A Local Inquisition

I first came across this short story back in the early 1980s and made a photocopy of it, as I liked it so much.That was of course, was when I was at University, and there were, I am sorry to say, Christians very like the elders in this story, although there were also ones who displayed much more generosity of spirit. This is very much a story about a hard line Scots Calvinism, and it was written by the Reverend John Watson (3 November 1850 – 6 May 1907), known by his pen name Ian Maclaren.

Maclaren's first stories of rural Scottish life, Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush (1894), achieved extraordinary popularity, selling more than 700 thousand copies, and were succeeded by other successful books, The Days of Auld Lang Syne (1895), Kate Carnegie and those Ministers (1896), and Afterwards and other Stories (1898). By his own name Watson published several volumes of sermons, among them being The Upper Room (1895), The Mind of the Master (1896) and The Potter's Wheel (1897).

A Local Inquisition
Ian Maclaren.

His first service in St. Jude's Church was over and Carmichael had broken upon his modest dinner with such appetite as high excitement had left; for it is a fact in the physiology of a minister that if he preaches coldly he eats voraciously, but if his soul has been at a white heat his body is lifted above food. It had been a great change from the little Kirk of Drumtochty, with its congregation of a hundred country people, to the crowd which filled every corner of the floor below and the galleries above in the city church. While the light would that Sunday be streaming into the Highland Kirk and lighting up the honest, healthy faces of the hearers, the gas had been lighted in St. Jude's, for the Glasgow atmosphere was gloomy outside, and when it filtered through painted windows was as darkness inside.

There is no loneliness like that of a solitary man in a crowd, and Carmichael missed the company and sympathy of his friends. This mass of city people, with their eager expression, white faces and suggestion of wealth, who turned their eyes upon him when he began to preach, and seemed to be one huge court of judgment, shadowed his imagination. They were partly his new congregation and partly a Glasgow audience, but there were only two men in the whole church he knew, and even those he had only known for a few months.

When he rose to preach, with the heavy pall of the city's smoke and the city fog encompassing the church, and the glare of the evil-smelling gas lighting up its Gothic recesses, his heart sank and for the moment he lost courage. Was it for this dreary gloom and packed mass of strange people that he had left the sunlight of the glen and the warm atmosphere of true hearts? There were reasons why he had judged it his duty to accept the charge of this West End Glasgow church, and selfish ambition had certainly not been one, for Carmichael was a man rather of foolish impulses than of far-seeing prudence. He had done many things suddenly which he had regretted continually, and for an instant, as he faced his new environment and before he gave out his text, he wished that by some touch of that fairy wand which we are ever desiring to set our mistakes right or to give us our impossible desires, he could be spirited away from, the city which as a countryman he always hated, back to the glen which he would ever carry in his heart.

While vain regret is threatening to disable him the people are singing with a great volume of melody :

Jerusalem as a city is compactly built together;

Unto that place the tribes go up, the tribes of God go thither:

and his mood changes. After all, the ocean is greater than any river, however picturesque and romantic it be, and no one with a susceptible soul can be indifferent to the unspoken appeal of a multitude of human beings. Old and young of all kinds and conditions, from the captains of industry whose names were famous throughout the world to the young men who had come up from remote villages to push their fortune, together with all kinds of professional men administering justice, relieving suffering, teaching knowledge, were gathered together to hear what the preacher had to say in the name of God.

His message would be quickly caught by the keen city intellect and would pass into the most varied homes and into the widest lives, and there was an opportunity of spiritual power in this city pulpit which the green wilderness could not give.

As he looked upon the sea of faces the depths of Carmichael’s nature were stirred, and when his lips were opened he had forgotten everything except the drama of humanity in its tragedy and in its comedy, and the evangel of Jesus committed into his hands. He spoke with power as one touched by the very spirit of his Master, and in the vestry the rulers of the church referred to his sermon with a gracious and encouraging note. He walked home through the gloomy street with a high head, and in his own room, and in a way the public might not see, he received the congratulation he valued more

than anything else on earth. For Kate was proud that day of her man, and she was not slow either in praise or blame as occasion required, being through all circumstances, both dark and bright, a woman of the ancient Highland spirit. She was not to be many years by his side, and their married life was not to be without its shadows, but through the days they were together his wife stood loyally at Carmichael's right hand, and when she was taken he missed many things in his home and heart, but most of all her words of cheer, when in her honest judgment, not otherwise, he had carried himself right knightly in the lists of life.

His nerves were on edge, and although it mattered little that he was interrupted at dinner, for he knew not what he was eating, he was not anxious to see a visitor. If it were another elder come to say kind things, he must receive him courteously, but Carmichael had had enough of praise that day; and if it were a reporter desiring an interview he would assure him that he had nothing to say, and as a consolation hand him his manuscript to make up a quarter column.

But it was neither a city merchant nor a newspaper reporter who was waiting in the study; indeed, one could not have found in the city a more arresting and instructive contrast.

In the centre of the room, detached from the bookcase and the writing table, refusing the use of a chair, and despising the very sight of a couch, stood isolated and self-contained the most austere man Carmichael had ever seen, or was ever to meet in his life. He had met Calvinism in its glory among Celts, but he had only known sweet-blooded mystics like Donald Menzies or Pharisees converted into saints, like Lachlan Campbell, the two Highland elders of Drumtochty. It was another story to be face to face with the inflexible and impenetrable subject of Lowland Calvinism. Whether Calvinism or Catholicism be the more congenial creed for Celtic nature may be a subject of debate, but when Calvinism takes hold of a Lowland Scot of humble birth and moderate education and intense mind there is no system which can produce so uncompromising and unrelenting a partisan.

Carmichael always carried in mental photograph the appearance of Simeon MacQuittrick as he faced him that day his tall, gaunt figure, in which the bones of his body, like those of his creed, were scarcely concealed, his erect and uncompromising attitude, his carefully-brushed, well-worn clothes, his clean-shaven, hard-lined face, his iron gray hair smoothed down across his forehead, and, above all, his keen, searching, merciless gray eyes. Before Simeon spoke Carmichael knew that he was anti-pathetic, and had come to censure, and his very presence, as from the iron dungeon of his creed Simeon looked out on the young, light-hearted, optimistic minister of St. Jude's, was like a sudden withering frost upon the gay and generous blossom of spring.

"My name is Simeon MacQuittrick," began the visitor, "and I'm a hearer at St. Jude's, although I use that name under protest, considering that the calling of kirks after saints is a rag of popery, and judging that the McBriar Memorial, after a faithful Covenanter, would have been more in keeping with the principles of the pure Kirk of Scotland. But we can discuss that matter another day, and I am merely protecting my rights." As Carmichael only indicated that he had received the protest, and was willing to hear anything else he had to say, Simeon continued:

"Whether I be one of the true Israel of God or only a man who is following the chosen people like a hanger-on from the land of Egypt is known to God alone, and belongs to his secret things ; but I have been a professor of religion, and a member of the Kirk for six-and-forty years, since the fast day at Ecclefechan when that faithful servant of God, Dr. Ebenezer Howison, preached for more than two hours on the words, 'Many be called, but few are chosen/ " And Carmichael waited in silence for the burden of Simeon's message.

"It was my first intention," proceeded Simeon, as he fixed Carmichael with his severe gaze, "to deal wi' the sermon to which we have been listening, and which I will say plainly has not been savoury to the spiritual and understanding souls in the congregation, although I make no doubt it has pleasantly tickled the ears of the worldly. But I will pretermit the subject for the present first, because time would fail us to go into it thoroughly, and second because I am come to offer a better opportunity." Carmichael indicated without speech that Simeon should go on to the end.

"Ye will understand, Mr. Carmichael, that the congregation gathering in your Kirk is a mixed multitude, and the maist part are taken up wi' worldly gear and carnal pleasures like dinners, dancing, concerts and games ; they know neither the difference between sound doctrine and unsound, nor between the secret signs of saving faith and the outward forms of ordinary religion; as for the sovereignty of the Almighty, whereby one is elected unto light and another left unto damnation, whilk is the very heart o' religion, they know and care nothing.”

"Gin the Lord has indeed given ye a true commission and ye have been ordained not by the layin' on o' hands, whilk I judge to be a matter of Kirk order and not needful for the imparting of grace, as the Prelatists contend, but by the inward call of God, it will be your business to pull down every stronghold of lies, and to awaken them that be at ease in Zion with the terrors of the Lord. And ye might begin with the elders who are rich and increased in goods, and who think they have need of nothing. But I have my doubts." And the doubts seemed a certainty, but whether they were chiefly about the elders' unspiritual condition or Carmichael’s need of a true call Simeon did not plainly indicate.

"I am very sorry, Mr. MacQuittrick" and Carmichael spoke for the first time "that you consider the congregation to be in such a discouraging condition, especially after the faithful ministry of my honoured predecessor, but I trust out of such a large number of people that there must be a number of sincere and intelligent Christians." Which was a bait Simeon could not resist.

