…writing up a storm when distracted…

…when I sit to write or revise I am I must confess often distracted by the beauty of my surroundings …it’s supposed to be spring but  the last few days have been cold and crisp with many little visitors …robins are always known as the harbingers of spring …not here, they turn up when we are going to receive a wee dump of snow!

…it’s often later here that spring arrives but as I sit today to write it’s actually a pleasant 12 degrees outside, the warmest day in some time …daffodil are finally opening their golden heads and the cockatoo make a bee-line for them as soon as they do ! Grape hyacinth are flowering as too are the snowdrops and soon the bluebells and harebells will be sharing space among the sycamore seedlings in the grove on the hill. The first stately Iris is ‘bursting her bud.’ for attention under the rowan. Diversity and biodiversity certainly make for an interesting view from the window …see there you are !! That’s how easily I can be distracted.

Silver’s Threads Book 1, Spinning Colours Darkly has been for me the biggest distraction however and so as I work on Book 2 I am amazed at how relaxed I am becoming with the process even though I have a deadline …this chapter is one that I particularly related too during the process as I am always happiest with description over dialogue and I’m not sure whether that’s a strength or a weakness really…here’s a chapter from Book 1…© Penny Reilly 2012  http://amazon.com/pennyreillyauthorpage

Chapter 1

Sybille

 …the wheel turns on…trees whisper secrets and birds leave messages on the wind…

…nothing remains the same and yet in change we find renewal…extract Sybille’s Book of Shadows.

Pulling her journal from its little hidden cavity in her desk Sybille sat to write, brooding as she did on the changes she sensed were afoot. Little things that for others perhaps might go unnoticed she knew through experience were the prelude to major shifts. She had dreams of flying to other realms where flickering figures who threw no shadow stalked her. At times, she felt overwhelmed by the feeling of wobbling off course somehow. This in itself gave her the sense that she would not have enough energy to create space or physical time to complete unfinished things, or to share the knowledge gained in a life time…yet alone five or six.

A great urgency overcame her and with a weary sigh, she began to write yet paused as she thought about the four women who embraced the Mother’s Way, albeit hard for Maeve who struggled with the oldest fear, that Magick might indeed be real. Flora and Bethan, she had no fears for, other than their both being sensitive, empathetic to everyone else’s pain. Then there was Sam! Well that must unfold, as she worked through what she thought were fair or unfair advantages in life. They would all need to consider what it truly means to be a Wytch. For what is a Wytch anyway? Picking up her pen, she continued writing…

            So now, my affairs are in order. The Wytchwheel turns and I know I will be moving on soon. I never know when, only my Trueshape Silver does and I, inevitably, will be the last to know. I’ve not yet found the words to share with my girls why but at least they’ve come far enough on the Way to understand in part…the rest I must leave in the Mother’s hands.

            Stretching, she put her journal aside and reaching over gave her cat Morgana a scratch behind the ear, which was greeted with a deep rumbling purr, of contentment. Morgana, opened her eyes, looked into her friends face, and ‘knew’ her human friend would be leaving her behind. How long would it be this time?

            “Mmmm, not long now,” Sybille said to her. “I can feel a stirring in the ethers I’ve not felt before,” as she gripped the arms of the chair, willing herself to stay present, she reached for pen and parchment to write a note to each of her friends, before the energies pulling at her had their way.

My dear Flora,

        You are the one, who I sense, will learn to understand what I am about to tell you. I must leave and I don’t know when I’ll be back, as yet…

…she continued to write for a few minutes and then finished with…

            I leave a small note for each of you along with further instructions until my return, if that is to be, with the hope that this won’t be too big a burden for you all…

            …she trailed off unable to continue, feeling the earth shift beneath her, a breeze touched her cheek; she smiled. With fondness, she thought again of the three young women she had trained in the Mysteries of the Way. She had always been clear about her methods of training, which underscored the experiential over the documented and had taught them to work on the inner levels to balance their weaknesses and strengths, perfecting their skills through self-understanding and responsibility.

            Becoming a true Wytch took courage. The world of the Wytch is a constant circle of change requiring discipline and trust, no two cycles ever being the same. Stepping out of the broom closet can become a trap; with the need to wear the right clothes, an enigmatic smile and a patchouli perfumed air of mystery.

