by Wendy Hawkin | Feb 3, 2017 | journal, writing and publishing
Fridays seem to come faster and faster as the world shivers with a blink and a breath…and sometimes a bang.
Faerie reveals that evil exists, but cannot triumph. Though shadows threaten and shroud, there is a way through…a glimmer of light; an ever-expanding force of truth and goodness, of thoughtfulness and kindness.
Though it may take a fight.
Lettie Hempstock is one of my most favourite characters. In The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman (one of my most favourite books by one of my most favourite authors) Lettie Hempstock fights evil beside a nameless, friendless seven-year-old boy. And we stand beside her.
In the myths of Faerie, there is hope and heroism that transcends worlds and enlightens.
Lettie Hempstock held me tightly. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, and I was going to say something, to ask why I shouldn’t worry, what I had to be afraid of, when the field we were standing in began to glow.
It glowed golden. Every blade of grass and glimmered, every leaf on every tree. Even the hedges were glowing. It was a warm light. It seemed, to my eyes, as if the soil beneath the grass had transmuted from base matter into pure light, and in the golden glow of the meadow the blue-white lightnings that still crackled around Ursula Monkton seemed much less impressive.
Ursula Monkton rose unsteadily, as if the air had just become hot and was carrying her upwards. Then Lettie Hempstock whispered old words into the world and the meadow exploded into a golden light. I saw Ursula Monkton swept up and away, although I felt no wind, but there had to be a wind, for she was flailing and tipping like a dead leaf in a gale. I watched her tumble into the night, and then Ursula Monkton and her lightnings were gone (89).
by Wendy Hawkin | Feb 2, 2017 | journal, mythology
Today, pagans celebrate Imbolc (pronounced EE-molc). It is the first of three spring festivals occurring every six weeks.
Like most pagan holidays, it has been transformed into something else. Groundhog Day. Though, an echo of animals and a promise of spring remains, it is not a celebration; just a pronouncement, and the groundhog, a weather forecaster. Today, where I live the sun shone bright, so the retreating groundhog forecasts six more weeks of winter. This may not be true for you.
But, Imbolc is a Wiccan/Druid celebration of light and fertility. Originating in Celtic Europe, it derives from a pastoral time, when people were connected to the spirit of the land and animals. It is the time when lambs were born and shoots pushed forth from the earth.
Frolicking Sheep at Kilmartin Glen, Scotland
If you live in the northern hemisphere, you will notice that as the year spins, days are growing longer, the sun is shining brighter, and our energy is shifting. We shake off the wools of winter and begin to frolic ourselves.
For a more in depth discussion of Imbolc, visit this impressive UK site:
via Imbolc – The Wheel Of The Year – The White Goddess
by Wendy Hawkin | Feb 2, 2017 | Canadian writers, journal, writing and publishing
And now something light, but true.
If this is what readers experience, imagine what happens to writers?
I LIVE somewhere between two and five, in the all consuming life of the book. I’d like to see a video on what happens to the brain when we read and write. I’ve seen what happens on music, and it’s extraordinary…a symphony of light.
Thanks Kristen, for this.
by Wendy Hawkin | Jan 30, 2017 | journal, writing and publishing
Croagh Patrick, Co Mayo, Ireland
In these times, when the energy in our world is frenetic (and I mean that in a most ancient sense) we long for sanctuary of body and mind. One way to soothe this yearning is through pilgrimage…a walk on holy ground. For some, this happens when we visit an ancient site, walk the sacred path of a holy being, or wander a wild landscape. Still others may journey in mind through reading or meditation, or bathe in the natural energy of the elements.
Where and how do you restore your equilibrium?
What follows is a post written by Michael Maxwell Steer that brought me some peace this morning. Thanks to Philip Carr-Gomm for sharing these words.
via Holystone Well, Northumbria National Park | Philip Carr-Gomm
PS: Frenetic
“When life gets frenetic, things can seem absolutely insane – at least that seems to be what folks in the Middle Ages thought. Frenetik, in Middle English, meant “insane.” When the word no longer denoted stark raving madness, it conjured up fanatical zealots. Today its seriousness has been downgraded to something more akin to hectic. But if you trace frenetic back through Anglo-French and Latin, you’ll find that it comes from Greek phrenitis, a term describing an inflammation of the brain. Phrēn, the Greek word for “mind,” is a root you will recognize in schizophrenic. As for frenzied and frantic, they’re not only synonyms of frenetic but relatives as well. Frantic comes from frenetik, and frenzied traces back to phrenitis.” Merriam-Webster
by Wendy Hawkin | Jan 27, 2017 | Ireland, mythology, writing and publishing
Another poem from my beloved, Yeats.
In 1897, WB Yeats began his literary liaison with Lady Gregory at Coole Park (south of Galway, in Ireland).
The Ruined Gates of Coole Park (Lady Gregory’s Estate)
I’ve wandered there myself, and hope these words were penned there, near the rushes beside the grassy sea.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
WB Yeats, 1899