"Ye speak according to the Scriptures, Mr. Carmichael, for in the darkest days when Elijah testified against the priests of Baal and he is sorely needed to-day, for there be many kinds of Baal there were seven thousand faithful people. Yea, there has always been a remnant, and even in those days when the multitude that call themselves by the name of the Lord are hankering after organs and hymns and soirees and Arminian doctrine, there be a few who have kept their garments unspotted, and who mourn over the backslidings of Zion."

"Well, I hope, Mr. MacQuittrick, that some of the remnant can be found in St. Jude's." And Carmichael began to enter into the spirit of the situation.

"It doesna' become me to boast, for indeed there are times when I see myself in the court of the Gentiles, aye, and maybe in the outer darkness, but ye will be pleased to know that there are seven men who meet ae night every week to protest against false doctrine, and to search into the experiences o' the soul. Myself and another belong to the faithful remnant of the Scots Kirk, whilk the world calls the Cameronians ; two have been members wi' the original secession ; ane came from the black darkness o' the Established Kirk; and two were brought up in the Free Kirk, and I'll not deny, had a glimmerin' o' light. , When the godly minister who has gone to his reward, as we will hope, but the day alone will declare, lifted up his voice in the pulpit of St. Jude's against Sunday cars, opening the girdens on the Lord's Day, singing paraphrases at public worship, the worldly proposals for union with the Voluntaries, the preaching of teetotalism, and the blasphemy of the Higher Critics, we came to this Kirk and foregathered here as in a haven of refuge.”

"It came to our mind, Mr. Carmichael' and the representative of the remnant concluded his message "that it would strengthen your hands to know that ye have some discernin' professors in your Kirk, with whom ye could search into the deep things of God which might be beyond the depths of youth, and who will try the doctrine which ye may deliver from Sabbath to Sabbath. And we will be gathered together on Thursday night at 272 Water Street, by eight o'clock, to confer with you on the things of the kingdom."

When Carmichael arrived at the meeting-place of the remnant he had a sense of a spiritual adventure, and when he looked at the seven gray and austere faces, he imagined himself before the Inquisition. His host the brand plucked from the burning of the Establishment shook hands with gravity, and gave him a vacant chair at the table, where before him and on either side sat the elect. After a prayer by an original seceder, in which the history of the Scots Kirk from the Reformation and her defections in the present day were treated at considerable length and with great firmness of touch, and some very frank petitions were offered for his own enlightenment, the court was, so to say, constituted, and he was placed at the bar. If Carmichael imagined, which indeed he did not, that this was to be a friendly conference between a few experienced Christians and their young minister, he was very soon undeceived, for the president of the court called upon Simeon's fellow-covenanter to state the first question.

"It is one, Mr. Carmichael, which goes to the root of things, for he that is right here will be right everywhere; he that goes astray here will end in the bottomless pit of false doctrine.”

“Whether would ye say that Christ died upon the cross for the salvation of the whole world, and that therefore a proveesion was made for the pardon of all men gin they should repent and believe, or that he died only for the sins of them whom God hath chosen unto everlasting life, and who therefore shall verily be saved according to the will of God." And there was a silence that might be heard while the seven waited for the minister's answer.

When Carmichael boldly declared that the divine love embraced the human race which God had called into being, and that Christ as the Incarnate Saviour of the world had laid down his life not for a few but for the race, and that therefore there was freeness of pardon and fullness of grace for all men, and when finally he called God by the name of Father, the inquisitors sighed in unison. They looked like men who had feared the worst, and were not disappointed.

"Arminianism pure and simple," said one of the favoured children of the Free Kirk, "contrary to the Scriptures and the standards of the Kirk. Jacob have I loved, Esau have I hated; a strait gate and a narrow way, and few there be that find it. And the end of this deceiving error which pleases the silly heart is Universalism nae difference between the elect and the multitude. But there were ither questions, and our brother Mr. MacCosh will maybe put the second." Although it was evident hope was dying out both for Carmichael and for the inquisitors.

"Do ye believe, Mr. Carmichael, and will ye preach that the offer of the gospel should be made to all men in the congregation, and that any man who accepts that offer, as he considers, will see the salvation of God ; or will ye teach that while the offer is made in general terms to everybody with words such as, 'Come unto me all ye that labour’, ’it is only intended for certain who are already within the covenant of redemption, and that they alone will be enabled by effectual grace to accept it, and that for them alone there is a place at the marriage feast? “

"And I am asking this question because there are so-called evangelists going up and down the land offering the invitation of the kingdom unto all and sundry, and forgetting to tell the people, if indeed they know it themselves, that it matters not how freely Christ be offered, and how anxious they may be to take him, none of them can lift a little finger in his direction unless by the power of the Spirit, and the Spirit is only given to them who have been in the covenant from all eternity."

Carmichael felt as if he were again making his vows before ordination, and any sense of the ludicrous which was a snare unto him and had tempted him when he came into the room, was burned out. He was face to face with a conscientious and thoroughgoing theology, against whose inhumanity and ungraciousness both his reason and his soul revolted.

"May I in turn put a question to you, sir, and the other brethren, and if you will answer mine I will answer yours. Would you consider it honest, I will not say kindly, to invite twelve men to come to dinner at your house, all the more if they were poor and starving, and to beseech them to accept your invitation in the most tender terms, while you only intended to have six guests, or shall I say three out of the twelve, and had been careful to make provision for only three? You would despise such a host, and, Mr. MacCosh, will you seriously consider God to be more treacherous and dishonourable than we frail mortals?"

"Very superfeecial," burst in Simeon; "there is no question to be answered. Human analogies are deceiving, for nae man can argue from the ways of man to the ways of God, or else ye would soon be expectin' that the Almighty would deal wi' us the same as a father maun deal wi' his bairns, which is the spring o' that soul-destroying heresy, the so-called Fatherhood of God. Na, na" and MacQuittrick's face glowed with dogmatic enthusiasm, in which the thought of his own destiny and that of his fellow-humans was lost "he is the potter and we are the clay. Gin he makes one vessel for glory and another for shame aye, and even gin he dashes it to pieces, it is within his just richts. Wha are we to complain or to question? Ane oot o' twelve saved would be wonderful mercy, and the eleven would be to the praise of his justice." And a low hum of assent passed round the room.

"After what has passed, I'm not judging that it will serve any useful purpose to pit the third question, Mr. MacCosh," said the brand from the Establishment, "but it might be as well to complete the investigation. It's a sore trial to think that the man whom we called to be our minister, and who is set over the congregation in spiritual affairs knows so little of the pure truth, and has fallen into sae many soul-enticing errors. Oh ! this evil day ; we have heard wi' our ain ears in this very room, and this very nicht, first Arminianism, and then Morisonianism, the heresy of a universal atonement and of a free offer. I'll do Mr. Carmichael justice in believin' that he is no as yet at any rate a Socinian, but I'm expecting that he's a Pelagian. Oor last question will settle the point.

"Is it your judgment, Mr. Carmichael" and there was a tone of despair in the voice of the president "that a natural man, and by that I mean a man acting without an experience of effectual and saving grace given only to the elect, can perform any work whatever which would be acceptable to God, or whether it be not true that everything he does is altogether sinful, and that although he be bound to attempt good works in the various duties of life they will all be condemned and be the cause of his greater damnation?" And when, at the close of this carefully-worded piece of furious logic, Carmichael looked round and saw approval on the seven faces, as if their position had been finally stated, his patience gave way.

"Have you" and he leaned forward and brought his hand down upon the table "have you any common reason in your minds; I do not mean the pedantic arguments of theology, but the common sense of human beings? Have you any blood in your hearts, the blood of men who have been sons, and who are fathers, the feelings of ordinary humanity? Will you say that a mother's love to her son, lasting through the sacrifices of life to the tender farewell on her deathbed is not altogether good? That a man toiling and striving to build a home for his wife and children and to keep them in peace and plenty, safe from the storms of life, is not acceptable unto God? That a man giving his life to save a little child from drowning, or to protect his country from her enemies, is not beautiful in the sight of heaven? That even a heretic, standing by what he believes to be true, and losing all his earthly goods for conscience's sake, has done a holy thing tell me that ?" And Carmichael stretched out his hands to them in the fervour of his youth.

No man answered, and it was not needful, for the minister's human emotion had beaten upon their iron creed like spray upon the high sea cliffs. But one of them said, "That completes the list, downright Pelagianism," and he added gloomily, "I doubt Socianism is not far off."

The court was then dissolved, but before he left the room like a criminal sent to execution, a sudden thought struck Carmichael, and in his turn he asked a question.

"It is quite plain to me, brethren" for so he called them in Christian courtesy, although if was doubtful if they would have so called him "that you have suspected me of unsoundness in the faith, and that you have not been altogether unprepared for my answers; I want to ask you something, and I am curious to hear your answer. There are many names attached to the call given to me by the congregation of St. Jude's, and I do not know them all as yet, but I hope soon to have them written in my heart. The people who signed that call declared that they were assured by good information of my piety, prudence and ministerial qualifications, and they promised me all dutiful respect, encouragement, support and obedience in the Lord. I have those words ever in my memory, for they are a strength to me as I undertake my high work. May I ask, are your names, brethren, upon that call, and if so, why did you sign it?"

