The Other Eye Opens: I Meet the White “Horse” of Uffington #uffington #chaulkfigures #dragonhill

I’m not sure what path is usually taken to visit the White Horse of Uffington, but I felt I must crest the hilltop and stand upon the Castle before I made my way to the chalk “horse” below it.  The chalk figure is not small by any means. From one end to the other it measures 360 feet, yet the “white horse” is nestled just so within the hillside making it difficult to view unless one is high above it. Since we were  diverted by construction, and the mist of morning obscuring the hillside, my best option to get a photo of the chalk figure was from the mound of earth called “Dragon Hill.”

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You can just make out the chalk outlines below the crest of the hill, above the road.

The White Horse has been on this hillside for more than 3,000 years, and some say it’s not a horse, but a saber toothed cat, or even a dragon…which is rather hard to argue when you consider that just below it is the mound of earth known as Dragon Hill. The site where St. George is rumored to have slain the dragon. And, perhaps more compelling is the the curious shape of the Earth, which Sue pointed out, is also best noticed from high above…

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In the middle of the right hand side of the photo, you will see Dragon Hill, a rise of earth covered in chalk (under the grass) where St. George slew his dragon.

Legend has it that the large white splotch of ground on the top of the hill will never grow grass because the blood of the dragon spilled upon it.

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The mark of the dragon’s blood

One does get the feel of battles fought and rituals held atop Dragon Hill, which looks over the land while being protected by the “Castle” behind it. It’s not hard to see the grandeur and feel the power of the place, as well as imagine the awe it must have encompassed over its many years of existence. Years that seem to be layered by different civilizations with different purposes. The mighty sword, taking over the peace of the land, but not anymore…

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I stand above the “head” of the “horse with the wing of the dragon to the left and Dragon Hill to the right.

It is from the body of the chalk figure, though, were you can get a sense of the greater body that resides below you. The sheer awe is nothing short of exhilarating as you peer out over the vast wing rippling the earth. A dragon who may be sleeping, but whose energy is not dormant.

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The “head”

It took feeling into my inner sight to find the dragon beneath me as I descended Uffington Castle. To trust the knowing of where I needed to end up. Which was the place considered the head, but also looks curiously like an eye. Some say the lines hanging down from the “head” are teeth, some say they are the fangs of the dragon, but if you take the head for an eye, it resembles the Eye of Horus, which was all I could see.  Another eye, drawing me inward… Whereas Long Meg had pulsed in the red energy of Earth, as I stood looking into the head of the dragon, I felt the pull of the sun.

It took all I could not to step inside…

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This portal of the sun has a way of drawing you in.

I believe these sites are sacred. There are rules here that should be honored and respected. Reverence is required to walk the ground if you wish to learn what it has to teach you. If not, you should not be there. I felt that I had ventured close enough for that day, walking the edge, careful not to tread upon the chalk, while Sue and Larissa watched from above.

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Larissa, Sue and Ani (who seems to have gotten special permission to walk the eye)

Two eyes had opened, and I felt wholly alive. It was time to cross over to the land of the dead…

To be continued…

To read the previous posts in this series about my recent visit to England, please follow the links below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The “Castle” on the Back of a Dragon #uffington #whitehorse #dragonhill #uffingtoncastle

During my first trip to England — you know the one where I went in search of the white horse in the wrong Uffington — I climbed Glastonbury Tor with my family. I can still recall the wild exhilaration that consumed me the higher I climbed the mound of earth, until I reach the top and felt as though I was queen of the world. Or my world anyway. Anything felt possible in that limitless space where Earth touched heaven in a path to the heart.

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Atop Glastonbury Tor

A similar energy stirred my cells to life as I climbed the hill leading to Uffington Castle. A hill that does not hold an actual castle as one might imagine it be, with stones and mortar, but the open-air castle of Earth kissing the heavens.

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Uffington Castle had a similar feel to Glastonbury Tor. Not quite as wild, and more protected, it still gave me the feeling of union between Earth and Sky and a marriage of the divine masculine and feminine energies.

Although battles, perhaps many, were likely waged upon this hill and its surroundings, it has a powerfully feminine look and feel. At the top, anyway. It is like a womb, forever birthing and open to receive the energy that runs below it and above it. You see, it sits on the back of a dragon, whose fire energy courses through its body. The ley lines do not feel broken here. But alive.

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Ani, Larissa & Sue stand nestled in the wing of the dragon.