       A letting go and emptying out of old agendas was imperative, in order to fill themselves anew with the concepts of what True Magick is. She herself, well- schooled in all the Traditions of the Craft, knew the pitfalls of coming to the Way with illusions of grandeur and the belief that Wands were all in a flick of the wrist and the right incantation spoken, rather than the science that Magick was in part.

          There had been many promising students through the years but none as gifted as these.

          Recovering herself she sat to write in her new Book of Shadows and Light the old having long been filled to bursting with all the information she’d used in her teachings; a living, organic testimony, to a Wytch’s life. She was particular about her writing, so that there could be no doubt, as to what she was imparting; there is no room for error in Magickal workings. Too much of the Wytchways had already been lost from the past through poor translations or worse, a deliberate need by some to control others. The latter had created a hierarchical ordering to the Way, which was now becoming its own downfall. She sighed, bringing herself back to her task; she reached for paper for a first draft, before entering in the Book itself…

    A year for the Wytch begins at Samhain, pronounced Soween or Sowan…30th April to May 2nd in modern day reckoning, here in the Southern Hemisphere of this beautiful planet. The last Harvest, root vegetables, Pumpkins and Squash.

   The feelings in the air are of deep relief, after the hard work of the active seasons. The coming months are for introspection, tempered with grief, as the Lord and Lady leave to take the hands of all the souls who have passed beyond or of those who may have been lost in the Between. They will accompany them through the gates of the Summer-country…the lands of peace and beauty, only imagined and for some onwards still, to discover their Trueshape.

        The true gathering for Samhain has nothing to do with, “trick or treat,” or dressing up as ghosts and vampires. This is the miss-information passed around through superstition. It is a result of fear of the unknown. In truth, the three-day festival of Samhain is Celtic New Year and All Hallows Eve, when all over the planet we honour the spirit of our ancestors and ancestry. We make offerings, give thanks for the year passed, and ask for blessings for those who have died to this world, that they may be renewed. The origins of the Pumpkin carvings were to ward away the spirits that were lost or were of negative intent, that they might follow the light fromthe Altar candles and through the gateway to the world of spirit, the Otherworld.

        What does all this mean, I hear you say…what is this talk of Wytches and Magickal lands? What is a Wytch in truth? So I’ll tell you as simply as I may because just as we are approaching Samhain, so is this a beginning, a new beginning for all who are tired of the tick tock world of illusion and hierarchical ordering.

        Eons ago, long before there was the written word, there was knowledge free to all, for those who asked the right questions. There were no elite, just those who’d studied; listened to the inner voice of the Mother longer than those who’d queried. This was a time long before there were names and titles. A time when all who knew of the Lady’s Way were known as the Wise Ones, the Wytchwise; male and female alike, all Her priests and priestesses, all Her people, Her tribes.

            Pausing, she felt Silver’s presence close and knew her journey would be changing soon, as she whispered to her in the strange language of the spirit…

            She felt Silver withdraw again, restlessly now. She looked down in wonder at the page which had been filled in Silver’s hand, so unlike her own. She wondered what the girls would make of it when they saw the writing in two, completely different, styles. She smiled wryly and continued.

            Therefore, at Samhain I honour the ancestors. As a modern day Wytch, I honour the energy that lives within my cells and of every being that has ever lived and is still living on this planet. As I was taught, all who have been, are and will be, are still here, sharing space with me, breathing with me…everything is here…now……….

 …and then the world suddenly shifted sideways and spun. She felt herself falling, drifting, a float in depths of wonder. No pain, no physical manifestations, just peace, ultimate peace and the sound of bell like voices calling…”gela en’ardai, gela en’ardai.”

            Then she was falling, further still a small pinpoint of life a being of light, fragile wings closed behind her…arrowing down toward a faintly glowing, molten mass. As she flew and dived, many others accompanied her. Small winged entities screaming with sheer childlike glee,

            “We’ve come to sow the seeds of a planet!”

            She was flying with her kin through the ethers, seeing for the first time the glowing orb that would become earth, covered in tiny lightening bugs, little Makersouls with split wings; iridescent beings clinging limpet like to the cooling, solidifying mass that they might begin the planet’s greening.

Then there was utter silence and she fell, inward. 

…blessings …Penny

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