As he was speaking, Carmichael noticed that the composure of the seven was shaken, and that a look of uneasiness and even of confusion had come over their faces. He was sure that they had signed and he also guessed that they had already repented the deed. It seemed to him as if there was some secret to be told, and that they were challenging one another to tell it. And at last, under the weight of his responsibility as president of the court, MacCosh made their confession.

"Ye must understand, Mr. Carmichael, that when your name was put before the congregation we, who have been called more than others to discern the spirits, had no sure word given us either for or against you, and we were in perplexity of heart. It was not according to our conscience to sign lightly and in ignorance as many do, and we might not forbear signing unless we were prepared to lay our protests with reasons upon the table of the presbytery. We gathered together in this room and wrestled for light, and it seemed to come to us through a word of our brother Simeon MacQuittrick, and I will ask him to mention the sign that we judged that day to be of the Lord, but it may be it came from elsewhere."

"That very morning," explained Simeon, with the first shade of diffidence in his manner, "I was reading in my chamber the Acts of the Apostles, and when I came to the words 'send men to Joppa’ I was hindered and I could go no further. The passage was laid upon my soul and I was convinced that it was the message of God, but concerning whom and concerning what I knew not. But it was ever all the hours of the day, 'send men to Joppa.'

"That very afternoon I met one of the elders who is liberal in his gifts and full of outward works, but I judge a mere Gallic, and he asked me whether I was ready to sign the call. I answered that I was waiting for the sign, and I told him of the words said to me that day. 'Well’ he said to me in his worldly fashion, 'if you will not call a man unless he be at Joppa you may have to wait some time, MacQuittrick ; but, by the way, I hear that Mr. Carmichael is staying near Edinburgh just now, and there is a Joppa on the coast next to Portobello.'

"He may have been jesting," sadly continued MacQuittrick, "and he is a man whose ear has never been opened, but the Almighty chooses whom he will as his messengers, and spake once by Balaam's ass, so I mentioned the matter to the brethren. And when we considered both the word of Acts and the saying of this Gallic, we accepted it as a sign. So it came to pass that we all signed your call. But it pleases God to allow even the elect to be deceived ; behold are there not false prophets and lying signs? And it may be ye were not at Joppa." And when Carmichael declared with joyful emphasis that he had never been at Joppa in his life, MacCosh summed up the moral of the call and the conference. "It was a sign, but it was from Satan."

A Whale of a Time

"Taste this, your Excellency, it is delicious" said the Tour Guide.
 
His Excellency, the High-King of Sith-Dogon, picked up the tasty morsel, and enjoyed the creamy taste, and the fine texture of the flesh as he devoured the white meat.
 
"It is indeed excellent", he said at last, "but you say there are protests?"
 
"Yes indeed," said the Tour Guide, "but it is only an ill-conceived attempt to stop what has to be considered a prime food source for our peoples, ever since our ships went out and brought back specimens centuries ago. The protestors have their banners, and cry out, but they cannot invade the hallowed precincts of the conference itself. They will be well-policed, have no fear."
 
"Isn't it the case that some of the protestors think these delicacies might actually be sentient", frowned the High King.
 
"A foolish notion, highness," said the Tour Guide, "based on the fact that they appear to communicate with sound waves, making strange noises, sometimes of an even pitch, and sometimes ranging across the acoustic spectrum, high and low. What have been termed their songs, by the ignorant. They are just basic mammalian noises, and do not indicate any intelligence. For how could such beings be sentient? After all, there is no evidence of a high energy civilisation which would be the case if they were. Instead, they forage the planet, seeking scraps of food to keep them from starvation, over seas and land."
 
"But were there not artifacts?", asked the High-King.
 
The Tour Guide became more fawning than ever. "Perhaps once, but they are marks of a high civilisation. They must have been produced by a vanished species. Although some of our archaeologists have suggested some kind of ecological catastrophe, followed by a mass extinction, and evolutionary decline. Either way, what we hunt are surely not the same kind of intelligent beings as ourselves. They have no technology, no energy system"
 
"Well, then," said the High-King, wiping his mouth with his tentacles, "Then that is an end of it. Let the silly protestors do their worst. We may not hunt these bipeds for sport, but we may still hunt them for scientific gain, surely."
 
He rose to his full height, upon his eight feet, swaying slightly, and spoke to the assembled delegates:
 
"I now declare the 5th Interplanetary Earth Conference Open. And I hope that, it is with a spirit of scientific gain, that we can continue to capture and dissect these strange humanoid creatures who live on the Blue Planet below."
 
There was sustained applause, as he sat down, and burped loudly.

 

The Dandelions

Rummaging through the archive at the weekend, I came across what is probably my oldest piece of writing (that I still possess). This was written in my first year at secondary school, aged about 11 or 12, and was selected along with 5 other pieces of descriptive writing from other classmates, to form part of a typed selection by our English teacher to present to parents as illustrative of the best of the classes work. Most of the other pieces were poetry, but I had decided upon prose.

At the parents evening, these sheets were handed out, and my parents were somewhat mortified to learn how the state of their garden - and the weeds in it - were being presented to other parents, especially when the English teacher decided to read mine out loud. Fortunately, I wasn't there to witness this, but I was told about it afterwards!

I don't remember much about writing it, except that it took a good deal of time to construct. I always found writing assignments very difficult at school, especially to produce something of any length. My real joy was the sciences, although I also enjoyed history, but English was always a hard slog. I was lucky to have private tuition with Alice Omissi, a brilliant English teacher, who taught me how to construct arguments along the lines of Francis Bacon's essays, but that was a different kind of writing - what Karen Armstrong calls "logos" rather than "mythos". I really only began to find writing much easier after I had broken from any writing for around four years from 17 to 20, and then returned to find it much easier to let the words flow, and the images come.

The Dandelions

As I walked to the bottom of our garden I saw, under the pussy-willow tree , a clump of dandelions slightly swaying in the cool, gentle breeze. I stooped to pick one. After I had picked it, accidently blew its seeds off; so, after watching them slowly but gently drift away, I plucked another one that was still in flower. It was a bright shiny golden colour and rather similar to a sunflower although much smaller. As I watched it, it tossed and turned violently in the now increasing wind, reminding me of a horse.

Looking around, I noticed that although the dandelions are common garden weeds, they seem to grow better in our garden than normal flowers do for some peculiar reason.

After I had obtained a trowel, I began to dig a dandelion out of the soil. Unfortunately there were many roots from other weeds tangled with it, so it was quite a period of time before it was finally freed.

Suddenly the sun appeared and I noticed how how magnificent it really was, with its bright orange-yellow colour gleaming in the sun's rays. A few minutes later, I managed to find a suitable container to put the dandelion in, As soon as the dandelion was inside the container, I walked slowly back to the house.

 

Midsummer Dreamtime

It was Midsummer's eve, and I was sleepy. It had taken some time to walk to this sacred place, and now I was there, the wild grass beneath my feet, and the ancient stone of the dolmen below me. I sat down to rest. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of heather, and the sun was gentle and warm, and the peace and calm of the surroundings drew me softly into slumber.
 
And in my sleep, I could see the clouds moving backwards across the sky, and night and day followed in a succession of swift, flickering images. Within an instant, the dolmen was unbuilt and had gone, and the sea rose and fell a hundred feet or more, and the trees and a valley stretched out where there had been sea.
 
Faster and faster the ages seemed to pass, until the earth convulsed in volcanic fire, and I was flung into space from the primeval earth.  I was drifting, floating in space, watching the birth of the solar system, and yet I felt no fear, only a sense of peace. And I watched the earth as unformed to become scattered dust, and the sun reduce in brightness until its fires had also too ceased, and it too had been unborn.
 
Then I felt dizzy at the speed at which time was unfolding, so that I closed my eyes, and presently I felt that this strange motion of time had ceased, and I opened my eyes, and beheld complete emptiness, a dark formless space, with not the slightest spark of light. And I heard a voice, like a whisper, speaking.
 
In the beginning was the void,
And the void was without form or substance
And outside the void was light
But the light had withdrawn herself
And created the void
She had made the womb of creation
A space where there was no light
And light was concealed
And there was only a darkness of the void
Into which whole worlds could come into being
 
And suddenly there was a sharp sound, a pure note ringing as if someone had plucked a string from a harp, and the sound gradually faded. This resonated throughout the void, and I when I looked, I now saw a faint glimmer of light. By that light, I could see a crystalline surface of ten strange vessels, vast beyond imagination, the size of a million galaxies, floating in the void.
 
What were these vast artifacts? How had they been brought into being? I could not see all of them, for they were still dim.  But I knew that something incredible was waiting to be known.
 
And as I pondered these questions, the voice whispered once more:
 
Through my word have created the vessels
And through my word these will be filled with light
Here is the beginning of all things
By these ten vessels shall all be created,
By wisdom and by understanding
By reason and by strength
By rebuke and by might
By righteousness and by judgment
By loving kindness and compassion
These are the gates of creation
The doors to all knowledge
 
And as I watched, the vessels began to pulse and glow with light, ever brighter and brighter, until I could barely see the incandescent shapes though half closed eyes. And they were full of such beauty and goodness that I could barely look upon them.
 
