYycrx4E/s1600/cleaning.jpg" height="320" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">1. Now is the perfect time to do laundry, renovate, clean, <br />paint, reorganize and redecorate the house.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bwC2JSTP7G8nSsaW7Xc6_NWjr1zS2GUPJEFGpYj47guIJgWfGw9cr6wWD7-s8a5n0W69DRJgAZnfZg2kAhm1yF_wz-2YGX_iJF2awu9J4jB0TkYz32wWWLXL1SVyVeizOqJGr1JHgCo/s1600/1875+Joseph+Caraud+(French%2Bpainter%2C%2B1821-1905)%2BThe%2BPet%2BCanaries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bwC2JSTP7G8nSsaW7Xc6_NWjr1zS2GUPJEFGpYj47guIJgWfGw9cr6wWD7-s8a5n0W69DRJgAZnfZg2kAhm1yF_wz-2YGX_iJF2awu9J4jB0TkYz32wWWLXL1SVyVeizOqJGr1JHgCo/s1600/1875+Joseph+Caraud+(French%2Bpainter%2C%2B1821-1905)%2BThe%2BPet%2BCanaries.jpg" height="400" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">2. Research the obtainment of a pet canary.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWkwjtS-Qf3VEdn4LKrbttSj12_cuSNFOp8KbFOHNTHowN-UdqtWBBhkCIJEUf3o0mRDFiIIVpqHSBtPH4_seyGVZKQcXui6IaT11ePoZ5mHkVY2ogZJg97DFrFPjxvG9v4pfiM9JGic/s1600/cottage+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWkwjtS-Qf3VEdn4LKrbttSj12_cuSNFOp8KbFOHNTHowN-UdqtWBBhkCIJEUf3o0mRDFiIIVpqHSBtPH4_seyGVZKQcXui6IaT11ePoZ5mHkVY2ogZJg97DFrFPjxvG9v4pfiM9JGic/s1600/cottage+1.jpg" height="252" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">3. Window-shop for cottage in Scottish Highlands you will never afford.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9NfRZ_paBV8Q3n3FIsyonS3GbBXGUvRJUPdRJPsULjnm9qy91nqKaqYp3rGIH8XG0_AJbsYS3pzLdVdQKD195ObpKtwPbjgij4ernJtTyHddBRck1ndY66sCTGCe3ggM4dbyAv7tdTR4/s1600/party+planning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9NfRZ_paBV8Q3n3FIsyonS3GbBXGUvRJUPdRJPsULjnm9qy91nqKaqYp3rGIH8XG0_AJbsYS3pzLdVdQKD195ObpKtwPbjgij4ernJtTyHddBRck1ndY66sCTGCe3ggM4dbyAv7tdTR4/s1600/party+planning.jpg" height="320" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">4. Plan a party, baby shower, or large scale event <br />that will require weeks of coordination, Or...<br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMBLpE2BDNHbfkPESQ9sLpNezzHCGwLGBi7mKqJBDJAo2lB6Io7E5WhtzFFxV5LJ2s01I_lZtzZvt_MLwYvGwiwtvgYPSqdWj4l30wZBlHxUrBt9U9_F2H8lHUU4BDYhjF32OCfdq6a4/s1600/tks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMBLpE2BDNHbfkPESQ9sLpNezzHCGwLGBi7mKqJBDJAo2lB6Io7E5WhtzFFxV5LJ2s01I_lZtzZvt_MLwYvGwiwtvgYPSqdWj4l30wZBlHxUrBt9U9_F2H8lHUU4BDYhjF32OCfdq6a4/s1600/tks.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">5. "I'll host Thanksgiving!"<br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Zx03ATETPYWaD3JkPmgjKWGAAPWa3773lpDrVWIJuBsgK441DxWOw-S0tkgyb04vjNtLNClrCZz47Ei5GpOFqMAS2jUiwsieZG-IZYdogtty6SPZoHR_E0JK8igrwR-4WvS4WLL7_84/s1600/GirlandDogReading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Zx03ATETPYWaD3JkPmgjKWGAAPWa3773lpDrVWIJuBsgK441DxWOw-S0tkgyb04vjNtLNClrCZz47Ei5GpOFqMAS2jUiwsieZG-IZYdogtty6SPZoHR_E0JK8igrwR-4WvS4WLL7_84/s1600/GirlandDogReading.jpg" height="400" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">6. Adopt a new dog.<br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDU0S97NtYOCcp7Vmtp-8-zEfWJsm1WzB-VfwEnRkWtGdfQJL7n5ETRzWvhWLXMIO6MmRfr-RjkJqhQK845N1Ld4CV43TH5TkzJckHgrGb4xrzMYHGcUKbMg8YPYqGnm8-WIfRlrxs1eo/s1600/fridge.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDU0S97NtYOCcp7Vmtp-8-zEfWJsm1WzB-VfwEnRkWtGdfQJL7n5ETRzWvhWLXMIO6MmRfr-RjkJqhQK845N1Ld4CV43TH5TkzJckHgrGb4xrzMYHGcUKbMg8YPYqGnm8-WIfRlrxs1eo/s1600/fridge.jpeg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">7. Go to the grocery store because, you tell your partner,<br />"Can't you see there's <i>nothing</i> to eat in the fridge?!"<br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxspjOyNAdKHcRStrgJi643zMxf7ibMSjPhu8r3sFBT3txfKuhjWmzr3r_RGVUhFghzDtPXpemeBPziw2Wlr3gCuUE_uBWsG-0fvygTlMesTG7MB_y6btodTHRx2pVOsgSvYe_mXjWk/s1600/friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxspjOyNAdKHcRStrgJi643zMxf7ibMSjPhu8r3sFBT3txfKuhjWmzr3r_RGVUhFghzDtPXpemeBPziw2Wlr3gCuUE_uBWsG-0fvygTlMesTG7MB_y6btodTHRx2pVOsgSvYe_mXjWk/s1600/friends.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">8. Invite your best friends for the weekend because "It's been </span><u style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">toooooo</u><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;"> long!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">9. Yard work. Because, you know, you've got friends and family coming. </span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8rQRm14FnUAh5BOvC8UXIvC20INpe_u-G_6tDphaaj5mlwVVPedMmexyjByvleZyl1V-bZS8L5jGemaOqKcZOAZCeEQ33F2EyGVg5IYMQKSjFdoSpkCxPNyQwyamNOpny1AFeT7IyD0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-11-25+at+12.27.07+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8rQRm14FnUAh5BOvC8UXIvC20INpe_u-G_6tDphaaj5mlwVVPedMmexyjByvleZyl1V-bZS8L5jGemaOqKcZOAZCeEQ33F2EyGVg5IYMQKSjFdoSpkCxPNyQwyamNOpny1AFeT7IyD0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-11-25+at+12.27.07+PM.png" height="232" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">10. Write a new blog post, maybe about procrastination, because that is productive. <br />It is </span><i style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">not</i><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;"> procrastination. </span></td></tr>
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These may not seem extreme to you, but that's okay, don't worry. We're always striving to best our last worst procrastination. I hope you'll share your stories about your best worst procrastination techniques - because I'm always looking to add to the ol' arsenal.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Signe Pike is the author of <i>Faery Tale: One Woman's Search for Enchantment in a Modern World</i>. She lives in Charleston, SC where she is currently *not* at work on a historical novel. Follow her on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Signe-Pike/234508256573658" target="_blank">Facebook</a> or visit her website at <a href="http://signepike.com/home/" target="_blank">www.signepike.com</a></span>Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-78591528937816745702014-11-24T20:03:00.000-05:002014-11-24T20:12:00.842-05:00A Real Encounter with Isle of Man's Land of the Unseen<strong style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">The Lady of Port e Vullen</strong><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"><span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-size: 16px;">by Signe Pike</span></span></span><br />
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<em style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">“Ten days on the Isle of Man. Now that I look back on it seemed as if the Isle of Man had beckoned from the middle of the Irish Sea…” – Faery Tale</em><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> It had been two years since I had first stepped foot on that mysterious island in the middle of that churning sea, a place of gods and Celts and Vikings, of castles and rushing glens and lonely circles of standing stones. It was a place where the events and the people I had met had seemed to unfold in such curious synchronicity, I had come to believe there was indeed a magic to this place, Isle of Man, the domain of mists that locals still believed could be summoned by the God of the Sea.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> In the years since I'd visited, the people who'd been fond acquaintances had read of my affection for them in my memoir and become good friends. My husband Eric and I were welcomed by Mike at the Adventure Centre with a warm hug and a pot of tea. My old room had been made up, cabin no. 7, and as we were walking the two miles back to the Centre with our arms full of groceries for the self-catering kitchen, Mike’s charming wife Ali spotted us on the road and insisted on giving us a lift. We were no longer strangers on a floating island. And it was in the car that she told us about Port e Vullen, the beach that could be reached if we only followed the lane from the Centre down hill, toward the sea. </span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> “But if you go,” she warned, “Be careful. The tides can be dangerous there, will come in, fast as anything. You can get stranded down there, with no way back to the path.” But being Ali, she told us the right time to go, and we headed out for a five p.m. walk, thankful for summer and the long stretched evenings of light.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> The path was marked by a sign. It wound through the thick-tufted grass of summer, past a few cottages with deeply shaded trees until it opened up into a winding dirt trail bordered by ferns that led along the coastal path. We followed it, delighting in the gusts of salt smell that blew up off the ocean, zipping our fleeces against the growing evening chill. The path tilted down the cliff side and soon enough we found ourselves emerging onto a rocky beach where the stones had been smoothed and polished by the battering of the ocean. Overhead, the cliffs towered. There were crags where you could tuck yourself away and disappear from view, as though you had slipped into some parallel realm where the gods and dark water-horses and the fair-people of the island still held sway.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> A flash of terracotta caught my eye and I bent to sift through the pebbles only to uncover an elaborate chunk of tile that looked like it dated from the Victorian era. A treasure! And then there was another. And another. I scooped them up eagerly, with abandon, feeling the flat cold weight of them as I stacked them in my hand.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> I felt I was meant to keep them. I placed them gently into a zippered pocket of my coat. It was then that I looked at the sheltered cove I had wandered into. It was a broad, scooped out hollow of beach enclosed by the crags of the cliff. It felt like a place between other places. Where one could get distracted by treasures and, as the tide swept in, be claimed by the sea.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> The sun moved behind a bank of clouds. And it occurred to me in some primal place of knowing that this, this place was not entirely a place of light. I felt a shiver trace though me.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> “The tide will be coming,” I said to my husband. “Don’t you think we’d better go?”</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> He straightened from his own bountiful treasure collecting and looked out to the sea. Nodded.