This wonderful poem by Amara Bronwyn MacEachern Hollow Bones sums up, in a nutshell, everything about the specialised shamanic path that I write and teach about.
We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys
They sank in our rivers of blood
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths
And then burned the earth with our rage
We didn’t teach our children
It was the only way to protect them,
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
and put out the fires
For the dams to break
For the rivers to flood
For the paths
to be walked again
For the soil to breathe
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble
We find we’ve always had the keys
Our stories and our maps
Our paths are revealed to some
And the seeds grow again
The threads are unspun
And woven again.
By Annie Dieu-Le-Veut
This article forms the beginning of a shamanic quest for my readers to help them understand and work with the imagery contained within my books that are based on Celtic magic. So if you’ve just stumbled into this Mystery Teachings class, you may want to go to the Introduction first, and then follow the links from there.
Before we start the shamanic or magical work for healing the Wounded Queens with the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, we need to get in touch with what needs healing within us because our power will come from what originally disempowered us. Continue reading
HERE she comes,” muttered Cerridwen, through glinting black diamond teeth, as the dark silhouette of a woman came suddenly into view against the pinkening skies on the horizon, running across the top of an undulating field before vanishing again into the dew-laden deeps of the darkening gloaming.
Cerridwen’s wizened snake’s eyes had been scouring the horizon for hours, while she stirred her cauldron with a long silvery ash stick that was almost as gnarled and twisted as herself.
With one black eye firmly fixed on the ever-duskening fields in the distance as the setting sun began to cast its long creeping shadows, she watched from the corner of the other as the Scorpion goddess constellation slowly rose, glittering like an ice crystal palace against the lapis lazuli celestial vault.
Listen to the whole of the first chapter of The Bright World of the Gods here:
by Bob Makransky
In order to communicate with plants (or people), you have to be able to regard them as your equals. If you are afraid (ashamed) to talk with homeless people, beggars, crazy people, etc. then you’ll also find it difficult to talk with plants. However, it’s actually easier to communicate with plants than it is to communicate with people because plants don’t have defenses and self-importance agendas in place to engage our own defenses and self-importance agendas. Continue reading
One of the greatest challenges that I’ve found in writing my books are the love scenes. They’re not exactly Fifty Shades of Grey – but I do linger on romantic liaisons a little longer than is polite, and so your specs might get a bit steamed up!
But I’ve found it a challenge to my sense of privacy, because you have to write from experience if it’s to ring true. I have to take my courage in both hands, to open up and reveal this secret part of my being to complete strangers. Added to that, there is the complication that these are not love affairs between mere humans on Earth, but beings that inhabit different dimensions. Continue reading
By Annie Dieu-Le-Veut
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed.
Lord Alfred Tennyson’s In Memoriam A.H.H.
This poem is well worth the read, in it entirety, because it shows the false idea that was in full flood in the 19th century of a Nature that is separate from God, and that is ‘shrieking against his creed’.
This cognitive concept, of the divide between God and the creation to the point that they are enemies was seeded during the Orwellian-named “Enlightenment” period that began a century before this poem was published; if was written today, we would call it psychological propaganda. Continue reading
by Annie Dieu-Le-Veut
This is a real faery story …
The Bright World of the Gods was gifted into my Dreamtime by the spirits of the land that inhabit the other dimensions permeating the Vale of Avalon, in Somerset, England. These spirits are known locally as the Gentle Folk, or the Fae, although you might know them better as faeries. They wanted you to know about them, and so my book is a real faery story about a benevolent Elder race whose role it is to guide the steps of humanity.