But then another tone sounded, a discordant ringing, and at this sound, seven of the vessels shook, and could no longer contain the light that welled within them. There was a great noise, and I was deafened, as the vessels shattered, and shards of light and dark flew out into the void, twisting and turning, and I shut my eyes briefly, blinded by this explosion, as the universe convulsed and ruptured.
 
In my vision, I realised that before the stars, before the planets, before all history, and all time, the stars themselves had blazed out in a cosmic explosion, coming into being as the primordial vessels of creation shattered.
 
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the shards of light and dark coalescing, forming the galaxies, and time moved onwards, swiftly, and the planets also formed from the swirling patterns of star dust. And I saw again the earth, burning with the heat of early fires erupting from the ground, then a white snowball in space, and finally the blue planet that I recognised as my home.
 
And I felt a stirring breeze, as the Midsummer sun began to set, and the warmth was leaving the land, and I knew I had awakened from this strange dream.
 
I opened my eyes and stood up, at this wonderful world which came from the stuff of stars, looking at the ancient stones, and the far distant shores below where the tide was rising, and the lush green trees on the hills around. Here was my birthplace, the only world in which I knew with certainty that the matter of the cosmos had become alive and aware.
 
But here was also scattered among this world, in its beauty and its grace, the sparks of light from the shattered vessels of creation, and I knew that these had become broken, displaced, obscured. And the voice whispered in the breeze once more:
 
Gather up the sparks of light
Do what is right and just
And heal the fractured world
With acts of knowledge and wisdom,
Understanding and love
Justice and compassion and beauty,
From the ashes a fire shall be woken
a light from the shadows shall spring
And that which is lost shall be restored.
 
And as I stood there, the sun set below the horizon, and one by one, the stars came out. And I was filled with joy.

Enlightenment

Enlightenment: A Meditation for Beltane
 
I remember charcoal burning on the brazier in a cold night in early May. The air was fresh with the scent of wild flowers, but as the sun set, a chill wind came across the land, and I huddled closer to the fire, the better to keep warm.  And I was beset with a fever, and shivered in the cooling evening.
 
I am Gawain, a Knight sworn to chivalry, and this is my tale. In those days, I was a brave hearted young man, full of restlessness. I had heard of Arthur and his consort, the Lady Guinevere, his advisor, the Mage Merlin, and the Great Court of Knights that Arthur had summoned; I had pledged to join that noble band, and fight for justice and peace throughout the land. For ours was a time of discord, there were many bands of brigands in the forests, and local war lords held sway over their own domains, oft ensnaring the unwary traveller.
 
In the distance, I heard a hunting horn, and presently I beheld a man in rich raiment, coming along the woodland track, on horseback.  He dismounted, and approached me. He told me he was the Lord of Cader Idris, and his castle was nearby, and if I would follow him, he would give me food and shelter for the night.
 
So it was that I journeyed to the keep of the Lord of Cader Idris, and outside its gate were three beacons, built of well dried wood, and ready for the burning. But I thought no more of this, and entered the castle, and was shown to my room by the Lady of the Castle; she was dressed in a fine green gown, and wore an emerald ring upon her finger.  And there I remained for three days, recovering from my chill, and in daytime, I lay there in my bed restlessly, listening to the birdsong, and slowly regaining my strength, sleeping and taking sustenance as the servants brought me bread.
 
At times I slept; and then I dreamt fitfully, and in my dream I saw the silhouettes of an old lady and an old man, seated at a small table, lit by a small candle which did not suffice to light the darkness; they were moving the pieces of a finely carven chess set across the board, and every night the lady would take the knight up, and place it in a place of peril, and I would awake, hot and sweating.
 
And later each night, the Lady of the Castle came to me in my room and brought with her a shining golden cup, and bade me drink deep of the mead within, and then servants came and lit the fire, so that I might remain warm. And after drinking this, I fell asleep and slept deeply and restfully each night until the dawn; a sleep unclouded with troubled dreams.
 
Then at last I was recovered and  the Lord came to me and told me that I must pay for my keep, and he would have me take three days in the hunt to match the three nights I had dwelt in his castle.
 
The first day I set off into the forest, a cheerful sunny morning, with the sunlight dappled through the canopy of green leaved branches. I wore a light jerkin, and took with me a sharp long knife, and this was to be the hunting of the wild boar. All day long I hunted him, and all day long he eluded me, so that I was forever catching a bare glimpse of him as he fled, until at length I came across a clearing where he was grazing on the grass, and I rested a while, for I was worn down by the chase. And I would have killed him, but I stayed my hand, and returned to the castle empty handed. Then the Lord of the Castle asked me why I had no prize to bring back. And I said to him:
 
"I bring back the lesson of fortitude that the hunt teaches me that like the wild boar, I must not give up at the first hurdle but continue, and persevere with all my strength until the last. The reward of the chase is not in the kill, but in the striving. This I learned from the hunt and it is enough."
 
And the Lord said "Truly that is well said", and he bade me light the first beacon, saying "Now is the Beltane fire that enlightens burning once more."
 
The second day I set off into the forest, a cold and cheerless morning, with a cool dry breeze moving the branches above. I took with me a spear, and this was to be the hunting of the red deer. All day long I hunted her, catching stray glimpses of red amongst the greenery, until I was thirsty and exhausted by the long chase. Then I came across the deer, and she was panting by the running stream, and she gazed at me with soft sad eyes, and I bent down, and kneeling took water into my hands and drank deeply of that cool water. And I would have killed her, but again I stayed my hand and returned to the castle empty handed. Then the Lord of the Castle asked me why I had no prize to bring back. And I said to him:
 
"I bring back the lesson of delight that the hunt teaches me that like the red deer, I must not forget to turn aside from a  pursuit of worldly aims and neglect the steams of living water, for those replenish the parched spirit of those who thirst after justice, so that they may not be worn down by the cares of the world.  This I learned from the hunt and it is enough."
 
And the Lord said "Truly that is well said", and he bade me light the second beacon, saying "Now is the Beltane fire that enlightens burning once more."
 
The third day I set off into the forest, a wet day, with rain dripping off the canopy of leaves above. I took with me a bow and arrow and this was to be the hunting of the fox. The fox was sharp, and on more than one occasion I came round the trunk of a tree only to see a bushy tail disappear from view behind some bushes. And I was soaked with the water, and it was a miserable day, overcast and grey clouds drizzling down upon me. But I presently I found myself in darker part of the forest than I had hitherto seen, and there was a dry floor of pine needles. And there, curled up and grooming itself, was the fox, and it looked slyly at me, as if daring me to go for the kill. And I would have killed it, but for a third time I stayed my hand and returned to the castle empty handed. Then the Lord of the Castle asked me why I had no prize to bring back. And I said to him:
 
 "I bring back the lesson of hope that the hunt teaches me that like the clever fox, I must learn to think swiftly on my feet, and avoid the snares and traps of the commonplace, seeking instead a haven of calm; for many are those who turn aside to the distractions of the world, but the fox is a cunning beast that knows how to run the race unseen, and use knowledge in the quest for justice. This I learned from the hunt and it is enough."
 
And the Lord said "Truly that is well said", and he bade me light the third beacon, saying "Now is the Beltane fire that enlightens burning once more. And now your pact is kept, and you are free to stay or leave my domain, as you will."
 
That night there was much merriment among those living in the keep, and a fiddler played a merry tune; I danced with the Lady long into the night. When at last I tired, I lay down my cloak, fell asleep, a good restful sleep, such as I had not had for many a night
 
When I awoke, I was in the clearing, and around me were the charred remains of the three beacons, the great Beltane fires, their grey ashes blowing gently across the scorched earth. But of the castle, there was no sight, nor have I seen it since these many years.

Awakenings

It was the Spring Equinox yesterday, and I penned this meditative piece for that.

Awakenings
 
The cold air was sharp, like a knife stabbing, as I ran onwards through the blizzard. And I remembered what I had left behind, the fear, the sorrow, and the loss; it was the ending of our world.
 
I could still hear the cries of our people as they engaged with the Roman enemy, but the Roman army held its ground, kept its tight formation, and remorselessly, relentlessly, came on. Anglesey had been our last stand, our shout of defiance against the Romans, but it had been in vain.
 
We had shouted our defiance, and waved blazing torches. Our druids had raised their arms, and invoked the gods to smite the enemy, and cast incantations against the Roman Army. Our women had shrieked and cursed the enemy. But the gods did not hear our plea; they were deaf to our entreaties. We knew that our time had come to an end, and our gods had deserted us, but we still prepared to fight on.
 
But still the Romans came on, keeping together, and held fast against us. Without such discipline, our warriors soon broke ranks, and fell back in disarray, and everywhere was a clash of metal, sword against sword, and still the Romans came on, shields held upright, short swords stabbing without mercy, and the air was thick with the cries of the dying. And I could smell the thick smoke, the pungent smell of burning wood, as the soldiers set fire to the trees of the sacred groves, and the holy oaks were destroyed.
 