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> Our fingers were tinged now with cold, but we left reluctantly, heavy-footed, as though we had stones in our boots. He was heading back up the cliff trail when I felt suddenly struck by a chord of whimsy. I had been studying the concept of genius loci lately for a new book: spirits of place. And as I turned to take one last look at the beach my eyes went to the cove. I should have known better than to ask. But I did not know better, and so I sent out a question from someplace near the center of my heart.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">Who is the Keeper of this place?</em><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> I wasn’t sure what to expect. I wasn’t expecting anything. But before I could even form such a thought an image of a woman seared through the eye of my brain, imprinting with a force that felt nearly solid, as though it were the type of illustration one would see in a book – an illustration crafted by someone with skill and with talent, like a dream that could turn to a nightmare, depending on the painter. She was standing at the cliff’s bottom. Her hair was black as a stallion’s mane and her skin was as pale as snow. Her eyes. Were they dark? And pupil-less? Or were they changeable, like a storm on the sea? She was looking at me. She was looking straight through me. Like so many flashes of spirit I’d seen, she was there, claiming that place. And yet there was not a soul to be seen on the shadowed pebbles of the beach.</span><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"><br /><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/AVvXsEg4o1E5bQU_INg8anj81MRIc2YhT1VIptarqva_WRMLWRPfVQe9_NcsXKaEx_o7AFPdEHDqVeJGfm-CPOPURs3TB_i3T4LsmA2dOlNPEYy2cW2CXPZLEihi19E6F1udobgiDZ_FsOUS4sg/s1600/lady+of+pev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4o1E5bQU_INg8anj81MRIc2YhT1VIptarqva_WRMLWRPfVQe9_NcsXKaEx_o7AFPdEHDqVeJGfm-CPOPURs3TB_i3T4LsmA2dOlNPEYy2cW2CXPZLEihi19E6F1udobgiDZ_FsOUS4sg/s1600/lady+of+pev.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo: <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, 'ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3', 'Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro', メイリオ, Meiryo, 'MS Pゴシック', arial, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">Zhang Jingna)</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> “Come on,” my husband said. “Let’s get back up the hill. Open that bottle of whisky.”</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> I blinked. The spell was broken.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> “Yes. I’m coming.” The thought of a single malt warmed the chill that had quite suddenly taken hold of me.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> The trees that had felt blissfully shaded now felt shadowed as we made our way up the hill but the air was fresh in our lungs and the stretch on our legs fell into a happy rhythm. At the top of the hill we stopped to take a picture of the two of us and the big, dark feather I’d found. My husband tucked a flower behind my ear. </span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> That evening passed as many had at the Adventure Centre – sitting out by the picnic tables with hot food and a honey-colored glass of good Scotch. We settled into our bunks, satiated and sluggish from a long day of travel and the air off the sea, Eric on the top bunk and me on the bottom one. Soon we drifted off to sleep, the door closed, but the small window near the sink left open to the summer sounds and a cool night in the fields nestled high above the sea.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> The dream, when it came… well. I hadn’t known I was dreaming.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> In fact, it was as though I was fully awake. Yes, I had woken up because I could hear the voices. I remembered now. I could feel my feet on the rough carpet of the floor. I was in the dark of the cabin. But it was as though I was outside, already, which was what they wanted, the voices. I knew because they kept calling me.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">Come outside. </em><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><em style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> Come outside. </em><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> They were eager, their voices soft but filled with a delight that hinted of abandon. Was there music, somewhere? Or was it that their voices sounded like the wind through the chimes, hollow and beautiful, beseeching me. Come outside.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> Why shouldn’t I?</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> It was a good idea, wasn’t it, just to listen, because they were lovely voices, weren’t they? Beautiful, and soft like a breeze in summer. They were urging me. Behind the hollow-throated chime of their voices was a promise. Come outside. And then what? Don’t think. It doesn’t matter. They were sweeping me like the sea, and wasn’t it so lovely to be swept away? The handle of the door glinted dimly silver in the night. I shifted my feet to stand.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> But something heavy kept me in my place. I couldn’t move. And still they called to me. Come outside.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> But now it was too late. I wasn’t sure how nice they were, after all. In the spell of my sleepiness I was realizing now that I did not </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">want</em><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> to go outside. It was cold outside, and I was in my bedclothes. I was tired from a long journey, and I had been fast asleep and I DID. NOT. WANT. TO. GO. OUTSIDE!</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> I woke when my head struck the metal of the bunk overhead. I opened my eyes for the first time. A dream. I had only been dreaming.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> The world was fuzzy without my contacts in, whereas before, only moments ago, I had seen the room so clearly. Where the chiming voices had filled my head, the only sound now was the soft-shifting snore from the man who slept on the thin mattress overhead. I had woken to find myself sitting swiveled out of bed, my feet on the rough carpet and my body turned toward the door. My mind may have been addled by sleep but it knew exactly what they’d been up to, and it wasn’t anything good.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">That’s not nice</em><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">, I thought, peevishly, like a child would scold a bully for snatching at their toy. </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">What you were doing wasn’t nice at all. </em><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">Because when we wake from dreams we sometimes have all the answers, and I knew just what had happened, what they were trying to do. And yet there were still questions that would haunt me, in the end.</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> How far might I have gotten, had I snuck from that bunk in the mist of sleep, through the unbolted door? </span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> To the driveway?</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> To the road?</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> To the cliffside that teetered along the bottom of the lane?</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;"> What dangers awaited a woman in the night?</span><br style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px; line-height: 20.7999992370605px;" /><span style="line-height: 20.7999992370605px;">Or if my body hadn’t woken me, would it have been worse if my spirit had taken flight? Out the open window, carried by the chiming voices down along the lane, where we could drift over the top of the ocean as if we had no bodies at all. To a place where a dark-haired woman waited, on the crescent-shaped hollow of a watery beach, far below the shelter of the glades. </span></span></span>Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-36910987148131782782014-10-29T12:44:00.002-04:002014-10-29T13:09:59.672-04:00The Magic of Creativity<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/AVvXsEhA6KSfmN4QWJA3gg0MUVOxkq-scwvs_WCsDCFI7Wekk9DNUQTYKrH3VPS9k-tBwWCz9zy25XwUgMIGv2_xfkS58dBxgQB0byxbRRtX0TeupRXYSefhRQ3p9vXQ4Pg5rJws6o2VDXwIQHg/s1600/sarah+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6KSfmN4QWJA3gg0MUVOxkq-scwvs_WCsDCFI7Wekk9DNUQTYKrH3VPS9k-tBwWCz9zy25XwUgMIGv2_xfkS58dBxgQB0byxbRRtX0TeupRXYSefhRQ3p9vXQ4Pg5rJws6o2VDXwIQHg/s1600/sarah+1.jpeg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend Sarah Class</td></tr>
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Twilight yesterday found me on the phone with Sarah Class, my brilliant friend who also happens to be one of the most talented composers, musicians and singer-songwriters I know. <a href="http://sarahclass.com/the-music/" target="_blank">(A lot of superlatives, but you have only to visit her space on the web to see what I mean. Click here to listen to "Aurora, Cantamos", the chorus of "Northern Shore" or any of her other works - I invite you to be blown away.)</a><br />
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Sarah is British, and I've spent a lot of time with her across the pond sitting by rushing rivers, in stone circles, and under enchanted apple trees as she picks out melodies on her guitar. Last night we got to speaking about creativity, as we often do. One of the things I love best is sitting in the company of musicians and watching them play. Sarah doesn't know it, but when she's seeking the muse, I watch her tilt her pretty blond head slightly, as though she is listening. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXobNRISdn38QTtPRKbPkMo4rOXIIdaY5MbmIC-1AroWulTJRgDlcg5P794GIk-Oi5xydQKbLnlOKZCXXsHO7qb5-5xbauoQnnXJpFRRI4ClceHPSVXBMqCvBocyUoevoxlyt5wndInjo/s1600/sarah+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXobNRISdn38QTtPRKbPkMo4rOXIIdaY5MbmIC-1AroWulTJRgDlcg5P794GIk-Oi5xydQKbLnlOKZCXXsHO7qb5-5xbauoQnnXJpFRRI4ClceHPSVXBMqCvBocyUoevoxlyt5wndInjo/s1600/sarah+2.jpeg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah in Costa Rica</td></tr>