Uffington Castle is an ancient “hillfort,” and it looks like a large grassy arena protected by raised banks of earth that slope into hollows in two places. Although the first hollow greeted me as I crested the hill, once again I felt the impulse to walk counter-clockwise, to the second depression. Stopping, for a moment, to absorb its full splendor, before I entered the body of the earthen womb.

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Where I entered the “castle”-womb

It’s nothing sort of glorious to stand in the middle of Uffington Castle and feel the wrap of the womb open to the heavens. To gaze at the vast blue above and feel as though you are a part of it all. A tiny seed birthed into being from forces that are limitlessly powerful, yet filled with love. For a few moments I allowed myself to feel the wrap of the beloved in the center of the castle. Just me and the hawks of the sun circling in kite form above. It was nothing short of glorious. I felt wholly and completely alive.

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Climbing the castle hill with Ani

Although there was the familiar impulse to linger much longer, it was enough stand in stillness for a few moments and allow the full sense of being to sink into my cells. Below the mound of Uffington, a dragon horse awaited me, its eye calling to be seen…

To be continued…

To read the previous posts in this series about my recent visit to England, please follow the links below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

A white horse appears (well, actually two) and I make a stone sing #uffingtonhorse #whaylandssmithy #blowingstone

This would be my second attempt to visit the White Horse of Uffington. The first attempt occurred during my first trip to England, in April of 2016. I had taken my family with me, and we were traveling by car from Derbyshire toward Uffington, or what we thought was Uffington. To be fair, it was Uffington, just not the right Uffington. Turns out there’s at least two Uffingtons in England, and I had punched the wrong one into the navigation system, adding a 3hr detour to our trip and a great deal of frustration and disappointment. Instead of seeing the White Horse, we ended up at an old abbey, which happened to be closed that day. Determined to get something out of the mishap, I peered over the tall gate and took a few photos of what we couldn’t see.

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The remains of an old abby in “Uffington”

Since there are actually several horses covered in white chalk in England, we did end up seeing one, albeit thousands of years younger than the horse we had intended to visit. Not to mention it’s rather ordinary looking in comparison…

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The white horse we found

And so it was that I had set out on another adventure to see the famous White Horse of Uffington. This time I was being driven by Sue, who knows the roads of England like the back of her hand.

It was one of those rare gifts of the day. Although Sue had only the morning and a wee bit of the afternoon to offer us, she had promised to pack a full day into the hours we had together. Larissa and I started our day before sunrise, planning to catch a 7am train to Aylesbury. We caught the 6:33am one instead, leaving us ample time to find some caffeine at our destination and spot Sue’s car before it could park near the train.

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The famous Ani at Wayland’s Smithy

“I’ve given her a bath and a run,” Sue announced as I happily piled into the backseat to join the small dog I had read so much about.  Turns out Ani was even more excited about our adventure than I was, and that’s saying something.

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The house that guards the Blowing Stone

Since we were traveling at the peak of rush hour, we encountered a fair bit of traffic. Once we got through the bulk of the mess, and neared our destination, we had another hurdle to face. The road to the White Horse was blocked for construction. I wasn’t too worried, though. Time was precious that day, but I had faith in our driver and sure enough, Sue found another route. A route that just happened to lead us to another white horse, being lead by a rider on the roadside near the Blowing Stone. I took it as a good omen of things to come.

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The Blowing Stone. Legend says that if you blow it right it can be heard at Uffington Castle, above the White Horse

“Give it a go,” Sue urged as we stood there staring at the ancient stone on the roadside. What the heck, I thought. I’ve traveled all the way here, I may as well give it a try. It took Sue having to point out the correct hole, of the many, to blow into, but three attempts later, the ancient stone sounded like a bugle. I was, admittedly, rather pleased with myself. Perhaps there was luck to be had this day. In the distance, nestled into the hillside was the white horse I had been waiting for. Just a short drive away. Above our heads the kites had started to gather in their dance with the sun.

To be continued…

To read the previous posts in this series about my recent visit to England, please follow the links below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

A Walk in the Woods with Tess & the Offering of Feathers: My Final Day in Cumbria #england #cumbria #travel

After the experience at Castlerigg, I needed some time to process, accept, and surrender as best I could to what was. We had planned for a laid-back morning for my last day in Cumbria, and after I awoke I asked if I could take Tess for a walk. I should probably clarify that. Tess is not a dog you actually have to walk. She’s one of those rare gems that walks herself, and you, without the trouble of a leash to bind you together. I didn’t have to worry about finding my way, getting lost, or losing sight of my companion. Tess not only leads the way, she stops to wait for you and makes sure you know where you’re going. It was quite the treat for me, as I am used to walking two over-zealous dogs (on leashes) who could care less if I want to go where they want to go, which is often in a completely different direction from each other, and me.