"Go now," said my mentor, an aged druid, "and take with you our wisdom, our knowledge, and keep it safe, so that once more the sacred flame of our tribes may burn brightly; let not all trace of our peoples perish from the face of the earth. You will be the last of the druids, and in you rests all our hopes."
 
And so I fled, the cries, and the wailing laments behind me, and ever on my trail, I could hear the pounding footsteps of the Roman soldiers, marching remorselessly onwards. The snow was deep, and my footprints left an easy trail for any enemy. I clutched the precious Ogham sticks, bound together with twine, and wound my way through the thickest forest, hoping that I would succeed, that I might escape.
 
I passed a frozen stream, and saw the otters padding over the ice, trusting to the crust of the water with such skill. And still I hurried on, my breath catching in the cold air, and still the shouts of pursuit behind me, my feet sinking in the deep snow, and glanced at the icicles, which hung like spears from the branches of the trees.
 
And so it was that I came to the grove, the bare branches of trees heavy with snow. There was a well, and seating behind it, an old woman, her tattered shawl wrapped around her against the winter cold. And she turned and looked at me. Only her soft blue eyes did not seem worn with age, but gazed at me with a clear bright gaze, glinting with tears, as she said:
 
The truth is in the depths.
It is time to descend into the dark
And there you must rest, asleep
Until the time of awakening draws near
And the spring comes to this land.
 
She took me along a winding path to a hillside, and she beckoned me to go there. I had been here before, long ago, and I could see a fine cave, and I entered the cave mouth. There was a blazing torch burning in a stone socket, which I took, and descended into the darkness. I looked back, and she stood there, at the entrance, and softly spoke a word of power. Then the earth groaned, and rocks fell, blocking the way out. All was silence. The only way for me was down.
 
I passed glittering stalagmites and stalactites, and saw the strange markings on the cave walls that our ancestors had left behind, calling on the deep magic of the earth, and then I came to a wider cavern. There was a large flat slab of granite; a sacred table, and beside it, a neatly folded linen blanket. I placed the torch in a carved stone socket. Then I took the gourd from my belt, and drank the bitter draught of herbs, as I had been told, and lay down upon the stone table, and drew up the linen blanket.
 
I had a feeling of time passing, I saw circles turning, and felt the darkness pressing heavy upon me, deep within the earth, but it was a feeling of holding and safety, and so it was that I passed out of consciousness, and out of time itself.
 
I lie there, in the darkness of the mind
The future dims, and I feel so blind
Around me, enfolding, is a sheet of white
Tightly wrapped around with might
Holding me fast within its clammy grip
A shroud so strong, it will not rip
Despite my efforts to break this bond
There is no give, it will not respond
I let go, and fall into the deep abyss
The darkness closing inwards so amiss
And then the strands part, threads break
With screeching sound like a mandrake
Into dust, the shroud dissolves away
Leaving me free, loosed from its sway
To rise up, and see the dawning light
The new day will be so very bright.
 
And then I awoke with a start, and I knew that many years had passed. The linen garment fell away to dust as I sat up, and I could see a beam of sunlight shining at the far end of the tunnel, for the cave had been so chosen that this would happen when the time was ripe, and the spring equinox had come again. I picked up the dry bundle of my Ogham sticks, and stood up.
 
I made my way towards the light, groping along the cold, damp walls of the cave. The light grew larger as I approached, and the air inside began to get warmer and drier. And then I was at the entrance, the cave mouth, and the boulder in front had fallen to one side. Gradually I eased my stiff limbs passed it and out into the sunshine again.
 
The sunlight was warm and gentle, and suddenly there was a burst of sound all around me. I saw a path threading its way through the meadow, bordered by a patchwork of wild spring flowers; there were straggling clusters of cowslips, the soft blue petals of ground ivy, the delicate purple of heartsease, the bright yellow daffodils, all swaying gently in the breeze.
 
Below my feet, the wild grass was coloured by the shining gold of meadow buttercups, with differing hues of yellow. The air was thick with the scent of flowers, and alive with the gentle buzz of bees as they flew from flower to flower, and all around was the call of birds.
 
I passed beside a wide stream, no longer frozen, but now swiftly running, water sparking in the sunlight, and shaded by the brilliant green of a huge willow. Birds were singing over the shallows, and I saw a trout darting among the gravel and pebbles. Mayflies drifted slowly with the current, and I saw sand martins flit across in front of me, seeking a safe site to nest.
 
And there is the clearing once more, and by the ancient well, sits a woman whose outline I seem to know so well, the blue flowers of forget-me-knot in her hair,. She turns to look at me, and at first I do not recognize her, but then she raises her young, fresh face, pushes aside a lock of shiny brown hair, and I see again the bright blue eyes that I knew so well, so long ago, that same clear bright gaze, and I know who she is.
 
For the seasons have come full circle. The old woman of winter has been reborn, and I go forward to greet and embrace, once more the maiden of spring.

First Planting

The 2nd February is Candlemas, but is also the ancient festival of Imbolc. Here is a meditation for that festival...


First Planting
 
Long ago at this season, our people set out on a journey. Our native lands had suffered poor harvests, and there was a famine, and fighting over food. So we gathered our cattle, and our bags of grain, and set off away from the conflict, to find a good soil where we could settle and plant anew.
 
Now our tribe was weary. For many months we had travelled across a cold and desolate land, following our wise man, who told us the omens were ripe for our departure, as Saturn and Jupiter moved closer to each other, heralding a sea journey. We passed through the wild woods, and from there to the coastal regions, where we saw the sea, blue and clear. There we cut down trees, and made a ship and embarked to find a new land.
 
A soft wind from the south began to blow, and we sailed as close as we could to the coast. But soon a very strong cold wind - the one called "Northeaster" - blew down. It hit the ship, and since it was impossible to keep the ship headed into the wind, we gave up trying and let it be carried along by the wind. For many days we could not see the sun or the stars, and the wind kept on blowing very hard, and there was a violent storm. Our ship was lifted high in the air and plunged down into the depths. In such danger, our sailors lost their courage; they stumbled and staggered like drunks, and all their skill was useless.
 
Our children were crying, and we were all afraid, with the rain pounding around us, and the ship heaving in the tempestuous seas. But there was with us our old wise man, who was also a weather worker, and as the storm reached its height, he stood up, and spoke softly to the wind, and the wind and waves diminished, and soon there was a great calm.
 
So it was that we came into the small bay of the Island that was to be our home, and there we managed to make the ship's boat secure and disembarked on golden sands with waves breaking on the shore around us.
 
All the tribe disembarked, and climbed upwards, until at last we came to a high place. It was night, and Saturn was slowly been rising in the east. This was the place for us to settle down, and we made a blazing bonfire for thanksgiving to the gods who had brought us here through perils to safely. And from the fire, we lit candles, and passed them around our circle.
 
Then the wise women stood and intoned this blessing
 
Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.
Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.
 
May the light of the candles we kindle together tonight bring radiance to all who still live in darkness.
 
Lighting these candles, we create the sacred space of the Festival of freedom; we sanctify the coming-together of our community.
 
And the following day, we began to build our huts, and till the soil, so that the seeds were ready to plant. Very soon, the land was ready, and the elder of the tribe stood and blessed the soil:
 
Blessed be the Earth Mother, and all creative hands
Who plant and harvest our fertile lands.
 
Blessed be the orange carrot and brown cow,
Bless also potato and mushroom, even now
Bless too red ripe tomato and runner bean,
And blessed be parsley and peas so green
And onion and thyme, garlic and bay leaf,
Blessed be the yellow corn, each golden sheaf
And blessed be all that we come to sow
In the good soil, that so richly does bestow.
 
May all be fed, may all be nourished, and may all be loved.
 
Now we are settled into this new land and have put down firm roots. And as long as the world exists, there will be a time for planting and a time for harvest. There will always be cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night. And we shall always plant, and while we care for the land, the land will nourish us, and each spring we plant the seed into what seems to be the dead soil, and life is born anew, and the green blade rises once more.

The Time of Ice

As we have just had the shortest day, the day of the Winter Solstice, here is a tale to read after leaping over the smouldering Yule log, sitting by the fire, sipping a glass of warm and spiced mulled wine....

The Time of Ice
(A Meditation for the Solstice)
 
Come in, and sit down, as the fire burns brightly. Close the door, and keep the draughts at bay. For this indeed is a tale told by the fireside, a tale for fire, but also a tale when there is ice outside, and the cold fingers of the Northerly wind rake their frosty hands upon the window pane.
 
It is said, and was told to me, that long ago, the days were mild and temperate, and the sun shone brightly throughout the year. The trees blossomed with fruit all year long, and rivers irrigated the land. This was the golden age of the world, and happy indeed were those who lived in those glorious days.
 
But one day, there was a change, as a breeze sprang up, and the breeze became a strong wind, and then a gale, coming from the North, and the land grew colder, and the days grew ever shorter. The sun lost its strength. The crops failed, the land grew cold and barren, leaves turned brown and began to fall from trees, and there was hunger in the land.
 
