Anything Other Than Holy

I haven’t celebrated Samhain with all the trappings for years now.

The carved pumpkin heads, black and gold candles, myrrh-heavy incense, robes and a cast circle haven’t been seen around my place for a good long time.

That doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten to mark the first day of Winter. Rather, the marking has become almost entirely internal rather than demonstrative for me, and I’m happy with that.

I might be fortunate to be someone with enough intelligence and training to be able to work out for myself when the mid-point between Solstice and Equinox falls, four times a year and hence have less need to display my acknowledgement of the Sun’s apparent position in the sky.

Or I might be a person who hasn’t much need for the validation of others when marking time.

Or I might be a person whose interior life is just growing richer as I go on whirling on a rock around a big ball of hydrogen fissioning into helium.

Whatever the reason, my withdrawal from external displays of Sabbat hasn’t stopped my ancestors gathering around me when the time draws near, or me dreaming of them every night, conversing with generations I have never known while alive,  or inviting them to accompany me throughout my day.

For perhaps that’s the point – no day is mundane any longer, and no experience anything other than holy.


Power of Opinion

Saturday morning, and, having decided to cut my weekly washing into 4 loads rather than 2, I’m awaiting the machine wash-cycle’s pleasure and watching the news on the BBC.

(I watch the Beeb because, frankly, I prefer their use of language – rather than the parochial butcherings of the US or South African news services.)

A segment on Honduran immigrants to the US comes on.

The Trump ‘regime’ (it’s really a shit-show lead by an incompetent con artist, but ‘regime’ will do) has decided to end the protection given up to now to refugees from Honduras.

An elderly Honduran woman is among those interviewed. Speaking in Spanish, she opines that, while ‘gringos’ are undoubtedly intelligent, they sure aren’t hard-working like Hondurans.

Now, that is a blanket statement of racial bias if ever I heard one. But she is elderly, non-White…and a woman. These 3 characteristics give her a status slightly above a dormouse in the social hierarchy. If she had been, say, a middle-aged White bloke, her statement amounting to “Whites are lazy” would have been roundly condemned, and probably not been allowed to be aired at all.But there she ws, on international television, blithely calling Whites lazy and no-one batting an eyelid.

What this underlined most strongly for me was that your position on the social ladder determines the power of your opinion. Someone (that middle-aged White bloke for example) has the power to,presumably, hire and fire people, and his opinion carries a much greater weight of authority than that of the elderly Latina woman. So she gets away with it, whereas he, these days, wouldn’t.

And that’s OK. With great privilege comes great responsibility, both for our selves and for others, so the higher your social standing, the more powerful your every opinion truly becomes.

But for this morning, I just had a laugh-out-loud moment.

Spider Dreams

Can we take a single step which we have not mapped out for ourselves?

Is this Creation entire, without the possibility of stepping outside of its bounds?

Are we simultaneously dreaming and being?

For if we are both the dreamer and the dream, no misstep is possible – it’s not even possible to formulate that possibility.

Creator and Creation entire, whole, flawless and without boundary.

Earth, Water, Air, Fire – Today’s Musical Earworms

Covering the compass today with the songs which are stuck in my head.

For Air and Earth:

Dust In The Wind by Todd Rundgren (1972)

For Fire and Water:

Fire and Rain by James Taylor (1970)

..although the Tim Hardin version is good, too.

These are two very similar songs, written less than 2 years apart. I was faintly surprised that the Rundgren song was later, as the Runt was often a groundbreaker in styles, sentiment and sound engineering.

But you can segue from one song to the other in your head with hardly a pause.


There’s nothing quite like the Samhain tide to open your emotions.

It is said that twice a year, at Samhain and Beltane, the veil between the worlds becomes tenuous and crossings from one to the other are more common. But in my case, I reckon it’s just that at these times I’m more aware of the existence of the veil, and other worlds, than at more mundane times.

And so I am dreaming, and nightmaring, enough to keep me for the rest of the year, it seems.

My loved ones and ancestors are featuring quite heavily in my dreams – sometimes unrecognisable by their appearance yet completely known for who they are and were to me – old fears are playing themselves out and connections are being rebooted.

Head tipped back into the (finally) winter-blue sky this morning, I watch a fairy crossing above me.

No…not a fairy…a locust, with its rainbow wings whirring. I remember that I am quite averse to locusts on the ground and step out of its flight path quickly.

Music is getting stuck in my mind, so I switch my electronic collection on to shuffle and listen to Joe WalshCorvus Corax and Tim Hardin. Ah, the poor heroin-addicted boy who never managed to claw his way out of the poppy’s grip before it killed him.

Emotions are raw yet surprisingly manageable in this season of other-worldly connection.

I view a house a friend (and teenage sweetheart) used to live in as a boy – 4 doors down on Arthur Road, long since sold up as the matriarch’s health failed.

I reconnect with the Covenant of Hekate, thinking to honour Her Fires again this year, when the Moon is right.

I miss the Gautrain Bus, the drivers of which have been on strike for almost a week now, and don’t fancy the stress of driving in a car through Sandton traffic this afternoon – never mind what stress it must be giving Warren to do the actual driving.

I remember my Mom, who, when last seen in the dreamworld was wearing a different face, whose last-incarnation-birthday it is today.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you still.

I’m thinking the tide will be gentler this year, as I get older and possibly more able to handle it. The retrograde motions of both Saturn and Pluto in Capricorn seem to be helping this softer view along. We introspected our immediate daily souls last month with the Mercury backtrack, and now a slightly higher portion of our collective Self will be pondering the tracks and ruts of time and space.

Hopefully. As past the veil we slide together, holding hands, some of us shrieking, some of us crying, some of us looking about in wonder and awe.Tides.


Beneath the ground, a river runs.

In the darkness of the mass unconscious, a river flows.

Some of us it flows right through and others of us it flows around, and under – and we get to dip a toe in  it now and again.

Some of us were born with the river within, and some have opened their veins to admit it.

But all of us were born of the river.

It is the source and constant flow of all of Life. Endless, eternal, never ceasing.

To merge with its waters is the sublime experience of death, for from the river’s flow arises all that is.

Five rivers do encircle Hades but this river is just the One. Which flows. Underground.

Image: eronzki999