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Tess during our morning walk stopping to check on me.

Anyway, back to my walk with Tess. It was another glorious morning. Filled with sunshine and just the wisps of clouds to compliment the blue, blue sky.  And as we set out, down the old canal path beside Bernie & Steve’s home, I began to allow the beauty of the day to sink into by body, as well as the many unexpected gifts the weekend had offered.

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Fairy Woods

The paths that I had traveled these last few days had been filled with the warmth of the sun and of friendship. There was the ever-present reminder, albeit sometimes difficult to accept, that I do not walk this path in life alone. Although Castlerigg was not appreciated in the way I had intended for myself, nor revered in the way I might like to see other visitors revere it, it had still been appreciated for its outer beauty on a beautiful day. Long Meg and Little Meg had offered to me a more intimate visit in contrast, reminding me that the magic is always there, even though it may sometimes go into hiding.

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The green, green land of England.

Another day was unfolding before me. A quiet day filled with the grace of the present moment, if I chose to reside in it. Tess and I passed only two other travelers during out walk, and our passing was uneventful and unobtrusive. It was easy to allow peace to settle in and take the place of heartbreak as I walked in the beautiful land of Cumbria.

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It was nearly impossible not to appreciate the beauty that surrounded me.

I could have walked for miles, and so could Tess, as she reluctantly turned around after  we got to our third “bridge to nowhere” to lead the way back home. We, or rather I, had toast and Bernie’s prize-winning marmalade waiting for us. And, boy did it taste good. Rather like you might expect a drop of sunshine to taste, if one could taste sunshine.

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The gift of white feathers

The four of us, Tess, Bernie, Steve, and I, spent the afternoon at the seaside, enjoying the beauty of the day and the presence of good company. Following tea beside the water, Tess and Steve played frisbee on the grass, I took photographs and breathed in the sea air. Along the path of my feet, white feathers scattered the grass. I had been well taken care of by my wonderful hosts and Mother Nature during the weekend, and perhaps that’s just what I needed most.

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Steve overlooking the sea

But the journey was not yet other. I had more time adventures awaiting me in London and a magical day with Sue and Ani in the land of dragons and “castles.”

To be continued…

To read the previous posts in this series about my recent visit to England, please follow the links below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

 

Castlerigg at High Noon #castlerigg #stonecircles #cumbria

I had been forewarned. Silence can speak volumes, and the early spring was impossible to overlook. Yet, there was that glimmer of hope that the mysteries of Castlerigg would somehow be open to me.

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The Welcoming Information at Castlerigg, which sits atop the charming town of Keswick.

We are waiting for you.

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Unlike some stone circles, Castlerigg is easy to find and access, and with unbeatable vistas it’s nearly impossible to have the place to yourself.

I had heard the ancestral call. I had felt the cells stir through centuries past with a visceral memory that fired my body into deep longing in the weeks, months, and even years before I made this journey. Yet it was not to be. Not this time anyway.

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The stones felt lifeless to me, as though their energy had retreated deep within their forms.

We drove up the hill that holds the stone circle known as Castlerigg at high noon on a brilliantly warm spring-like Sunday. Cars flanked the roadside, and at its crest an ice cream van sat in wait for the throngs of hungry tourists. The urge to turn around and hop back into the car nearly consumed me. You can’t erase first impressions.

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Castlerigg is an undeniably beautiful place any time of the year.

Sometimes, though, we must face our must crushing moments head-on and take the lessons they give us. Disappointment can be a gift, leading to surrender and acceptance. And so I climbed to the top of the hill and met the stones filled with visitors.

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I wanted to spend some time with this stone in particular, but as you can see it was a popular spot.

It’s a beautiful place, I am sure, in any season, and that day Castlerigg shone with the light of the noonday sun. Bright and golden. It lit the faces of the picnicking family having lunch in the sanctuary (hence the absence of photos of this intriguing area of the site). Its rays played through the shadows of bodies as they wove in and out of the standing stones, and lit the smiling faces of selfies posed amid the inert bodies of rocks.