There was a blight on the land, and the tribe felt the darkening of the days, the cold that chilled to the bones. They were full of a deep foreboding, a deepening gloom, a malaise that only the sun could shake off, but little by little, the days drew in, and the cold, dark night came, and brought only despair and melancholy.
 
It was a cold walk to the cottage where the wise woman lived, so the leaders of the tribe, an old man and a young maiden, set off in search of an answer to the blight that had afflicted their lands. And she welcomed them in, and soon they stood warming themselves before her fire. They asked her for help, and she gazed into the fire, as if falling into a trance, and spoke softly:
 
Branches dancing wildly through a stormy night
Sea foaming, waves churning against sea walls
As if an elemental force was loose, an evil wight
With destruction in its wake, as darkness falls
 
Seek the wisdom in the sacred fire, heart of gold
The sparks from where the shattered vessels fell
And fight against the darkness rising, be so bold
And venture forth into the lands where shadows dwell
 
And in those days, there was also a wise man, the keeper of the sacred flame. This was surely were wisdom was to come from. So they went to the wise man.
 
Now the wise man kept the flame upon the high places, set among the stones of the ancestors, and it burned as a beacon to guide sailors by night, and also a place where the tribe made the offerings to the gods of wheat and barley, of the first fruits, and of young lamb, when they sang of the blessings of the land, and gave a measure to the gods in thanksgiving.
 
The keeper of the flame told them that the seasons were out of balance, and the strange weather days were the result of an evil come upon the world, and he would strive to find the cause, and return to the tribe the heat of the sun. But the days grew ever dark and cold, and it seemed that the land would become a land of night, beset by wolves and bears, where no crops would grow, and all hope would die.

And so he set forth, and they kept the flame alight, in faith that he would return, and never gave up hope, even when the children cried with hunger pains, and their parents sought firewood with, venturing out with fingers chilled to the bone, and hurting in the cold winds that tore through this once pleasant land.
 
But when all hope had almost gone, he returned, after forty days, from the wilderness, and sat down by the fire, and told us his tale; the tale that I tell you now.
 
The keeper of the sacred flame had ventured far into the north, along the narrow mountain paths, and passed down through deep gullies, and the snow was thick upon this land. At last he came upon a mountain. This mountain was taller than any he had seen.
 
On the mountain's peak, lightening struck the land, with powerful energies, while all around a thunderous boom echoed across the valley. And on its summit stood a fortress, wall upon wall, battlement upon battlement, black, immeasurably strong, with a gate of cold steel, and above those cruel pinnacles, a great tower of black stone.
 
Upon that tower, the keeper saw a dark shape around which the firestorm blazed out, and yet sucked in the heat and light, and remained in shadow. He held a staff high in his hand, summoning the elements, and crying out an ancient spell:
 
Cold and blackness on the land
The void consumes the light
Gather darkness, reach out hand
And bring forth endless night
 
Tenebrae, O Tenebrae!
Et Ite Nunc!
 
And as he spoke, a colder wind spring up, and flakes of snow began to fall.
 
The keeper knew that this was the Ice Lord, and he had taken our fire and bound it to his will, stealing the light and warmth from our sun, drawing it to his mountain realm, and causing the days to weaken, and the tribe to feel despair, as all light and joy was stolen from them.
 
The keeper raised his own staff, and chanted an incantation of light:
 
We celebrate the sun returning
Growing light, early dawning
The sun brings life and growth
Rain and sun bring fruits both
As the light of the sun grows
Passion for life it now bestows.
 
Love is as powerful as death
Passion for life in each breath
Bursting into strongest flame
Let us rejoice, now proclaim
Burning heat like raging fire
Tongues of flame to inspire

So it was that the keeper of the sacred flame battled the Ice Lord, and great was their struggle. Bolts of fire rained down, setting fir trees on fire, and a storm raged around the mountain peak. But the Ice Lord was held at bay, and weakened, and his fortress crumbled, and the dark tower fell. The rocks of the mountain themselves slid, and all came crashing down.
 
Then the keeper bound the Ice Lord, and chained him with many binding spells, and with his baneful power gone, the days began to grow longer once more, and the warmth and light of the sun began its slow return.
 
The keeper of the sacred flame was weary from his struggle, but victorious, and gradually, he retraced his steps, returning to our village. But it can cost him dear; he lost all his powers in that fight, and died soon afterwards.
 
Now all that took place many years ago, and the tale was forgotten, almost lost, except among those who passed it down the years, telling it to each other.
 
And it is said that every year, the Ice Lord breaks his chains, and casts an evil enchantment, binding the sun to him, summoning warmth from the land, and robbing the earth of life, and the people of joy. Then the winter storms bring a dying year, and a fading sun, and despair casts a shadow on the land.
 
But also every year, we rekindle a portion of the sacred flame, when we take the Yule log and burn it anew
 
And as we do so, it is said that the spirit of the keeper of the flame returns to keep us safe, as he awakens from his deep sleep within the trees. Then he ventures forth once more to battle against the dying light, and at the shortest day, he holds the darkness at bay, and the days begin their slow march back to light, growing longer and longer once more.
 
As the trees burned brightly when the battle fought, so we keep a remnant of the burning fires ourselves, and light the Yule log, for hope, for the renewal of the sun at the turning point of the year, and as we leap over the smouldering wood, we too cross the threshold from darkness into light and are reborn.
 
Pass through fire, be not burned
Such is promise now discerned.

Thin Places

A Meditation for Samhain / Halloween...

Thin Places
 
Dusk comes, and in the evening light, the stars begin to shine. I look up and see the great square of Pegasus, and the swirling star dust which forms the Andromeda Nebula. When the universe was half its present age, the light was leaving this distant island universe, and has travelled for millions of years to reach the earth.
 
I cross a stream, and see three small pebbles on the ground below me, and pick them up, and they are icy cold within the palm of my hand, and I intone the incantation of the dreaming stones:
 
I will lift the stone
For substance, virtue, and strength;
May this stone be in my hand
Till I reach my journey's end.
 
It is a clear sky, the patterns of light bright against the dark backdrop of night, and the cold wind blows across the moor. Lyra and Cygnus are overhead, and between them is the dark void which forms the Cygnus Rift. I shiver in the bitter wind, and walk towards the old forest nearby.
 
The forest is dark, and scattered starlight barely penetrates the canopy of branches. But there is a light shining ahead, and I make my way towards it. There is a clearing, where a large tree has fallen, and two lanterns hang from the branches of other trees, their flames flickering yellow. Nearby is a small pyramid of stones, and I bend down and place one of my stones upon the pile.
 
Suddenly I am aware of an old man standing still near me, in a white robe, with a staff in his hand and a golden sickle in his belt, and as I stand up, he pushes back his hood, and I see his white hair, and his sweeping silver beard. He smiles, and beckons me closer, and points.
 
I follow his finger, and see between two branches of a tree that a spider had spun a web, delicate, gossamer, and fine. The silver threads gleam with dew in the lantern's flame. In the centre, the spider waited for its prey, small and black. The man looked at me; his eyes were bright and fierce. Yet he spoke gently.
 
"The fates spin their web," he told me, "and we too weave our own web, the pattern of our lives, of good or evil, of memories of joy and goodness, of our successes and our failures."
 
I watched as the spider crept slowly across the web to where a fly was caught in its meshes. "Here are the ghosts caught in the web of dreams," said the old man, "and now is the night to face the ghosts, for this night the ghosts are unleashed. Here are the phantoms of past hurts, of fears, of regrets, of the roads not travelled, those moments that haunt our days."
 
"Can nothing be done?" I asked, in my distress.
 
"Yes indeed," he told me, "but you must face and ponder your past, and face those ghosts, or they will return from the dark recesses of your mind and haunt you still. But now you must go on further, for not all is dark.  There is fear at the roots. You must look to the deep springs for strength and seek the well of dreams."
 
He handed me one of the lanterns, and gestured towards the forest path. And I left the old man, and went along the path, the trees crowding in against me, branches like fingers trying to catch me. But then there was another clearing, and in its midst, I saw a well, its wall of ancient granite stones, some covered in moss.
 
I gazed down into the well, and the lantern light flickered in reflection. I dropped one of my pebbles down, and the light danced in the water, as the waves spread swiftly out, and the reflection faded, and an image, indistinct, began to form in the swirling ripples.
 
Then the image cleared, and I saw the sun shining warmly upon a green and pleasant meadow, with an apple tree ripe with fruit at its centre, and a river of cool water flowing by. I saw myself there, feeling full of joy and hope, and all those I have known as friends and those I have loved, whether alive or dead, were there, holding hands, and dancing in the sun around the tree.
 
And a woman's voice speaks softly, "Here are the summer lands, the hopes of the days to come, to be yourself as you truly are, and where nothing that is good is ever really lost. This is but a glimpse, and you are seeing only a reflection, darkly, but later you will see face to face. You know it within yourself, that even those you love and befriended are never gone, because you remember them, and they live in you."
 
 I turn my gaze up, and see an old woman in a shawl, with a ruby ring shining on her finger, and she points me towards the path.
 