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It is as though the artist is a vessel, able to hear and then translate using their particular skills, something that is coming through them. A song. A story. A painting. And to me this process truly helps me believe that there is indeed something beyond our imagining that exists "on the other side." </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It got us talking about the fact that creating is really a form of channeling. I'm sure there are writers out there who believe that their work is purely their own, and while that may be the case for them, but I can't help but find that a little egotistical. I have not yet created anything that I didn't feel was given to me by something beyond myself. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Does that make sense? </div>
<div>
When writing <i>Faery Tale</i> I felt as though there was someone standing over my shoulder. Sometimes at night, the presence grew so strong that on my second pot of coffee at three in the morning paranoia took over and I had to ask them quite crossly how did they expect me to get anything done with all this hovering?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Where do ideas come from? </div>
<div>
Where do haunting melodies come from? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Some might argue they come from our brains, but for me, brain is for the revision process, not the process of raw creation. The best art comes when we're able to quiet the brain and see through the heart. We see, we hear, we listen. It's that bright spark that has an emotional pull behind it that reminds us of the soul behind it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Even as I struggle to birth this historical novel, I remind myself that I am only, after all, struggling to listen. If I could not work with the muse, with my "partners in spirit," I would have no desire to write at all. Because to create in this way is truly to live a magical existence. There is something, or perhaps someone(s) that lays the path before me - a book that catches my eye, a story in the news. A feather. A phone call. I follow the clues. I shut the door. I sit, and I listen. And I wait. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sarah is one of those people who reminds me that I've touched that magic before and I can access it again, and for that I am eternally grateful. I wanted to share our conversation because I believe, if you are trying to create something, this idea helps take some of the pressure off. Yes, you must work to hone your physical skills, your tools. You cannot sit and expect to play a concerto if you have never touched the keys. But the largest part of it is opening that pathway wherein the magic rushes in. And to be grateful for it. And to share that with the world, that is the greatest honor - so that something is translated from spirit. And others can feel it too. </div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-4544471050546381862014-06-22T09:11:00.000-04:002014-06-22T09:39:18.971-04:00Sharing the Light<div class="MsoNormal">
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I was traveling on a small commuter plane from Charleston to
Ithaca. I was reading a transcription of my Grandmother Johanson’s memories –
life growing up in rural Michigan as a Finnish immigrant family during the
First World War. She was a beautiful
writer with a candid sense of humor. She writes about snaring snowshoe hares to
eat and skiing to school; about catching messes of perch on early morning
fishing trips using nothing more than harvested sticks, line, cork and worms. The
life she writes about was hard, but possessed a sort of timeless innocence that
whole food hipsters and back-to-nature aficionados like me are searching for, and as I
read her notes about a life lived and the people she encountered, I couldn’t
help but think, <i>People were kinder then</i>.</div>
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That was the moment when it happened. I noticed a very
elderly man in the aisle, leaning unnaturally across the passenger seated
across from me. He was bent over at the waist and I couldn’t hear over the roar
of the plane engines but something seemed to be very wrong. He took another
step and collapsed onto the seat of a black woman I’d noticed before, because
she just seemed to emanate good vibes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s
the one who notices something is wrong, and I see her concern when she asks
him, alarmed, “Are you okay?” He couldn’t respond. Immediately she signaled the
flight attendant, who had already noticed something was not right. Calls went
up into the cabin. “Are there any medical professionals on board?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two women and an older man had already leapt from their
seats and were standing in the aisle. “I’m a nurse.” The black woman said. “I’m
a doctor,” the older man volunteered. I sat there, helpless. And after a
moment, with nothing else useful to do, began to pray for him. The sort of
non-denominational prayer that answers every religion and every human
condition. The atmosphere on the plane was charged; everyone was focused on
this elderly man, and it was almost as though I could hear the silent voices, each
speaking prayers of their own. The flight attendant stepped aside and the
professionals got to work. They took his vitals, steadied him, their soothing
tones sounding like a soft hum over the vibration of the plane. They helped him
slowly back to his seat. A few tense moments passed. The nurse came back to her
seat and told us that all was okay – standing too quickly and moving around at
high altitudes can cause marked dizziness, especially with elderly people who
may have other health conditions. He was resting after his collapse, and
already seemed to be recovering. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was struck by the kindness I saw. It was such a small
moment, and such a scary one. People acted so quickly when it looked like
things were dire, and I remembered how many times in my life I had actually
seen this. People, when tested, stepping into the bigger parts of themselves,
reaching out to help another. There are a lot of scary things happening out
there now. Shootings and mugging and robbery and drug smuggling and war and
human trafficking and name it, it’s there. But reflecting on my Grandmother’s
life made me reflect on mine. As I sat there, the memories of all the random
kindness witnessed fluttered before me. A businessman in New York stopping to
help a bewildered tourist studying a map. The old Russian woman who paid a
young mother’s bus fare. The time a taxi driver dropped off my forgotten
wallet, not a penny misplaced inside. All the doors I’ve seen men in Charleston
hold open for anyone – man, woman, child, black, white. So many infinitesimal
moments that they are uncountable, unrecordable. And I remembered what I have
always known. When there is darkness, there is always light. In every age and
every place on the planet there are kind people and unkind people in varying
degrees. The injustices, the un-niceties clamor louder in our memories. The
kindnesses speak more quietly. They don’t mind if no one hears, because true
kindness is not something that demands a witness. It is something that exists
independent of noticing, from a place that is eternal, from a place that sparks
within us, if and when we allow it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is a jumbled memento. But what I saw was beautiful, and
I wanted to share it. It was a welcome reminder that though there is darkness,
I do believe humanity is inherently good. It reaffirmed my commitment to embody
a light, even in the smallest ways, even when I am not always perfect at it, or
not always in the mood. Because today I chose to be a witness. And I felt the
warmth of the light. It inspired me to write about it, to thank and recognize
all of you out there who take opportunities to be kind. And in the hopes that
sharing what I witnessed would pass a beam of light to you. That you might go
out into the world, today, tomorrow, or the next, and share some kindness of
your own. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: right;">
<i style="text-align: center;"><span class="s1">“From </span>this experience, a faith arises to carry back to a human world of small lusts and deceitful pettiness. A faith, naïve and child like perhaps, born as it is from the infinite simplicity of nature. </i><i style="text-align: center;">It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.” </i><i style="text-align: center;">- Sylvia Plath</i></h3>
</div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-34154832554221509492014-05-04T22:25:00.000-04:002014-05-04T22:25:11.942-04:00The Enchanting Monthly Newsletter
<div class="p1">
For a long time I've been wanting to create a more intimate way to connect with those of you who have become such loyal friends and readers. That's why I'm so excited to have finally breathed a truly unique newsletter into being. Each month I'll be sharing an inspirational quote, news, sneak peeks of my current writing or things I've secreted away, as well as photos from the road, tips on living an enchanted life, favorite recipes and a monthly oracle forecast. It's the beat on all things enchanting, from someone who believes that living an "enchanted" existence is truly what life is about. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Also. I want to thank all of you who gave me such great responses on the weekly forecasts I've been doing on this blog. I hope you'll be able to get just as much out of the new monthly format. Moving to a monthly rather than a weekly reading gives me the time I need to focus on my writing, publishing conferences, teaching workshops, freelance editing and all the other stuff I have to get up to during the week.</div>
<div class="p3">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
This newsletter will be a place where enchantment lives. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
If you'd like to sign up, <a href="http://eepurl.com/oC4QH" target="_blank">click here.</a> </div>
<div>
<br />
As always,<br />
Signe</div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-27350444568705210602014-01-28T15:49:00.003-05:002014-01-28T22:53:45.778-05:00How to Weather a Storm<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/AVvXsEhY0BRQxQniPXrjoSZBq4B5FizF85fSTHqIZVxJfBp-SwofzrJxY2pPlYF_DKH7ChYlcn0SihKkAS6oz5ztjz78QTrlhgZUL9uItwxGAOLt_OyzDfnPrAONabTTlMir_77uNITYx_j9UsA/s1600/740283_10151424504734772_199094150_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY0BRQxQniPXrjoSZBq4B5FizF85fSTHqIZVxJfBp-SwofzrJxY2pPlYF_DKH7ChYlcn0SihKkAS6oz5ztjz78QTrlhgZUL9uItwxGAOLt_OyzDfnPrAONabTTlMir_77uNITYx_j9UsA/s1600/740283_10151424504734772_199094150_o.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cherry blossoms in winter<br />
copyright: Signe Pike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today was the first real test for the small ceramic heater –