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Although I didn’t do a great job capturing it, the stones of Castlerigg shadow the contours of the surrounding landscape.

The site was filled with energy, but it was not coming from the stones, or the distance hills that rim the landscape. Instead, it came from the revelers of humans visiting the site.  It was, in many ways, the antithesis of the encounter with Castlerigg I had envisioned.

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Even the faces one expects to find in ancient stones were virtually absent during my visit.

If I could, I would take it all back. I know that this may be the wrong response, but it’s the truth. There’s no point in lying to oneself, it merely pushes the truth into dark corners where it festers for light. It is not an easy thing to do, writing this post. It would be impossible to describe the full impact of my first encounter with Castlerigg, and its effects on me. Yet, it is for me, and me alone to process as I attempt to dig inside and find the gifts from this experience. Not the “why,” as much as the acceptance of the “is.”

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It was as though the spirits in the stones had turned their backs to me.

What felt, in the moment, as the ultimate betrayal and rejection — a date to meet the beloved, only to find the beloved had receded back inside the the distant hills — led to the inevitable acceptance that the beloved resides within. Always present. Yet, this is not an easy acceptance. I still long for that promised (re)union. To place my body supine upon that open hillside in the middle of the ancient stones and hover in the liminal space that bridges the Earth to the heavens. I still long for that moment where I can open myself completely to the spirits of the land and listen to all they have to say. To feel the wild wrap of the elements and the stirrings of a long held magic waiting, just waiting, to be brought to life in that perfect moment of union.

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Below Castlerigg, the lakes of Cumbria mirror the glory of the land.

There is, though, a comfort in the mundane, and the knowing that I made it through this trial. This test, of which I am still unsure of the answers. That I am unscathed, albeit a bit heartbroken. My beloveds surround me in physical form back home in New Hampshire, and little, in the greater vista of life, has been lost.

Later that night, when I closed my eyes to sleep I saw the girl standing in the hallway and the wrap of cloth around her eyes had disappeared. I still had two full days ahead of me, and I was determined to make the best of what was offered to me.

To be continued…To read the previous posts in this series about my recent visit to England, please follow the links below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

I Journey from Long Meg to Little Meg #longmegandherdaughters #longmeg #littlemeg #stonecircles

The pulse of red spiral of light emanating from the Long Meg stone lasted mere seconds. As the stone returned to its outer stasis, I found myself catching my breath in wonderment. Had I imagined the red eye? I examined the place where it arose, and before me was a spiral, inlaid in the stone. Surely I had not, but what did it mean? I am not, by nature, prone to seeing the unseen with my eyes open. Each time it happens it feels like a rare and precious gift, and this was no exception. I had not expected to have a connection such as this at Long Meg. Rather, I had thought my moment was intended for Castlerigg.

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Long Meg looks over her daughters

Like with each visit to these sacred, ancient sites, I found the time passing all too quickly. Time that could not be spent with each individual stone, whereby it might offer some of its secrets. Instead, I felt the whole of the landscape as best I could. Opening to whatever it had to offer. As I looked from Long Meg’s vantage, down the rippling slope that held the oval wrap of her daughters in stone, I felt the blindfold slip from my eyes. There was a longing within me, but the longing was not mine alone. It came from the stone standing beside me, and in chronicled a time that stretched through thousands of years. It was filled with loss, but not the same ravishing loss that I had felt at the Raven’s Nest.  This was not the feeling of sudden, violent pillage and desecration. This was the loss of a slow diminishing of the magic held within. A loss spread out over centuries. And a longing for it to be returned. To be remembered and revered once again.

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I would have liked to have spent more time with this large stone, which shows a bird-like face rising from its left side in the photo.

There are stones in the oval below Long Meg that appear sad and forlorn. Others feel empty and forgotten. And then there are those that stir with life still held within. Some watch, while others wait. Some feel like they are missing entirely, and now only empty space remains.

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Some of the gaps, such as this one, feel purposeful, as though they mark an entry to the “circle” flanked by recumbent guardians.

As I relaxed my gaze to take in the landscape before me I saw the ghosts of a distant past. A ceremony filled with life and purpose played through the sacred space. I saw our ancestors walking through grass that rippled like water, the heavens arching above. I saw a merging of the sacred. Each element aligned within and without. As natural as the breath that is not held back. And I saw a path leading to a smaller circle down below.