Once more, I walk the old forest way, covered with wet leaves, but the path suddenly opens up and I am back in the open, once more out on the heath. The night is inky black, and out of the blackness shines brightly and steadily the pale white stars. I look up, and find Capella shining brightly in the night sky, and suddenly there are flashes across the sky, as the Orionid meteorite shower strikes the upper atmosphere and burns up.
 
A bitter cold assails me and then I see a bonfire is blazing, and beside it, I see once more the elder, cloaked in white, and the old woman. Together they gaze upwards where Saturn is shining brightly in the night sky before dawn breaks, and chant together:
 
Come Saturn, ancient planet
In far distant space, cast a net
And draw in rings, many bands
Of colour, falling light on lands
Antiquity rising, now come down
Cold pressure descending, a gown
Of mystic purpose, heavy burden
A crushing weight of glory then
Like mountains of centuries past
Layered, deep, so huge and vast
Freezing waters, such biting cold
Unendurable sorrow, so very old
Yet strength as well, hard as rock
As granite walls, the waves do mock
Fling back the breaking seas, endure
This is Lurga, ancient of days, sure
To strengthen us with powers blast
But a fraction of the planet cast
More would unmake us, take care
Saturn descending, become aware

I warm myself in the glow of the fire while night fades, and the stars fade one by one, and watch the final embers as they die, and then presently the sun rises, and I hear the sound of birdsong. The old man and woman wave at me as they leave, returning to the forest, and I walk away from the trees, into the new year dawning, feeling born anew. I feel the stone within my hand, and it is warming.
 
May this stone be in my hand
Till I reach my journey's end.
 
I let the last stone gently fall onto the deep grass. And I have reached my journey's end.

Lammas

Wikipedia notes that: "August 1 is Lammas Day (loaf-mass day), the festival of the wheat harvest, and is the first harvest festival of the year. On this day it was customary to bring to church a loaf made from the new crop. In many parts of England, tenants were bound to present freshly harvested wheat to their landlords on or before the first day of August. In the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, where it is referred to regularly, it is called 'the feast of first fruits'.

This is a short meditative piece of writing for Lammas:

Listen

Listen, and you can hear my voice, in the blade of grass rising, in the earthworm churning the good soil beneath your feet, in the land beneath your feet that is now my gift for you to use with wisdom.
 
Listen to my voice, I am the spirit of stone and soil. I was here before men and women worked this land,  when all was wild and free, and the great forests grew with deep roots nourished by my spirit.
 
I am the oldest, the first born. I remember the first raindrop and the first acorn. I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless.
 
Listen to my voice, I was here when the first tribes came, and sowed the corn, and farmed the land, and my soil nourished them.
 
And remember those tribes, for this is the time of year when they rejoiced in the ripening of the first fruits, and of the cutting of the first sheaves of corn. And I say to you, rejoice also!
 
Rejoice, I say, but remember the darker places, leaner times.
 
Remember times of hunger and famine, of drought, when the earth was barren and dry, and there was only dust to eat, and the tribe was sore afflicted.
 
Remember those in other lands, whose bellies are hungry and whose crops have failed, and answer their cry. For your ancestors upon this land also knew these times of hardship and hunger, and others heard their cry.
 
Take what I give, for I am generous. Take and taste the sweetness of the first fruits, cut the first blade of corn.
 
But also give to others with generosity of your bounty. Give to the widow, the orphan, the stranger, and those far away across the seas, in distant lands, and great will be your joy.
 
Rejoice in the abundant rain on the ploughed fields,  soaking them with water, softening the soil with showers and causing the young plants to grow.
 
But where there is no rain, and my soil grows dry, and the crops are parched and thirsty, ask the gods of air and water to send the good rain, to feed me, that the dry springs may run again, and hope spring eternal once more.

The Dance of the Cosmos

The Dance of the Cosmos
(A meditation for Midsummer)

It is Midsummer, the longest day, and the sun is still bright in the sky. My feet are firm on solid ground.

We am standing on the earth, the earth spinning round at a thousand miles an hour. It feels solid, unchanging, unmoving. But it is not. Under out feet is not solid ground, but a lightening swift movement. Feel it, and sense the motion. The earth is hurtling around the sun at sixty seven thousand miles an hour. This is the start of our dance around the sun, and who knows where it will end?

The time has come to journey forth, and reach into your minds eye, and come with me, come leave the earth, and rise, through the clouds, until we reach the emptiness of space.

Here is sunlight, raw and beautiful, the darkness of the void, and the solar wind, the particles dashing through space, and we drift outwards, beyond the planets, past the great eye of Jupiter, the rainbow rings of Saturn, and the cold gas giants at the edge of darkness.

We look back from the cold depths of the Oort Cloud, the fringes of the Solar System where the ice cold comets dash to and fro, cold specs of ice and rock.

And we look back, and see in the distance the planets, large gas giants, the smaller planets, and our own green earth, all moving along their ellipses, the motion of the planets in their own stately dance.

And we move further out, and the solar system itself is but one jewel in a sparkling diadem, a part of the great spiral dance of our galaxy, all in flux, all in motion, against the vast gravity well at its centre, straining against that black hole, and turning, a cosmic wheel.

And further out still, and now the galaxies themselves are small spirals, moving in their own dances, against the vastness of the night, the dark backdrop of the universe. A universe of shining beacons in space, all alone in the night.

The cosmos is a dance, and stars coalesce from cosmic dust, and are born in flame, burn so brightly, flare and die to red dwarfs in old age.

This is the dance, and we hear the tune playing, sometimes joyful or plaintiff, or light and small or sombre and booming, and the Lord of the Dance calls to the Universe, and a thousand civilisations, countless sentient beings, reach out to make those notes, and join the dance.

A billion stars, a billion suns, and around on a multitude of these swirl planets, turning, where alien faces celebrate their own seasons, their own midsummer days.

We are but shadows, fragments, each a microscopic spec against this vastness, and yet each mote of dust has its part to play, each moves within the dance; there is a place, and an order within all things, and we follow the rhythms of our universe, back through our galaxy, our sun, our world,, until we are back with feet upon the good soil; we see the branches dancing in the wind, and the passing of the seasons of the earth, and we rejoice that we are one part of this whole.

The universe is vast and awesome, but the molecules of our body are the same molecules that make up this planet, that burn inside the sun and stars themselves. And we are the children of the stars, star dust come alive, the universe made manifest.

And throughout the world, on this midsummer day, people are lighting bonfires, burning wheels cascade down hills, and there is drinking, rejoicing, singing, merriment - and we see that even the least of us is needed, however short our span , we have our part to play, and each note is needed for the song, else the cosmic dance would not be complete.

A Time of Fire (Beltane)

I have worked metals for many a year. I am the smith, and I have made many artifacts, forged in iron or copper, or bronze, for that is my skill, my art, handed down from smiths past, from generation to generation. This is our gift, to take fire and weave it with air and earth to bring a form from molten metals.

The metal comes out, molten from the crucible, and it takes many forms. The horned helmets, swords and arrow heads for the warrior, harps and lyres for the bards, iron nails for the shipwright, statuettes for the temple, jewelry for the women, pans for food, coins for exchange, and amulets for protection.

For I am not only the smith, I am also the patterner, shaping the ways of our tribes, as I take the metal, and cast it in many forms.

And now the time of fire has come upon us, and I must forge a sacred pattern.

The charcoal fire is burning brightly, and upon it rests a crucible of gold. It is a shining fiery liquid, almost ready to pour into the clay moulds.

It is time to blow upon the hot metal, and cast the charm. And I intone the sacred words, and make the spell:

Here is gold, fire from the sun, and may the wearer bring a burning passion for justice among our tribe.

As the gold melts, so let the fairness of righteousness and harmony flow across our tribe in the coming years. This is the fire of binding and friendship.

Here is gold, refined from base ore, and may the wearer bring a burning passion for purity and wisdom to speak to our tribe.

As the gold shines, and reflects the brightness of the sun, so may our tribe be guided in the paths of light. This is the fire of holiness and glory.

Here is gold hardening, as the fire cools, and may the wearer take us along the paths of the dead.

As the charcoal turns to ash, so let ashes from the funeral pyre be cast into the wind, blown across through thin places into the summer lands. This is the fire of hope and ending.

And I draw in the air, the rune of closing, and the pattern is made and complete. For I am not only the smith, I am also the patterner, shaping the sacred ways.

Now I pour the gold into the clay mould.

When the mould is broken, the charm will be complete, and there will be an armband of finely twisted gold, and I will take this golden torque and hand it to the druid. And he will place it upon the arm of the priestess, and the time of fire will be fulfilled.

And when I am dust, and all my tribe are dust, blowing in that other wind, another people, a far distant tribe, may yet come across this sacred torque, buried beneath the soil of ages past, and wonder again at the mysteries of our past.

Equinox Rising

There is a stone table to the west, but what was it really used for? Was there a sister table in the east?
 
Equinox Rising
 
Prologue: Around 1850.
 
It was a cold, windy day, and I climbed the hill to where my men were waiting for me. There it was, a stone table. It looked exactly the same as the table they had found in the West.
 