it took ages for my little shed to heat despite the insulation, and there I sat in
my wool socks and sweater and slippers, the grey mohair blanket given to me by
a friend wrapped overtop of everything as the heater roared full blast, my
computer open on my lap, waiting for the storm to come, and feeling more
content than ever to simply write. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here
in the south, our media highways have been cluttered with news of the impending
ice storm. Potential loss of
electricity and stores sold out of firewood, and I realized that despite any
danger, for me there is always something exciting about a storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the preparations, the battening
down of hatches, the heaviness you can feel in the air and the utter quiet that
falls over our yards and snakes out into the streets, chasing people inside
because nature, no matter how much dominion some people think we possess, is
still the supreme ruler here on earth, and I never cease to be awed by her
power. Good. Make us scuttle, make us scurry. Remind us of the fact that this
is not a democracy. Of course I never want to see anyone come to harm. But I
think storms can be good; they remind us of our humility. Our humanity. They
remind us, when we survive them, of our good fortune—which I think far too
often evaporates as quickly as the storm fell upon us, with the appearance of
the first sunny sky.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Storms
come into our life because things are beyond our control, and there is a peace
in that, if you can find it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
past week I mourned the loss of my uncle, a man who was by far my most exacting
critic and somehow also my biggest fan. I spent the better part of a week in
Maryland helping sort his affairs, because when people go, there is so much
doing that needs to get done, and in the quiet moments you lean against
something and breathe, and feel your heart crack all over again. Sometimes I
feel defeated by it – my aunt, my father’s only sibling, has now lost her
husband, and she is terminal too. My heart breaks for her, but not just for
her, for everyone who has lost someone, because I have learned too many times
in my relatively young life what it feels like to lose someone you love, and knowing
that this sort of heartbreak is both unavoidable and in its own way, pandemic,
feels like too much to bear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
as I sat waiting for the first pounding of sleet to streak down my windows, I
realized that these too are storms. There is nothing to control or battle. All
you can do is weather it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
good friend once told me it is an honor to be present with someone at the end
of their days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have come to see that though this is hard, it is true. We can pray for safe
passage, we can pray for protection, we can pray for the coming light. But
perhaps if we do only these things, we are missing the point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Can
we learn to honor the storm? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
can prepare, but can we find a way to embrace it, because of what it brings to
us? It is a reminder that life is fleeting and uncertain. And there is beauty
in that. Storms remind us that there are powers on this earth we will never
conquer, nor should we. This is not the natural order of things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
are stewards, not rulers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
it is the same on earth as it is within our bodies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
week, when I came back to myself, I found I was sitting before my computer,
waiting for the storm to come, but I was not afraid. The manuscript that had
felt daunting instead tasted delicate, it smelled like home. There was a new
comfort in both the words and the feeling of sitting, of channeling and asking
the scenes to come, and I thought, if this is what I spend my hours doing, my
life has been good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
know as the planet groans and shifts we will face many storms ahead, both real
and metaphorical. What we must remember, I think, is to do our best in the
times in between. Live well, love hard, and offer others pieces of your heart
in a thousand ways. That way when storms do come, we can bide them more easily.
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pay
homage to the power of wind, water and atmosphere, be grateful for what we
have. And in the heart of winter, a good book, glass of wine, a hot mug of
ginger root with lemon, or a game of Scrabble by the fire never hurts too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-82294115888206237142014-01-15T02:09:00.001-05:002014-01-15T02:13:39.832-05:00At Home in Winter: For My Father, on His BirthdayIt doesn't get much easier, but doing things to remember them is the important thing.<br />
Below is a video I was up into the wee hours making, and it did help ease the heart.<br />
I hope you'll watch it, because this is not just his life, this is all of our lives. We are born and we live and we pass, and every moment is beautiful.<br />
<br />
At Home in Winter:<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">A Poem for my Father</span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
At home, snowy-patched fields are stitched </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with spines of leafless trees,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the memory of summer </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
asleep in their mounds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here where the fist of some long-weathered god </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
thrust his hand through the crusted earth,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
where fingers played in pressed thumbs </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or clawed their way South </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
leaving frost covered pools,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
half-frozen green lakes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon, when you rise, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the world will be covered in snow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are places in the woods </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
where the thin deer </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
bed </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
under low brambles of a thorn tree, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
where white-tipped foxes burrow </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in red-berried thickets, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
where the water trickles</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
icy channels between rock and stream, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the fissures of shale that splintered up inside you </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
can sense these things, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but they have no name. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here the houses haven’t closed in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is room enough to walk and breathe, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and to listen to the way the pines creak </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on the backbone of the hill, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
because there is no port on an inland sea. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here the lady of the water drew her slender fingers down, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
carving places where you can still cast your wishes,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
where you can cast your wishes away and forget them,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the way a sorrow is lost in the papery fold of a
wrinkle,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the way that the hills lie naked in winter, </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
in the places where the sun does not reach. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright: Signe Pike</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyFNDipsLyBvJ9DIowSnDi-K3xihgwgzVcqPKS7d9B3QcFct34jv75A1jEEjuNiroQZUrTsfi-3AtfcQ_DjRA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-13303476235050795002013-09-21T13:22:00.002-04:002013-09-21T13:22:36.574-04:00The Words We Leave BehindI've been traveling all summer - researching the novel, giving talks for work, visiting family, exploring, seeking enchantment, and finding always new places always to knit myself into that begin to feel like a part of home. But there is simply no substitute for the place where I grew up - these fields and farms and gently humped hills of upstate New York, where the leaves are beginning to turn, the golden rod bends on long stalks in the wind, the bend of the road I have come to know so well. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My view from the computer, Cooperstown, NY</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was a blink of a trip to Ithaca on the way to a wedding in Cooperstown, but home never ceases to bring me close again to my father. It's as though his power is stronger here, in these hills he loved so well, and he whispers close to let me know, <i>I am here, always</i>, in ways that are both small and glorious. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backroads of the Finger Lakes, wine country</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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In my sister's old bedroom, this book caught my eye on the shelf among nearly one hundred others - T.S. Eliot's Collected Poems, and I pulled it from the shelf only to flip through and find my father's precise markings in pencil, where he'd pondered over the meaning of the words, such a very smart man, would that I had one hundredth of his literary know-how. His fingers on the page, the smudge of time and the lead of a number 7, the words he left behind, the words that Eliot left behind, and just seeing it all, there on a page that I could touch, run my fingers over, touching so many imprints in time. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Later, I fancied my father reminded me where the fresh water spring was, on the winding 79 east - it's on the side of the road in Lisle and if you blink, you'll miss it, but it has white pvc pipes that spout the cleanest, coldest water, and I filled my water bottle from the car just like we always did. </div>