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You cannot see Little Meg from Long Meg, at least not now, but it is not far away.

When we left Long Meg, I asked Steve about Little Meg. “It’s not far from here,” he told me. “I’ll take you to it if you’d like.”

Little Meg is tiny in comparison to Long Meg. The stones arranged intimately, as though to contain a fire. Not an outer fire, though, as much as an inner. Whereas Long Meg feels open and exposed to the outer, sharing its magic to many in a larger ritual of ceremonial reverence, Little Meg seems to represent a space for the individual relationship to the “teacher” within and without.

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Little Meg in its present state.

The path, if there once was one, which I feel strongly there was, is no longer marked from Long Meg. Instead, one must either wander through farmers’ fields and over stone walls, or drive as we did. The distance between the two sites is only 0.5 kilometers. Situated in a farmers field amid a rubble of smaller rocks, the circle of stones that is called Little Meg looks and feels disrupted. But, it has not entirely lost its magic.

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The stones of Little Meg are not likely placed as they once were, but they still hold a magic of the past.

It is still being used, and honored in individual ways. Most likely not the same as it once was. When I was there, I saw crow’s feathers arranged in its center, and the offering of a polished pillar of quartz. It did not necessarily feel misused, so much as neglected.

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The more you peer at each individual stone, the more faces and figures you see. These stones hold stories for those who wish to hear them.

During my brief visit to Little Meg, I had the impulse to sit in her center and open to the inner world that might be revealed to me. Yet time did not permit this. There was also the impulse to clear away the debris that didn’t feel like it belonged. The litter of smaller stones…the fallen branches…but there was also the feeling to let it be. That although in some ways forgotten and neglected, Little Meg was living out her legacy as a part of Earth and there was a feeling of peace to this acceptance.

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This stone looked as though it was missing a part, perhaps chiseled off years ago, but one cannot mistake the connection to Long Meg with its spirals.

It reminded me of circles I had seen in landscapes that were both intimate and vast. Like Barbrook and the Nine Ladies. It offered an inner wisdom for those who wished to find it. A union of energies. The outer to the inner. The masculine with the feminine. And, the human with the animal nature of self. It was both lovely and serene. And it offered a peace and acceptance I would soon need.

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The faces in this stone are hard to miss. A human face intimately joined to a feline/animal form hints at the melding of these energies that exist inside all of us.

Once again, I left with the pull of longing to stay.  Both Little Meg and Long Meg had offered gifts, and I was filled with gratitude for their presence. Tomorrow would not be easy to accept, but in the meantime, I had the companionship of my lovely hosts and their furry friends, as well as a delicious and grounding dinner awaiting me.

To be continued…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

 

 

 

 

Keats & The First White Feather #keats #keatshouse

I woke to sunshine and the sound of my friend hollering across the room. I had slept for two-and-a-half hours, our agreed upon time so that we could venture into the land of Keats.

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The Bust of John Keats. A rather handsome man, as my companion declared.

More than two decades ago, I had fallen in love with the young poet and his bold, unapologetic, and hopelessly romantic poetry and writing. Before the tender age of 25 when he succumbed to death by tuberculosis, Keats had managed to produce an astonishing amount of work filled with the beauty and pathos of life. Truth and Beauty. Those words haunting the Grecian Urn to extend time into eternity. You can imagine my surprise and delight to discover that the poet was also an amateur artist of sorts and had drawn the actual urn he had poured his musings into.

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Keats’s Grecian Urn

And then there was his beloved’s engagement ring. A hopeless romantic myself, I had fallen in love with their love. So much so, I had written my honors thesis comparing Keats’s poetry to his love letters to Fanny Brawne.

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The ring Keats gave to his beloved. Sadly, they were never able to wed.

The house itself is both beautiful and understated, fitting for the young poet. Nearby is now a large library, of which we did not venture inside, but both felt a fitting honor for the poet. Outside the white facade of Keats’s home are beautiful gardens, which were in the full flush of spring. February spring. The day before I was in the throes of winter in New Hampshire. Wrapped tightly against 20 degrees Fahrenheit amid a land blanketed in white. Now, before me, purple and gold crocuses littered an emerald lawn where an old tree reaches toward the pathway that wraps the house.

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The guardian tree outside the poet’s home.