The local name for that was "La Table des Marthes", the witness table, where people would come to sign important documents, as was the custom as far as living memory could tell.
 
It was a large flat granite slab supported at each end by pillars of stones and earth, and no one really knew what its purpose was. And now my workmen had unearthed an Eastern table, the twin of the Western one. No one else had seen it, and it was here for the taking; material for building dry stone walls. I lit the fuse, and retired.
 
Around 4,000 BC
 
My sister had always been special. In the speech of our tribe, her name was Sulis, the wise one, and she was born one night when the moon had turned red.
 
Sulis was a quiet young woman, but sometimes we would catch a glimpse of her dancing in the groves, delighting in the songs of the birds; more often, she would wander off, by herself, and come back with leaves and berries. Healing was a gift with her, and she could reach out and take the pain, gather herbs, and apply a salve of her own making upon sores and wounds. She would intone softly, and charm away the wart, and make a brew of leaves to ease those troubled and unable to sleep. Her face shone with joy, and we loved her dearly.
 
One day, Sulis gathered the young and the wise of the tribe, and she went up on the mound above the tomb of stones, and opened her mouth and taught them, saying:
 
Blessed is the earth, for she is our mother, and she shall take away your hunger. From her womb shall come forth food in abundance. The cattle that graze on her shall bring forth sweet milk for us to drink.
 
Blessed is the sun, for he brings us warmth and life to our seed, and makes fields white for harvest. And the flowers reflect his joy in the beauty of our world.
 
Blessed are those that weep, for your tears shall water the earth, and it shall bring forth fruit.
 
And blessed are those who are least in the tribe, for the mighty will fall, and their names will be lost, but your children will endure for ever on this island home.
 
But woe to you that take most, and leave others hungry, because only your bones will endure.
 
Woe to the leaders of the tribe, for you take the paths of darkness, and close your eyes to injustice, and you will never see the light.
 
Woe to you that sacrifice to the old gods of blood and soil, for those gods are dead, and your prayers go unheard, and the land will be barren.
 
Now the chieftains of the tribe heard what Sulis was saying, and they were angered, for they saw a threat to their rule. And so they decided to make a lesson of her, to teach others the laws of the tribe, and bided their time.
 
We had survived the winter, but it was another year of hardship, of poor and failing crops. Sacrifices had been made to the gods, burnt animals, but it had been in vain. And last year, when the sun god was at his weakest, the elders had decided that animals were not enough.
 
There had been sacrifices before to the old gods when times were bad. And the elders spoke of how the dark gods reached out and took life from the earth, when they were angered, and how their fell breath caused a blight upon the harvest. Then the shaman scattered powders on the fire, and the flames burned green and blue.

And the shaman told of how Sulis had mocked the old gods, and caused the harvest to fail. This was a sign that the old ways should not be neglected, and animals had not been enough; only the death of one of the tribe would appease them, and stay their hand. Only blood would appease them, so that they would return to their slumbers, satisfied, their hunger fulfilled.
 
So they bound Sulis, and took her to the stone of sacrifice in the East. There they bound her with chords. And the shaman took a stone knife, and as the sun set on the shortest day, they ended her young life, and took her deep within the passage of the ancestors, and laid her there to appease the gods. Then they sealed the entrance with large boulders, and we who loved her so dearly wept bitter tears.
 
Now three full moons had passed, and the time had come when night and day are as one, equal partners in the dance of the heavens. We came to the threshold of the stone passage, and the chieftains called forth strong men, and they rolled back the stones. The sun began to rise, and a thin beam, like a spear drawn along the ground, white and gleaming, moved softly down the dark passage, towards where Sulis had been placed, their sacrifice to the gods. Her skins lay there, but they were empty, and the light struck the back stone, and it was not hindered because she was not there. And the chieftains were afraid, and the shaman confounded, and all was in disarray.
 
We heard the wind passing through in the trees, the branches swaying, and we saw the grass move gently as if someone was dancing lightly. And in the whispers in the wind, as dawn was breaking, Sulis spoke to us, and told us to leave the paths of the dead; and we left the tribe with their gods of blood and soil, never to return.
 
Many years later, a traveller passing by told us that the shaman had sealed the tomb, but the tribe was no more, and all that remained was the tomb, now covered in earth and grass; it would be forgotten and become even less than a distant memory, with no songs of the cruel tribe, but only with the spirit of Sulis, ready to awaken again one bright clear morning.
 
Epilogue: Spring 2010
 
It was a cold March day, and fifty of us were waiting in the darkness, as the light changed from the black of night to the orange shadows that foretold the break of day. And then, at first a speck of brightness, and gradually a growing circle, was the rising sun. As it rose higher, the light travelled down the empty passage, lighting the darkness, until it touched the far upright stone.
 
The air was alive with the sound of birds, the wind was rustling in the trees, and it seemed to me that it was whispering, with the soft voice of a young woman. Rejoice, rejoice, the wind said, for the light has come, and the tomb is empty, and the goddess of spring is awake once more.

Rites of Spring

Rites of Spring
 
It is cold, wet, drizzle, sometimes sleet, and we make our way along the cliff path towards the little cottage. Even before we reach there, the door opens, and the old woman greets us, welcoming us inside. "Be seated," she tells us, and brings us each a warm cup of sweet tea, and we sit back in the chairs, in front of the warmth of the fire, blazing brightly. The room is dark and cosy, lit by the flickering flame of candles, placed on the window ledges around us. The window rattles with the sound of hail, small pellets of ice harshly battering against the glass.
 
She takes a larger red candle, inscribed with a large gold circle, inside which are three interlocking eclipses. This is placed on the table, and she takes a taper and lights it. She asks why we have come.
 
My mother speaks. She explains why we have come, of how the frost could destroy the crops, lay barren the earth, and how winter still holds the land in an icy grip, even though the time of spring is upon us. I remain silent, I am an observer, not a speaker, the dutiful daughter. My time has not yet come, but it is near. I am the maiden, the promise of new beginnings.
 
This woman is a weather worker, it is an ancient art, mostly lost, and she tells us of her path. "This is not lightly done, for rain and sun here could mean blizzards and snow elsewhere. There is a balance, and it takes wisdom to see the path, and find the way. Your daughter will help us find the way."
 
She moves the candle in front of me, and asks me to tell her what I can see. My time has come. I look into the flame, yellow, flickering, smoky.
 
I see to the east, the storm clouds, and the swell of dark waves beneath the moonless sky. Images flicker into my mind. A mansion stands on the hill, and music comes from within, and it is ablaze with light, and the sound of partying. Over the hill, a small house, an old couple clutching each other for warmth, as their fire dies, the wooden embers a dull glow. Birds fly outside, seeking in vain for water beneath a frozen pond. The world is covered in a canopy of white, and it is a cold and silent land, as quiet as a grave. The candle burns, a cold blue flame, with no heat.
 
A voice cries out "In a cold and loveless world we have kept the love to ourselves".
 
I see to the south, the dry lands. Planes are landing, and food is being loaded, and flown away into the distant sky while children watch with hunger in their bellies. Elsewhere fires burn fiercely, fanned by strong winds, and there is no water. The streams have run dry, the crops are failing, the cattle are dying. The candle burns with a red fire, hot and scorching, and my face is seared with heat.
 
A voice cries out "In a hungry and despairing world, we have failed to share our bread"
 
I see to the west, and the earth is in convulsions, the planet screaming in pain. Poorly constructed houses have fallen apart, roads collapsed inwards. Amidst the wreckage of the buildings are the moans of the injured and the dying, and limbs askew of the dead. A rain falls, a black rain of ashes, and there is much weeping. The candle burns with a purple flame, lighting the path for rescuers, and in mourning for those who have died.
 
A voice cries out "In a dark and disfigured world, we have not held out the light of life".
 
I see to the north, the northern lights. The church is beneath the blazing colours, the ancient stones lit by a curtain of lights, and inside all is ablaze with light. I am inside, and I look down the aisle, and a hundred small candles light the path towards a blazing cross of candles. The people sing of sorrow and of joy, of suffering and the refiners fire, and of how they must pass through the flames. They have been waiting for a long time, and now their time is near. They leave in silence, departing in peace, and their task has just begun. The candle shines with glory, and burns with a white flame, calm and gentle.
 
A voice cries out: "This is the moment to speak, to act, to change, to hope, and wrestle for wholeness and the light of justice and freedom. Kindle in us the fire of love."
 
And I return, and it is over. There is only the silence, and my mother holding my hand firmly in hers, and I know what I must tell the old woman, that we must each take up our appointed task. And she nods, and takes up a handful of dust from an earthen bowl, and faces to the east, and blows softly, until it leaves her hand, falling to the west. The rites of spring have begun, and we must depart.
 
Dawn is breaking, and the ice upon the path is thawing, as the wind changes slowly from east to west, and the sun rises. Ahead is the dolmen, the ancient stones that are our past, our present, and our future. The past is behind us. The present moment is complete. And we vanish down the stone passage, into the darkness, to rest beneath the sacred earth until the future calls us forth once more.