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He was there in Cooperstown last night, when I walked out of the restaurant, and felt that nudge that let me know I'd forgotten my leather coat hanging on the wall. Smiling, I mentioned it to my husband, "I felt like Dad reminded me," and we stepped onto the sidewalk only to see a giant turkey feather decorating the front window of a nearby car - agreement. </div>
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Tomorrow will find me heading back south to the land of the salt marsh and pines, to the lowcountry that has claimed a part of me, too, but I realize as I write on the back porch of this hotel, over looking the farm country that my eyes have come to know so well, that I have words, too, I want to leave behind. Finding that book was just a little gift, a reminder. We are all here, we all leave our fingerprints for others to discover. And it's the discovery of it, truly, that is the greatest gift of all. </div>
Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-31706217257309132392013-08-30T12:25:00.003-04:002013-08-30T12:26:09.984-04:00Seamus Heaney<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I am heavy-hearted this morning, hearing about the loss of one of the world's greatest poets. I hope you are drinking from a bright cup, Mr. Seamus Heaney. A snippet from a beautiful poem of his about being in the world and the fragility, the impermanence of it all. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Blackberry Picking, by Seamus Heaney</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"Late August, given heavy rain and sun</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">At first, just one, a glossy purple clot</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Among o</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">thers, red, green, hard as a knot.<br />You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet<br />Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it<br />Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for<br />Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger<br />Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots<br />Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.<br />[...] Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not."</span></span>Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-80096028872249166392013-08-06T12:50:00.000-04:002013-08-06T12:51:57.680-04:00Question & Answer: Young Reader's Brother Inadvertently Offends FaeryThe question that came over Twitter: "Help me...I need to apologize to the faeries for my brother - there was a fairy trying to get to me and he kicked it away. So how do I tell them I'm sorry? He doesn't know faeries exist and I don't want to tell him they do cause he would be laughing at me."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Connecting with my favorite Apple Tree<br />
Chalice Well Gardens, England</td></tr>
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First of all, brothers can be the worst. You have my sympathies, friend. Siblings in general, especially when we are young, know exactly what ticks us off and are supreme experts at general harassment conducted for the sheer enjoyment of one person alone: themselves. This is also what, when you're older, makes siblings most lovable, and as a bonus it will also provide lots of moments of laughter when you get together years down the road. As in, "Remember that time you kicked my feet out from under me after you had convinced me to put my arms into the sides of my overalls, and promised, 'I will catch you.'?" This might have happened to me. But now we can laugh about it. And there is something special about being the sole focus of another person's attention in life, even if it is only so they can see when you're not looking and steal part of your dinner.<br />
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In the earnest quest to relate to the spirits of nature, respect is the number one quality that is needed. Luckily, you are the one looking to connect with faeries, not your sometimes evil brother! : -) And it sounds like you are very kind and respectful. You can only control your actions, and I can assure you that the faeries don't blame you for anything your brother might do. Your problem brings up an issue with "faery-hunting" that I too have encountered. It is better to seek to relate to faeries or nature spirits when you are alone. Other people, especially the sorts of skeptics who are not so keen on being respectful of other people's beliefs, can really put a damper on your ability to reach out and have an experience. You might find it helpful to carry out some of your faery investigations like an undercover detective. That's what I often do. Try to find some quiet time in the outdoors alone, bring a book, perhaps, as your "foil" - if anyone sees you, they'll think you're just outside reading. But really, you can be sitting there and with your mind, reaching out to the faeries. Talk to them about whatever is on your mind. Leave them a little gift somewhere - a daisy chain you've made, a feather, a sea shell, or some fruit, a little chocolate, or cheese. Tell them that you love them and appreciate everything they're doing to support our beautiful planet. This will help you connect in no time. And you can make an apology for your brother if you like by simply telling them that you're sorry he kicked at them. But these sorts of things happen to faeries all the time, and they understand that some humans are more interested in having a relationship with them than others.<br />
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And this is totally okay.<br />
Everyone needs the freedom to come to their unique spiritual beliefs in their own time. What we believe in is sacred - whatever it is, so long as it is about being kind, and good, and makes us try to be better people. And there are many people who don't even believe that. Whether you decide to share your beliefs with your brother or not, know that it's okay if people don't believe the same things you do. He will probably make fun of you. And find new ways to pick on you. So in this case, yes, it might be best to keep your mission of relating to the faery world to yourself when it comes to Brother. But all you can do is find your own way by relating to the world in the way that you feel is good, and right. That's all that counts. That's what the spirit world, whatever it is filled with, be it God or gods, faeries, tree spirits or ghosts or whatever it may be, will notice.<br />
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It is then, that your adventures will truly begin!<br />
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Wishing you every enchantment,<br />
Signe<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finding feathers in Munich, Germany</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out with the spirits of the River Teign<br />
Devon, England</td></tr>
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<br />Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-30673843346474628952013-06-14T07:42:00.002-04:002013-06-14T07:42:33.146-04:00Devon's Magical Places: Dispatches from the RoadMaking your way along the narrow path that twists through the rugged moor, you'd never expect to find a hidden oasis of lush green oaks: perhaps that's what makes Wistman's Wood so special, the fact that these ancient twisted trees have threaded themselves into the valley crag at all, withstanding long months of whipping wind and lashing weather. Or perhaps what makes Wistman's Wood feel so special, is the fact that it has been a special place for thousands of years. <br /><br />While the majority of moss-covered oaks you'll see today seem to be only 400 - 500 years old (still nothing to sneeze at), legend has it that Wistman's Wood was an ancient sacred grove of the Druids, who would have been pushed into Wales and Cornwall in the 6th and 7th centuries by the encroaching Angles and Saxons in this area of Dartmoor. So if folk memory dictates that it did belong to the Druids, (or simply, the people living here who would have practiced the old ways of the Celtic religion) the trees we see now would be descendants of the original grove that existed then. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Embarking on our journey</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wistman's Wood<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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We know visitors to the wood in the 1620's found it looking much as it does today - a stunted grove of mainly oak trees, but including rowan, holly, and willow trees as well, covered in a thick green carpet of moss. And it is still just as magical. I traveled there with my beautiful friend Sarah Class, a talented composer, her most recent project being the complete musical score for BBC's "Africa" documentary narrated by Sir David Attenborough. She's also a singer-wongwriter who writes lovely music about nature and love and worldly things, and I think, if all is right with the world, we ought to be hearing her on the radio soon, because she deserves it. The walk to the wood takes you through the moors, this time of year bursting with yellow sprays of prickly gorse, and up over a hill until you start to stumble over ancient hut circles. These date from the neolithic, so that's pre- 2500 BC, and there are over 100 of them surrounding the wood. If you visit, I would highly recommend spending some time in one of the old stone foundations. The atmosphere is kind and incredibly peaceful, and perhaps you'll even encounter a voice from the past who will guide you through the wood. <div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A carved neolithic stone now lies recumbent near a hut circle by Wistman's Wood<br /></td></tr>