I felt the spirit guardians inside the tree watching me as I passed. Judging, perhaps, the worthiness of my feet to walk the path of the poet. It was, in many ways surreal. The sudden, early spring laid before me. I, treading the the role of voyeur through the rooms where Keats slept, ate, and wrote his heart’s truths on a wooden desk with quill and ink.

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Instead of the wall, I imagine the young poet gazing out the window at his gardens.

What did he see, I wondered? What was his land like many years ago? The house looked, in many ways, untouched. Outside, several of the same buildings still stand as they had during the poet’s lifetime. England is old, far older than Keats’s timeline.

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The poet’s home

It took but a short while to roam the rooms and gardens of his home, and we were soon venturing out in to his beloved Hampstead Heath. The afternoon sun beginning to turn the land golden. Its heady warmth lifting my sleepless form in a semi-somnambular weightlessness.

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Hampstead Heath is vast and filled with romantic beauty.

How many poems had been inspired by the poet’s walks through these woods? Woods so vast one could easily get lost inside of them. We did. For awhile, before we took out the phone and gave into the modern convenience of tracked navigation.

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This tiny pup stole our hearts with her brave determination to keep up with the big dogs.

It had been a full day. A day blessed with the quiet peace of a past mingled with the present. The woods were filled with dogs and their companions, the air imbibed with the mingled appreciation for the beauty of the early spring day.

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We ate outside, in the garden under a heat lamp. The air turning chill with the descending sun.

We had an early dinner at the Spaniard’s Inn before we ventured toward home. As I looked over the land, my eye caught upon a large white feather formed by clouds over Jack Straws Castle. I took it as a sign. Of what, I did not know, but there would be more white feathers. Many more, before my journey in England was over.

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White feather cloud

I had almost forgotten about the girl with the blindfold waiting in the hallway as we climbed the stairs to the flat. Overcome with the exhaustion of travel, the weight of the long waking hours over took me as I climbed once again into bed. I closed my eyes expecting immediate sleep, but there she was. Unmoved in the hallway. Waiting for me. The blindfold still wrapped around her eyes.

To be continued…

This is part 2 of my most recent journey to England. To read part 1, please click here

 

 

 

 

The Blindfolded Girl in the Hallway #travel #london

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Photo Credit: Pexels

It had been easy to plan. Perhaps too easy. My husband’s forwarding of the airfare deal had led to another trip across the pond that had been pulled together quickly and nearly effortlessly. I had two sets of gracious hosts, an almost absurdly inexpensive flight, and dates that fit the family’s schedule as perfectly as circumstances allowed. My feathered seer had appeared to me in dreams, visions ,and physical forms, and I felt I had to go. The pieces had seemingly fallen into place of their own will.

Perhaps too easily.

Life, I have learned, rarely unravels before us in the way we envision it. I had felt the shift. The silence in the weeks before my departure, but had tried to ignore it. The plan had changed, but I wasn’t sure how.

The inevitable test began during the flight to London. I was sandwich in the middle of the airplane, between two men, one much larger than the other. The armrests were taken and I knew I could easily succumb to the feeling of entrapment if I allowed it to cloud me in. There would be no slumber, not that I had planned on it. I rarely sleep on airplanes, even when the flights, like this one was, are overnighters. The large man to my right began to snore before the plane taxied down the runway, so loudly, heads turned from several rows away and looks of pity fell upon my face.

Yet, I was determined to make the best of it. I pulled my headphones out of my purse, plugged them into the seat in front of me, and scrolled through the dismal list of films. Two movies and one granola bar and yogurt later, we arrived at Gatwick. I, surprisingly alert.

The trip through customs was quicker than expected, and my train tickets easily purchased. My only mistake, not buying the combo tube ticket because the agent assured me I would get a better rate if I waited until I got to the station. Turns out it’s not so easy to get a ticket if you don’t already have one, or an Oyster card, of which I am now the proud owner.

After some minor scrambled confusion, I got my tube ticket, found the right terminal, and boarded the tube. My friend was waiting at the “meeting place,” and we set off to buy some provisions before we settled into her flat so she could get a few hours of work in, and I some sleep.

The bedroom was cool and welcoming. After I removed the layers of clothing that had enveloped me for the past night and previous day, changed into PJs, and brushed my teeth, I slipped under the duvet and closed my eyes.

And that’s when I saw her. The girl with a blindfold over her eyes. Standing in the hallway, beyond the closed doors. Waiting for me.

Part 1 in a series of posts to follow that will cover my most recent journey to England to study some of its ancient sites. 

