“Peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.” (Marcel Morin)
Me, at the Chalice Well, Glastonbury — June 2011Finding peace isn’t easy: that is one of the many lessons I learned last year. Take the above photograph. I’m sitting, meditating, at the Chalice Well in Glastonbury. It’s a World Peace Garden, all quiet and serene and with many hidden areas for one to sit quietly and connect, or contemplate, as is their desire. My husband and I had gone to Glastonbury to recharge our batteries again, as we often do, and I ended up at the Well Head itself, needing some quiet time.
You probably can’t guess from that photograph, but inside I’m struggling not to drown in grief and sorrow.
A few weeks earlier, I’d officiated at the burial of one of my closest friends — an event which, now I look back, was filled with many opportunities for both joy and grief. And my dear friend would be the first to tell me not to participate in the latter, but to embrace the former — with sparkles no less! But oh, it’s hard. Even now, it’s hard. And back then, seated in the Chalice Well gardens, it was hard. Nigh-on unbearable, in a lot of ways.
I went there seeking peace, seeking solace, seeking something. I needed some inkling that my grief wasn’t going unnoticed. That, I thought, may bring me some modicum of peace. But no. My sorrow and grief was the same there was it had been everywhere else. I was still exhausted by it, still heartbroken by it. I struggled against it, yearning for peace — hoping that, on the other side of the anguish, there would be something akin to tranquility.
I didn’t realise then, but there’s no struggling against grief. There’s no way around it, or over it, or beneath it. There’s only through it. Surrender, release, let go. Give all of yourself to it, and somewhere in the middle, it transforms — both itself, and yourself. Ah, but here’s the rub: one pass through isn’t enough. Grief isn’t linear. Like much else in life, it circles and spirals. You come back to it again and again, and each time is altogether different, yet the same, than the last. Transformative. Real. Hard. Needed.
Peace doesn’t come easy. But one day, it’ll come.
This week’s Wishcasting Wednesday prompt is “If you listen closely, what wish do you hear?”
Good Goddess — what a question. When I listen, I hear all sorts of things — but this isn’t a question about listening with the ears. It’s about listening with the heart, with the soul. And that’s sometimes the hardest way to listen of all. Oh, it can be easy at times — like when you’re heart-connected with someone, and listening for what is spoken between words, in breaths and silence both. But listening within… That requires a certain sense of openness with your Self, an honesty and a responsibilty. A kind of respect — to hold the space for yourself to move into, and let your breaths and silence speak.
I am not a patient person — least of all with myself. I am slowly learning the virtue of patience — but even so, when I still at will, and hold the space to listen for my wish today, I feel a rankle of irritation that the answer does not come quickly enough, that I will have to spend more than a just a few moments doing this.
And as quickly as that rankle of irritation occurs, it’s gone — soothed, released. I have dropped beyond it, deeper into my wombspace, my centre, and I feel the silence of that time and space expand from within to permeate my muscles and bones, tissues and organs. My body feels lighter. I feel calmer. Patient. At ease. More settled. Connected. I breathe, deep and even and real. I contemplate my breath.
There — in the spaces inbetween: that pause after an exhale, then again after an inhale. Comfortable pauses, knowing that the next part of breathing will happen regardless, and there’s no fear. In those spaces, I hear an echo — a rattle, a gasp, a memory. Myself, scant months earlier, wracked with pneumonia. Not quite knowing if I would need assistance to breathe that day or the next; not quite knowing if I would heal; not quite knowing what would happen if I didn’t. And, alongside that echo came comfort. Now that was unexpected. I was okay with the pneumonia, with the process my body was going through as it moved throughout my system. I don’t remember behind that comfortable or calm at the time of the pneumonia, mind, but I was experiencing that memory today. A cell-memory, soul-memory. Not conscious, but rather something felt rather than known. Something instinctive, raw, deep.
I let myself experience this for a time: the memory, the feelings. I experienced them, then let them go. And in doing so, came close enough to hear my wish at this time. I wish to trust. To have that complete comfort and trust in, and awareness of, my body as it experiences things that consciously, I do not register — so absorbed am I in my mundane comings and goings. I hear that wish, and I hold it gently, all too suddenly acutely aware of its power and poignancy. I feel tears prick at my eyes. The energy of this causes another rankle of irritation somewhere within me — how dare I feel upset? How dare I potentially ruin such a peaceful, heart-deep moment?