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If you're lucky, they might even lead you to the Druid Stone, one of the only remaining standing stones on the eastern side of the wood, which when I found it was sheltering a mama and baby sheep. There are no paths through the wood, and some websites warned that the woods are home to dozens of Adders, poisonous black snakes that in late spring and summer will be sunning themselves on the rocks - but I didn't see anything and never felt a moment of danger. I did pick my steps carefully, and in any case, you want to avoid trodding on the moss and destroying the look of the boulders that are littered throughout the woods. Sarah and I quickly separated to explore each on our own and time slipped away. Before I knew it, I had been quietly sitting on a rock for nearly two hours, though it felt like only one long moment. The quiet of the wood, punctuated only by the occasional footsteps of another explorer or trilling of bird song, lulls you into such a deep and meditative state. I imagine the atmosphere could feel quite wild at nighttime, though I must say, I didn't have the urge to find out. I was stirred from my quiet space by an eerie feeling after a long while, which made me uncomfortable enough that I stood and made my way to find my long lost Sarah toward the river that runs at the foot of the sloping hill. </div>
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There's likely a reason the wood may derive its name from "wisht" meaning spirit, or "Haunted Wood." </div>
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Thanks for the recommendation to visit, which came from several readers. I had a wonderful experience there and thought of you all. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finding feathers</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The name "Wisman's" may also derive from "Waele"-man's Wood, which is what the Anglo-saxons called it. "Waele" means foreigners, their names (ironically) for the Celts whose home in Britain they were invading. (Don't quote me on the spelling, I read it in an old but reliable book on Dartmoor while I was there, and I'm no Anglo-saxon language aficionado!) The root name is where the country of "Wales" gets its name. Land of the Foreigners. According to the Angles, because that's where they pushed them to. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Witman's Wood, an oasis of green on the thirsty, windswept moor. </td></tr>
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Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-16118748800167479362013-05-02T14:22:00.000-04:002013-05-02T14:22:24.105-04:00The Writing Cottage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This morning I sat on a pile of pillows and wrote my first journal entry from inside the NEWLY RENOVATED SHED. (Which a friend kindly suggested I begin calling "The Writing Cottage.") While that certainly sounds more dignified, I'm not sure Eric and I will ever be able to call it anything other than "The Shed." I owe a huge thank you to my husband - speaking of Eric - who not only agreed to the renovation, but also painted the walls for me, the floor for me (2 laborious coats) and then assembled my desk for me, after it took me nearly two hours to just assemble the drawers. Incidentally, we have decided to launch a lawsuit against the people who okayed the phrase "Some assembly required."<br />
Ladies, if there exists a better definition for the term "knight in shining armor," I don't know what it might be. <br />
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When I was a little girl, my room was a cluttered mess of stuffed animals, toys, books, rumpled clothing and paper that stretched from wall-to-wall. I can still remember the dark gray afternoon, humid with thunderstorms in the lazy stretch of summer, when I decided I was going to clean out my closet and make it my very own special hiding place. It was probably only 2' by 3', but after a long days work I had managed to dump everything out of it and clear out a place big enough for a stool and a lamp. Inside the closet, with the door closed, I sat cozy and dry in the cheery light of the lamp reading <i>A Wrinkle in Time</i>. When I was fourteen and began to get interested in things like writing and Runes and meditation, I can remember closing my eyes and wishing, from a quiet place inside myself, that someday I would have a room of my own, just like Virginia Woolf had written of, a room to dedicate solely to the pursuits that mattered most; a room that could be kept pure from the pain, clatter and clutter of every day life, a room just for me, with a lock and a key and cushions on the floor.<br />
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I turned the knob and swung the door of my room open this morning. I lit a stick of incense and sat on the cushions, looking out the window at the thick trunk of the Longleaf Pine, the tender shoots of Canna lily rising from their bed of pine straw and heard the clear call of a cardinal. I felt an unusually cool May morning breeze blow in through the screens, rustling the leaves of the wax myrtle. I could feel images from my new book beginning to usher themselves in, I could feel the possibility of it all. And I cried a little (hence no video tour, as my friend Alex Bledsoe had suggested. I was far too emotional!). Because all I could think of was that wishes really do come true.<br />
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They do, they do, I promise you.<br />
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We may not know exactly how we will get there, but the magic is in trusting that someday, it will come to pass. Our only jobs are to be good and kind, trust, and then let the rest go. Someday, when our wish has almost been forgotten, you may move to a house in a suburban neighborhood in a new land, and you see it has a dilapidated old garden shed...<br />
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I'm so excited to share some pictures with all of you. Not just because you have read my story and become a friend, (or are already a friend or family member) but because I want to share with you this feeling of possibility.<br />
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Believe.<br />
I'll be wishing that all of your deepest wishes come true.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7BhBcRwI67z9BO9VbysYCgo3XL4cwLPakg7pzqaV1sUACpn60wbEcVzEDd3bxvW9_7QoV0UQKBzfESUNfkDTDnDM1Fk5nJ40KJxQUICZrnFILDBNggSv9YDhZqw6uzrQO0ge-54kUrU/s1600/IMG_2950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7BhBcRwI67z9BO9VbysYCgo3XL4cwLPakg7pzqaV1sUACpn60wbEcVzEDd3bxvW9_7QoV0UQKBzfESUNfkDTDnDM1Fk5nJ40KJxQUICZrnFILDBNggSv9YDhZqw6uzrQO0ge-54kUrU/s400/IMG_2950.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77cu4RIlJH3E8ebFCd1dOQ5_gRXhpm43WwnffB2pR1ypKoS6B5UrQtgE04utE0sWk9weHomv88uAIhEQ7m89fn_n25oXI-5TnTzWhN6-WOBj2QuAQIV75OU1BYSFtz3jFGSgATBBd1EI/s1600/IMG_2955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77cu4RIlJH3E8ebFCd1dOQ5_gRXhpm43WwnffB2pR1ypKoS6B5UrQtgE04utE0sWk9weHomv88uAIhEQ7m89fn_n25oXI-5TnTzWhN6-WOBj2QuAQIV75OU1BYSFtz3jFGSgATBBd1EI/s320/IMG_2955.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father's old nightstand</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pRuMrrZTY4q6EHsrxQwGYvRpzdqvyzpkN6eCfwcuI81oZhF1oLkbDtz2fyTvzHqQgcMDtnMPO4yisDR18ZHNN-5NXJiuXMO52qUcHrbWnRPZg5ESz8k53ql8t3Wr5FOgiKuMPGQrx4g/s1600/IMG_2951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pRuMrrZTY4q6EHsrxQwGYvRpzdqvyzpkN6eCfwcuI81oZhF1oLkbDtz2fyTvzHqQgcMDtnMPO4yisDR18ZHNN-5NXJiuXMO52qUcHrbWnRPZg5ESz8k53ql8t3Wr5FOgiKuMPGQrx4g/s200/IMG_2951.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Longleaf Pine from my writing desk</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardboard moose head from Steamboat, CO</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMU8aoXDAKDFCtyAaISNTgX4gT57jsequpOi2Czp8Zj48W8OxYa6X3K1GfEkEesw9nRQmTW0JLp0dwuuqTRbzfPS8_FBQzPy5TOxvT1VpwPio1z_UV6AlwDDAOdhA8p0whZ-IYoDv7gVY/s1600/IMG_2952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMU8aoXDAKDFCtyAaISNTgX4gT57jsequpOi2Czp8Zj48W8OxYa6X3K1GfEkEesw9nRQmTW0JLp0dwuuqTRbzfPS8_FBQzPy5TOxvT1VpwPio1z_UV6AlwDDAOdhA8p0whZ-IYoDv7gVY/s320/IMG_2952.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A crow on my writing chair pillow to signify my connection to black feathers</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh00-RDzQwMJ2P0omPs3WyBDPjEyjkp3Wq2UtWX8UpOmFBt3mC3ggA4L1uxmDv19BHhpRzqQAhQiRX6s7VtciyLn07lDMMGP0hPL2dGYHUFiOjQZEJqabDUIEoULWqjFYKZyUomyXCLvo/s1600/IMG_2961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh00-RDzQwMJ2P0omPs3WyBDPjEyjkp3Wq2UtWX8UpOmFBt3mC3ggA4L1uxmDv19BHhpRzqQAhQiRX6s7VtciyLn07lDMMGP0hPL2dGYHUFiOjQZEJqabDUIEoULWqjFYKZyUomyXCLvo/s320/IMG_2961.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brass chandelier was a gift from friends that I then painted</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOndksX0bqTGxXQVK9F-FpAUMhbWH9Wtxnyq4KJGb8NXBdaQcyMoe6Sr0sUE_gAjE4Ap-HaZCyeq8RgbyGGOHXhYABCT6ysaL-3e6WX58XHTDdbalfiIKb4zPktp-HQkYDz_jTvlaBDBU/s1600/IMG_2966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOndksX0bqTGxXQVK9F-FpAUMhbWH9Wtxnyq4KJGb8NXBdaQcyMoe6Sr0sUE_gAjE4Ap-HaZCyeq8RgbyGGOHXhYABCT6ysaL-3e6WX58XHTDdbalfiIKb4zPktp-HQkYDz_jTvlaBDBU/s320/IMG_2966.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lynne Wallace-Lee, I found the perfect place for the gift you brought me in December</td></tr>
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<br />Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-76573117391471147562013-03-29T13:51:00.003-04:002013-03-29T13:55:02.407-04:00Messages from Beyond: The Power of Timing<h2>
<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/AVvXsEjEFHlIrGt20jYMb9Z9i_hjj_c6l-uFcsoONuv9jd47Y7nPcLT9AFtY4lBsSVugjpLXij6J7ennIevRXaZWXgDjOIswTPK6ucyn632nMVM-in5pO1DeNkxMINGfbyXk2NrY1_Q1-iNfyzw/s1600/Lake+in+the+mist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFHlIrGt20jYMb9Z9i_hjj_c6l-uFcsoONuv9jd47Y7nPcLT9AFtY4lBsSVugjpLXij6J7ennIevRXaZWXgDjOIswTPK6ucyn632nMVM-in5pO1DeNkxMINGfbyXk2NrY1_Q1-iNfyzw/s320/Lake+in+the+mist.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Standing at the edge of Mt. Brandon's waters</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">
"The higher we got, the thicker the mist became, soaking our hair, our faces...it made me feel fresh, somehow clean, rugged...We reached the eastern ridge, where the lakes began, a silver chain up the spine of the mountain, silent and still. The only other sound was the haunting call of a single bird, trilling from nowhere and everywhere at once. The breath off the water was ancient.<br />At the top of the mountain the wind whipped.... it was then that I realized the entire time I'd been hiking, I'd been seeing them in my mind. Lines and lines of people, trekking up the hill, their feet coming before mine on the ancient stones. I could see their faces. They looked like Celts. Up and up, but only in certain times of the year. Something whispered, This was a special place, a place of pilgrimage, just as it is now, in Christian times. But was it really? Or had I let my imagination get carried away?"- <i>Faery Tale, "</i>Climbing the Lost Druid Mountain" (US paperback edition, p. 240 -241)</span></h2>
<h3>
<br />
</h3>