A Marriage of Eastern & Western Medicine & my thoughts on the documentary “Heal” #heal #healing #medicine

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If you haven’t seen the film “Heal” yet, the trailer can be viewed here. My husband, a family care physician trained in western medicine, and I, a practitioner of energy medicine (to borrow Donna Eden’s term which I prefer over healer), watched the documentary last night. A few days ago my mother-in-law had inquired as to whether I had watched it, so my interest was piqued.

We have been asked the question several times, in several different ways over the years, what it is like to be married to someone who practices “Eastern” v. “Western” medicine. As though they exist on the extreme ends of the a spectrum with no overlap. It is a question that involves polarity, which is always fraught with at least a small dose of misconception and judgment. We live in a world of polarities that can easily overtake our better sense of truth, serving to divine instead of unite.

Our marriage of seeming polarities works. for us. It is not always easy, we have our differences, but we balance each other out. My husband is one of the smartest and caring people I know, and I am not saying this because I am married to him. I have known him since  we were both 17. He is a genuine healer who came to medicine, not for the prestige or the money (hence why he chose family practice), but because he has a genuine interest in helping people.

In his office at work there is a salt lamp and a diffuser to balance the energies and help purify the air around him. If you searched his pockets, you would most likely find the polished gray of hematite and a blue andara crystal. He goes to acupuncture on a semi regular basis, and has had energy healing/medicine.

He has also referred patients to me, and to other “healers.” When we share our stories, we don’t doubt each other’s truths.

Many years ago, we studied science together. I graduated Bowdoin College with degrees in English and biology, thinking I would one day be a geneticist (and a writer on the side), while graduated at the same school to pursue his dream of going to medical school. From Bowdoin, I went to Brown University to continue by study of the biology and chemistry, but after one year there I realized I was not on the path of my heart. I still loved and valued science, but I knew there were other places for me to explore.

I am not finished exploring them, and I would venture to say neither is my husband. Many years ago, when I started venturing into the realm of energy medicine, my mentor at the time told me that my marriage would never work if we were both going in different directions. And, I believed her. I took her words as truth. She was my mentor, and I had falsely placed her upon a pedestal. Something we can all do, but should not. Our best teacher is always ourselves, and we should always check another’s wisdom with our own truth.

I have had to learn, through many difficulties, that a marriage is not about always walking the same path, but about allowing each other to walk their own path, while othering a hand in love to help each other along when it is needed.

We are each here, I believe, to see past false perceptions and to find that unifying force that unities all of us. That thing we call love. Limiting beliefs lead to polarity and false judgements arise from the fear of our own sense of inadequacy.

And now to speak directly about the film we watched together last night. “Heal.”  I am not writing this post to analyze the film, but to spark a different way of viewing medicine. There were aspects of the film that I felt were on-point, so to speak, and places where I wanted more, or different. No doubt my own beliefs and ego-centered judgements factored into my thinking, but one area I was hoping the film might venture into more is how “Western” medicine and “Eastern” medicine need not always be seen as polarities. You know, that “us” v. “them” concept so pervasive in our world right now, at least on the surface.

The downfalls of the practice if medicine driven by money and greed are not to be over-looked, as the film noted, but the focus was on the side of western medicine.  There is also, ego-driven greed in the practice of “eastern” medicine. It’s a fallacy to believe the ego plays a part in one and not the other.  Not always of course, but it is false to imply that this does not occur. There are also limitations to each system when the belief exists that “I know what is right for you.”

I had hoped that the film would attempt to bridge the divide, and to remind us that each extreme did not evolve separately, but that we have, in many ways, chosen to take the paths of division. The healing properties of nature are used in some of our pharmaceuticals (albeit not always ethically), a practice that arose from our earliest history. Hands are used as vehicles to heal in both, whether they are threading a stitch to seal a wound, or directing energy to release a pocket of density.

We have much to learn from each other to keep bridging the divide. The enemy does not exist on the other side, but in the false system of belief of the “other.” I see great promise in where we are heading, despite what we might see or perceive as the truth. I have encountered extreme beliefs based on ego on both sides, and have fallen prey to them myself. We must always check in with fear and weigh it in the heart of truth. But, science and ancient wisdom, or so called “new age” healing need not be viewed as separate and unequal. There’s a common thread that unites us all, and I believe we can weave it together.