And again, as quickly as it’s there — it’s gone. Released. Soothed. My breath and my bones have wrapped around that irritation, and held it, eased it away. My body knows. It always knows. I just need to listen. I just need to trust.
As I wish for myself, so I also wish for you…
There comes a moment in my working day — too much time spent in front of a monitor, too few blinks to refresh the eyes, not enough liquid consumed — when I become acutely aware of my body needing more. And, along with that, my soul needing respite.
For just a few minutes, I step away from desk. I head outside, where the wind is currently whipping up a frenzy and the storm clouds threaten. I walk to where the grass grows, and, even now on this cold January day, I remove my socks and shoes. My bare feet sink into the grass, into the moist soil beneath. I breathe, from navel to spine, and everything becomes still. I close my eyes, focus my attention on the sensation of the earth against my soles. As I breathe, I sense the rolling, nurturing breath of the planet beneath me, the touch of the Earth Mother. I stay that way, connected and content, while my body relaxes and my soul refreshes.
Smiling, I return indoors, fetch a drink, head back to my desk. I feel honoured. I feel grateful. I feel whole.
This week’s Wishcasting Wednesday prompt is “What do you wish to reclaim?”
Ahh, now. There’s a whole heap of things I could answer for this one — some deep, some not so; some flippant, some thoughtful; some complicated, some simple. And to be honest, today I’m going to keep it simple, because it’s a simple pleasure all for myself. I’d like to reclaim my bath night.
Years ago, I would make the time and space to have a long, soaky bath at least once a week (sometimes two or three times, depending on the week’s events). I would run myself a hot, luscious bubble bath, lock the door, and relax for hours in fragrant, soothing waters while candlelight danced around the room. I was accompanied by a good book and a favourite drink, and sometimes I would read, sometimes I would meditate, sometimes I would write, sometimes I would self-love, sometimes I would work magic or ritual — sometimes I would even sleep (safely). Each time, I would relax. It became my processing time, my “time out” time. Oh, some weeks I would end up in the bath in tears, beating at the water and crying my heart out for the pain I felt in my heart (on my behalf or that of others), and other times I would rant and swear at the bathroom walls, angry and frustrated at things beyond my control. And yet, even these actions served as a form of release — for relaxation came afterwards.
Time moved on; I moved on — different homes, different bathrooms. Slowly, my bath nights became less and less frequent. I discovered showers; I began using the bathroom solely as a practical space — no longer was it where I bared my soul and whispered my secrets. I became the master of swift showers, not even letting my brain switch off for a few moments of grace; instead, I’d be constantly thinking, thinking, thinking, mind whirling with ideas and to-do lists and must-be-places. I didn’t notice my once-sacred time slip away at all.
In 2011, I got rather a lot of wake-up calls — illnesses, deaths, bereavement. I was knocked for six in a number of ways. I felt lost, cast adrift, alone. As I slowly picked up the pieces, I realised that I had stopped doing a lot of things that kept me anchored, centered within myself. I had ceased so many of my self-care strategies that I couldn’t even remember what some of them were. But I remembered that I loved my baths. Oh, how I loved my baths. And I loved how I felt after my baths — inside and out.
And so, this year, I’m making a pledge to myself to reclaim my bath night. A minimum of once a week, I’ll set aside enough time to have a long, luxurious bath instead of a quick shower. There will be soft music. There will be bubbles. There will be a nice drink, a good book — maybe even a cat to purr in tune with my heart. And there will be time — time to shut the world away; time for me to process; time for me to sink into my soul. Time for me to be.
As I wish for myself, so I also wish for you… What would you like to reclaim?
When folks find out that I’m a Witch, Priestess of the Gods, and a Spiritual Companion, some have expected me to have all the answers. Who, me?
Well, the easiest way of answering that is by saying, simply, “I don’t.” I don’t have all the answers — not for me, not for you, not for anyone. That’s not even part of the reason I’m walking a spiritual pathway — not the answers. It’s the questions that intrigue me, the journey that inspires me. Whenever I do get a glimpse of an “answer”, it may fit for just a few, scant moments — or, perhaps, would have fitted me way-back-when. Maybe it’s a case of recognising what truths work for you now, and also learning the recognise when to let them go.
Personally, I choose to surrender up the answers in favour of the questions. I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. Just let me dance in the Mystery that is Life, and trust that this, simply this, is enough.