<h4>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</h4>
<br />
Timing.<br />
<br />
My good friend and teacher Shaman Jon once said to me that when it comes to the world of spirit, everything is unveiled in perfect time - not always when you expect it, but for reasons often unknown to us, always exactly when you need it. As a native Hawaiian and Cheyenne Indian, Jon believes that spirit cannot be demanded of, and I believe he is right. This was a lesson I had to learn (and many readers graciously came to terms with) by the end of <i>Faery Tale</i>. All I could do was interpret my journey with the tools and information I had on hand. Mount Brandon in Ireland has been a place that particularly vexed me.<br />
<br />
I remember writing to my friend, Peter Guy:<br />
<i>I have a crazy hunch that mountain was an ancient place of pagan worship...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I did extensive research, but in the end, all I could discover was a glimmer of a connection, flimsy at best: the largest lake on the mountain was known as Loch Cruite - "Harp Lake." I made the leap (since the lake was in no way geographically shaped like the musical instrument) that Harp Lake may have been a place name connection to the ancient Bards of Ireland - a class of Druids who specialized in recitation of the epic poems and histories of the Celtic people.<br />
<br />
WELL. This past week I had a truly inspiring experience that urged my fingers back to the keyboard in my eagerness to share it with all of you who are familiar with my book. It's a beautiful example of the ways in which a hidden world reveals itself to us, always in perfect timing. Theirs, not ours, of course. Three years after the publication of the book, that another piece of the puzzle slipped into place - and it was with a conscious-shattering jolt, not a click.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I've been reading broadly to research the historical novel I'm working on. Currently on my desk is Nikolai Tolstoy's non-fiction title <i>The Quest for Merlin</i>, (Hodder & Stoughton, 1985) which actually contains a great deal of information on the ancient Celts in general, and specifically in the time period I'm researching. He was discussing the fact that high points were often visited by entire communities for the festival of <i>Lughnasa</i>, (Aug. 1st) that venerated one of the most central gods in the Celtic pantheon, the sun-god Lugh. (Lleu in Welsh.)<br />
<br />
It was then that I saw this:<br />
<br />
<b>"..Most dramatic of all sites associated with the celebration of <i>Lughnasa </i>in Ireland is <u>Mount Brandon</u>, on the Dingle Peninsula in Co. Kerry. 3,127 feet high, it is the second highest mountain in Ireland...Pilgrims at the season of <i>Lughnasa </i>ascended at dawn an old road leading to the peak. There they prayed, passed nine times around the pillar stone, and drank from the sacred well nearby." (p. 181-182)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Those of you who have had intuitive flashes (which all of us are capable of) that are later verified by actual information can understand the feeling that shot through me. If I hadn't been sitting on an airplane I likely would have screamed in delight. It had to suffice to tap a sleeping Eric on the head and say, "Honey. You will not believe what I just read."<br />
<br />
Tolstoy's source was an Oxford paper titled "The Festival of Lughnasa: A Study of the Survival of the Celtic Festival of the Beginning of Harvest" (1962).<br />
<br />
What I'd seen in my minds eye so vividly on that mountain climb wasn't just some flight of fancy. I'd believed that in my heart, and now, four years after having visited the site, here was my "proof." The feeling was nothing short of elating.<br />
<br />
But why now? Why couldn't I have discovered this source amidst the hundreds of other books I'd scoured in researching my book at the time? Why hadn't this information come to light in time for me to include it in my publication of the memoir? It was maddening to consider. But in light of what I've been experiencing personally in working on the new book, it completely made sense.<br />
<br />
I'm in the midst of planning and preparing for a six-week research trip abroad for the novel. While I experienced incredibly mystical (and mystifying!) things in the writing of <i>Faery Tale</i>, time passes, and then, and then.... everyday life sinks in, the mundane, the grit and work of it, and the sheer passage of that time - suddenly those experiences can feel woefully far away. We can find ourselves thinking, <i>Well, that was then</i>. Or, <i>Things like that don't happen here</i>, or <i>Things like that don't happen to me anymore. </i>This reminded me that all that worry is nonsense.<br />
<br />
The unseen world is always there, regardless of whether we pay attention to it or not. It doesn't hold grudges, and it doesn't keep score. We are always magical, inherently so, and though we may at times feel distant, that never fades. It doesn't pass away, it doesn't fray, and neither does our link to that essential translator that exists within all of us, that umbilical cord that links that world to our own reality: Our intuition. I needed to be reminded of the power of my own intuition once more before I set out on this new journey. The places I will go this summer, the people I will meet, the impressions I will get from sitting in the wilds, all of these will be integral parts in telling the story that only I can tell, just as many of you have stories to tell that are unique to you. I was having a crisis of faith in myself, and this one paragraph served to restore my belief in myself just at the time I needed it most. <i>Trust your intuition</i>, this lesson reminded me. Trust, trust, trust.<br />
<br />
So timing.<br />
<br />
We may not always understand it, but it has shown itself, at least in my life, to be perfect in its delivery.<br />
Once again.<br />
<br />
I hope my sharing this story will help you believe that something you need, a piece of your missing puzzle, will come to you in perfect timing.<br />
<br />
Most of all, I want to thank you all for joining me - on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Signe-Pike/234508256573658" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/SignePike" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, and here on my blog. Thank you especially for sticking with me and being so patient in waiting for this new book as it develops. I appreciate your patience and support more than words can say.<br />
<br />
And I hope you'll trust in me that when it comes to this novel, all will be done in perfect timing.<br />
That's my promise to you.<br />
<br />
With love,<br />
Signe<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mists cleared on our descent</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<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/AVvXsEgeitbNeoZ35nTRACO-SrWPACNKMUxKI_oOYZVVYZZlj-s-GWkdiLllexNmtiHkmFDGSw70krsOVcgTKAcR9de8I31mgYMEu2B0mzl2IHIQ8ugcQsmDTJJlLlqqZdZ3VLsxcpTdG0n89jU/s1600/Brandon+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeitbNeoZ35nTRACO-SrWPACNKMUxKI_oOYZVVYZZlj-s-GWkdiLllexNmtiHkmFDGSw70krsOVcgTKAcR9de8I31mgYMEu2B0mzl2IHIQ8ugcQsmDTJJlLlqqZdZ3VLsxcpTdG0n89jU/s320/Brandon+Sign.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brandon waits for pilgrims of every religion and belief system </td></tr>
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<br />Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-34196344576333633282013-01-29T15:15:00.002-05:002013-01-29T15:15:36.910-05:00The Idea is to Write for 15 minutes and Not to Stop.
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I've done it, now you do it. It is torture, it is fascinating, and there is something in it, deep down, like freedom, like joy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here's mine: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The idea is to write for 15 minutes and not to stop. No
matter if I can’t think of what to say, to hear the thoughts and let them flow;
I have silenced my flow, I am beginning to understand, and I edit it down
before it can come out. Even now I am doing it; delete delete rewrite better.
My hands, the tendons in my hands, begin to burn already, carpel tunnel at 32,
and I think, I cannot think if I cannot write. This is how I do it, typing.
Long hand is all wrong, too slow. I love that satisfying click click click. I
remember being a little girl, in my mother’s study that overlooked the deck. I
would sit in her chair and hit the keys on the type writer,
clickety-click-click-click, I am a writer, a newspaper woman, a very important
journalist. Mary Alice Monroe said that our children tell us, between the ages
of 3 and 5, who they are going to be. It’s just that we only realize it in
retrospect. I was telling myself that more than anything, I wanted to be a
writer. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I sit, nearly 30 years later, at my keyboard going
clickety-click-click, feeling the beast of the novel that is not getting
written lurking in the closet. He will shred my heart. He has long claws that
rip and tear and oddly enough, I see him often times, sitting for lunch with my
inner critic. I’ll begin the work and you finish her off, she’ll say to him,
their heads leaning close because she’s not afraid of his terrible gnashy
monster teeth and rotten breath. She’s had tuna for lunch anyways, so who is
she to judge? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I begin to think that maybe even though it’s crap, my crap
isn’t as bad as other people’s crap: Ego. It makes a fleetingly brave
appearance after monster, after inner critic. It shows its true colors quickly
as nothing to be relied on by saying that perhaps it is wrong: Fear has arrived.
Perhaps this is all a huge plastic waste pile floating in the ocean of Never.
What I tried to do but couldn’t. That time I tried to write a novel but could
never finish it. Just like my old man. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why is non-fiction different? It is easy to say the things
you think are true when you’re telling people about things you experienced
yourself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But novels are one step removed. And now you’re not being
honest, are you, really? You weren’t there, fiction writer. You are only
pretending. And what right have you to pretend? Stop the flow. Stop the flow.
Go go go. I spend long moments envying imaginations. Other people’s. Wishing I
knew where mine was but when I look for it, there is blankness. Can I be okay
with blank? That is what I am trying to understand. Blank makes me feel stupid.