“I was wrong about you” #yoga #nonjudgement

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Image Credit: Pixabay

It was like any other Tuesday morning, only it wasn’t. No two are ever exactly the same, just as each moment passes by us changed from the one before, whether we are aware of it or not. This Tuesday morning, though, was memorable in unexpected ways.

It began with a small mishap, a yoga mat de-potting an African violet that had been repotted after another de-potting from Millie-the-kitten-almost-cat a few days prior. Poor plant. Yet, accidents happen, and after a quick few swipes with the vacuum order was returned, or so I thought. Yoga with said mentioned kitten-cat Millie, and her side-kick Zelda-the-fifty-pound-dog, is never what I would call orderly. It’s a combination of laughter/hatha/kitten/dog yoga and one ever knows whose mat is going to be chosen for the Millie v. Zelda wrestling match yoga competition practice. This morning, though, Millie decided she’d rather spend the bulk of the class prowling the perimeter and upending every crystal and figurine in sight, while stealing peacock feathers and fishing in the water fountain for more rocks and crystals.

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Millie-the-kitten-cat resting after yoga class
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Millie’s side-kick, Zelda, who loves her like a daughter despite their obvious differences

But, I am digressing from the true purpose of this post, which is about what happened after class had formally ended and the collective “Om” had been uttered. Often, instead of a scurrying out the door to get to the next destination for the day, there is a lingering behind and sharing of the thoughts of the mind. Some days chatter is light banter, but today it rose from the heart. That place that reminds us we are all, in essence, the same. That we are each, in our individual way, trying to find our place in the world as human beings. Trying to live each day to the best of our abilities in this existence we call life.

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

Life can morph and change at any moment, both within our own existence and beyond. A fellow writer had shared her news that she would be appearing at a local bookstore the next day to discuss her book about childhood depression. A deceptively small work of fiction based upon her own life experiences as a mother with a child who went into the darkness of life at an early age.

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More about my friend and her book can be found on her website

When we open up the stories inside of our hearts, our shared humanity emerges. The energy of compassion and empathy pours from our beings and outer differences are ignored. I knew my friend’s story, but the others in the room did not. From her story flowed another, equally poignant. One that I had never heard before. We often interact with others without really knowing who they are. Their triumphs and sorrows, as well as those more mundane moments are not widely known outside the space of the home, or even the individual being who may tend toward introversion. And, although we may guess at other’s thoughts, and think we can read them on their faces, we can never truly know them unless they are shared from the heart.

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

When my friend shared her book and her story, another member of our yoga class shared her story about helping a different boy through his darkness. A boy, who was between childhood and adulthood who needed someone to see him for the gift he was. They had almost overlooked him when he asked for a job because of the reputation of his family. Now, they are his primary guardians. Although he is not theirs through blood, he is by any other definition their son. They have given him shelter, nourishment, and love. They have also given him unwavering support and guidance to see his gifts come to life. Yet, he was almost dismissed.

Five words changed everything. For him and for them. “I was wrong about you,” his foster father confessed after feeding him a much-needed meal and opening his ears to hear the stories in his heart. After realizing that a false judgement had been placed upon this young teen, the couple opened their door and their hearts to him, giving him a chance at a life he was not endowed with by birth. From his place of darkness, a new and brilliant light had dawned.

“I was wrong about you.”

How many times do we place judgement upon another throughout our days. This tendency of the human mind to make assumptions about other living beings has likely been a key part of our existence since the earliest stages of humanity. In some ways it helps us to survive, but it doesn’t always help us to thrive.

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Photo Credit: Prexel

We are at a stage in our evolution where polarization appears to be triumphing over unity. The false belief of the “other” that is somehow lesser than ourselves appears like a virus that we carry through each generation. Sometimes it lies latent, and other times, like now, it flares in all of its diseased desire to win and overcome us.

Later in the morning, after the rest of the yoga class had left, my fellow writer friend and I lingered a little longer over cups of tea while she told me about her night at the same bookstore with her husband. And as she talked, more hope sprung within me. There had been a discussion, which is part of a larger movement taking place across this country. It’s starting small, less than a dozen Indie bookstores are doing it at this time, but I have a feeling it will quickly grow. Its basic premise, to bring together seemingly different viewpoints and spark a conversation to find unity. That common ground that is in the middle of polarity.

The store had been filled to capacity, and I wonder how many left with a different mindset than when they had arrived. How many had said, either out-loud or in the privacy of their minds, “I was wrong about you.”