The nothing. The empty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Runes say, Blank the beginning, blank the end. I miss
them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Keep the fingers moving, clackety-clack clackety clack. Who
are these faces who have a story to tell from out of the mist? I see their
outlines but not their details. They stand there, and I can feel their gazes on
me, heavy with meaning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then help me, dammit, why
don’t you? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You want your story
told? Come on in here and do it for me.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is atrocious. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All these efforts at channeling and finding nothing but
blankness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to write about the sunlight through the blinds that
finds my puppy Lucy sprawled on the bed, her brown eyes rimmed with short blond
eyelashes, she looks at me and I wish I could get lost in the now with her and just
breathe and forget and not think about the nothing anymore. Fifteen minutes
gone and the chatter continues. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see? How large this problem is for me? Do you see the
size of the monster I have hidden in my closet? He breaches the walls, his back
strains against the roof, he rifts house and home with his monstrosity! I have
it worse than anyone. We are all the same. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the trenches. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing is easy. Accept it. Invite it. Sit with it until it
becomes something, for however long it takes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always wanted to be a writer. I told myself this
between the ages of 3 and 5 although at the time I did not know it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even in all the blankness, there is something, some glimmer
of light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It flashes like fish scales in the water. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is nothing else for me to do but stay. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-37426774706878153062013-01-16T11:59:00.002-05:002013-01-16T11:59:51.988-05:00Sacred Sights Guide Peter KnightI hope everyone is having a beautiful 2013! I'm sitting in my sunroom as I type this with Lucy and Willoughby lounging nearby, sunshine, blue skies and all the windows open. "Winter" in South Carolina is my favorite time of year.<br />
<br />
Many of you who read <i>Faery Tale</i> write sharing your wishes to take your own adventure. To that I say, please <i>do it, do it, do it</i>! No matter where you go, if you set out with clear intentions and an open heart, adventure and transformation are guaranteed to find you. Some of you have also written wondering if I'll be leading any more retreats - I loved planning the retreat we ran in 2011, but I'm taking some time to focus on my writing and as much as I would love any excuse to travel Europe with inspiring people, I've got to buckle down and get my new manuscript done!<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Return to Faery Retreat, June 2011</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;">To that end, I promised some of you that came to the Faery Lunch in Ithaca this Christmas that I would post information on Peter Knight. If you're drawn to any of the sites in England, </span><span style="text-align: center;">Peter is available for tours. (You'll find his rates are quite reasonable.) Those of you who came on the magical "Return to Faery" retreat with myself and Raven can attest to the contribution Peter and his vast knowledge on things both ancient and mystical added to our trip. He took us on a tour of Glastonbury that included Glastonbury Tor, Wearyall Hill, Glastonbury Abbey and the Chalice Well, and we also traveled with him to Stone Henge and Avebury, stopping off to see the Uffington </span><span style="text-align: center;">White Horse</span><span style="text-align: center;">. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
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<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-picasa-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzHD7NYLf9zYuk7qD-yfRcTC6DFjc96trNNz7OVTipqgyrZXplpCUirdI-4z7x5saJ68GRiimU1mimekoVZ48K_cMG9dJ_EZIMs1ijl8hV9TXlzDRr2A20-TeR1gxAFZjJEz1e-zc3gqo/s1600/MVI_3644.AVI"><param name="movie" value="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?videoUrl=http://redirector.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D0750c3e69ea45890%26itag%3D5%26source%3Dpicasa%26cmo%3Dsensitive_content%253Dyes%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1360943529%26sparams%3Did,itag,source,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D25540A9F179374227B4F486B03C7EB7B19104CD8.2DCE67D8A4F08377B1052D6B413969AD7D4A6F%26key%3Dlh1" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?videoUrl=http://redirector.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D0750c3e69ea45890%26itag%3D5%26source%3Dpicasa%26cmo%3Dsensitive_content%253Dyes%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1360943529%26sparams%3Did,itag,source,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D25540A9F179374227B4F486B03C7EB7B19104CD8.2DCE67D8A4F08377B1052D6B413969AD7D4A6F%26key%3Dlh1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">(This video of Peter discussing scones and the mysteries of Silbury Hill brings me right back to that fabulous trip.) </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Uffington White Horse</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Merlin Stone, Avebury</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;">I hope if you plan a trip to England, you'll consider contacting Peter. He surely knows a heck of a lot more ancient sites than I could hope to learn in a lifetime - You'll be in the best of hands. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">To contact Peter, visit his website: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://www.stoneseeker.net/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">www.stoneseeker.net</a><br />
You can also join him on Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/stoneseeker" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/stoneseeker</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">(To read more about Silbury Hill, </span><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/gardening/4385933/Silbury-Hill-mystery-soon-to-be-resolved.html" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">click here</a><span style="text-align: center;"> to check out this article from </span><span style="text-align: center;"><i>The Guardian</i></span><span style="text-align: center;">) </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">(To see more pictures from our Return to Faery Retreat, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.539219179435896.132577.234508256573658&type=3" target="_blank">click here</a>) I haven't yet had a chance to caption them all, but will be working on that! </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Kennet Long Barrow</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Knight of Stone Seeker Tours</td></tr>
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Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5055087715986352673.post-70029988682176974472012-12-21T13:06:00.000-05:002012-12-21T13:39:05.666-05:00A Winter Solstice Walk<br />
December 21, 2012<br />
<i>Ithaca, New York</i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFiI0HUR6sghKg1nzD0SKEFtStVx2uFpl9ZfhHevVuCR75xnBzUQodKtD-JUvj-GIXpm0xKIdN-KFUG1P1JceWtf_CdtGkSFnyU0lajHPNoendrvBzx-clCa5f2s9Q4nKMnjJDUaC6E1s/s1600/Ithaca+in+Winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFiI0HUR6sghKg1nzD0SKEFtStVx2uFpl9ZfhHevVuCR75xnBzUQodKtD-JUvj-GIXpm0xKIdN-KFUG1P1JceWtf_CdtGkSFnyU0lajHPNoendrvBzx-clCa5f2s9Q4nKMnjJDUaC6E1s/s320/Ithaca+in+Winter.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ithaca in winter</td></tr>
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I woke up this morning in my sister's old room to the sight of a gray wintery sky and the dark graceful bend of bare branches. <i>Home</i>. It's a feeling more than a word, isn't it?<br />
<br />
The way that the call of a crow can make you feel rooted to the earth, like you belong, or the way you can look out a window you used to gaze out years ago and feel at once so very much changed and so very much the same. It's an intimate relationship between person and place, and sense of belonging that nobody can take away from you.<br />
<br />
Being here this time of year, tears are always close to the surface. The last time I saw my father was December 27, seven years ago, and yet even now, when I come home, he is everywhere. It's as though in passing away he expanded into this place that he loved so much, in the quiet paths that run the endless acres of forest, in the cold shimmering reflection of our winter streams. The creek beds, the dark stacked towering cliffs of shale, the gnarled tree roots and in the rich scent of decaying leaves. It is here that I feel closer to him than ever, as if I could turn on the trail and he'd be right there beside me, breathing it all in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frozen falls in Six Mile Creek</td></tr>
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On this day, thousands of years ago, people gathered to usher in the light half of the year. Bonfires were built, and we circled round them and celebrated the dark days of winter coming to an end - from here, the days grow longer, and with them will arrive the promise of new life, of spring.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I had a dream about my father. We were walking in the winter woods, the rim trail at Treman Gorge. I had on a winter hat and he was wearing his battered old anorak, just like he always did. Suddenly, I looked down to see a big brown feather sticking straight up out of the trail. I bent to pick it up. And at the same time, in this dream, I remembered that I couldn't be walking with my father, not really, because he was no longer living.<br />
<br />
"Look, Dad. It's a feather from you!" I said to him, smiling.<br />
<br />
He reached over and playfully flipped the edge of my winter hat away from my eyes, to make sure he had my attention. His brown eyes, when they met mine, were welled with tears, and he was smiling at me as though I had made him quite proud in noticing:<br />
Feathers come from my father. <br />
<i>Thank you</i>, he mouthed. Embarrassed by his tears, he gave me a wink.<br />
I woke.<br />
<br />
There will be no bonfire for me this year. Instead, I will go to the woods to be close to him. My mother and I will walk the same trail that we've all walked hundreds of times before, arm in arm, wrapped against the cold, our faces feeling clean in it, looking up at the evergreen trees, the gray winter sky, and the delicate naked branches that feel like home. On Sunday we will welcome the new life, little Haven Mae, the grand-daughter he never knew, now sixth months old, on her first visit from Seattle to the lands her family have so loved through the years. She will see the thick wooded hills, hear the gurgling of the water as it runs over smooth rock, and begin to understand something of home.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgruukB8kpjEXGnuA1Ytj5RzV-J9bYxzpJaeRqS4kHZ8ZLPsz5cfobHj9q0jW-Tl9QB5CC0J6bl6lLmZPgWVataSxAdY-qDC3Tv3CCoDa2YYSSMe_57eeUlDtFjAHXgIrA4Bn1l6RASB50/s1600/Ithaca+FAlls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgruukB8kpjEXGnuA1Ytj5RzV-J9bYxzpJaeRqS4kHZ8ZLPsz5cfobHj9q0jW-Tl9QB5CC0J6bl6lLmZPgWVataSxAdY-qDC3Tv3CCoDa2YYSSMe_57eeUlDtFjAHXgIrA4Bn1l6RASB50/s320/Ithaca+FAlls.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ithaca Falls in high water</td></tr>
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Happy Holidays to all. I hope this year will burn brightly for you, in all aspects of your life, and that wherever you travel, you always remember home.<br />
<br />Signe Pikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10148251782813661616noreply@blogger.com5