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On why truth still really matters

On why truth still really matters

It’s been a long while since I wrote anything for this blog – November last year, in fact, when I wrote a post mourning the passing of Phil Rickman, whose novels contained a huge amount of truth, but which were not, technically, “true” stories. There’s a plethora of reasons why I haven’t written. We moved house in March, to a new area, new parishes and new challenges; three days after the move, we suffered a major bereavement. Moving house is considered one of the most stressful of human experiences anyway; bereavement even more so. As a result of the intense physical, mental, emotional and spiritual upheavals, I have slipped into what’s best described as prolonged burn-out. All of the removals boxes have been emptied, the house is more or less sorted (though we have a rolling process of sorting and letting go of stuff and we are never, ever, ever putting anything in a loft again, EVER.) but I’m struggling hugely. We have a massive new garden to care for (it’s like living in a forest glade; we get deer, even) and I am trying to make sense of why I, in particular, am here. I haven’t the energy or inclination to get out and do things, so I suspect making new friends is going to take a long time, if ever, to happen. I feel what’s probably a sort of ennui about life in general, and am averse, even repelled, by most of the activities suitable for people my age and situation in life. I find I am exhausted by being among human beings and the noise, smells, sensations and everything are too bright, too vivid, too overwhelming, to endure for long.

But that’s not the only reason why I haven’t been writing here. A couple of years ago I noticed that occasionally my blog stats would spike massively; it happens from time to time still and I realised it’s probably being strip mined for content, to feed into the algorithms that “teach” AI. Two of my novels have been used (without my consent) for the same purpose. Many of my blogging friends have moved over to Substack because you can ensure a limited amount of strip-mining because you can make posts subscription only; you can even monetise your substack. I have not done this; there have been various ethical concerns about Substack (I cannot recall details, sorry) but everything has been moving over to such models, to the extent that it’s very hard to find things to read online that don’t require that you sign up for them. Even the free ones require your details in some way and that bothers me a lot. You cannot just browse anonymously among the news sources and cross-reference facts; yes, there are browsers you can use for that but they are clunky and subject to other risks and biases.

What has prompted me to write this is the furore over the memoir by Raynor Winn, called “The Salt Path” which spawned several sequels and even a film that was released this year. I read the book last year, I think, and was unimpressed overall. I read it while staying at my best friend’s home; a friend of hers had loaned it to her. If I recall correctly, she did not ask to borrow it; it was offered. That concerns me more now than it did then, because as someone with a chronic illness, we’re often subject to well-meaning friends suggesting potential cures for our illness, and since one of the elements of “The Salt Path” is that Raynor’s husband Moth experiences remission of symptoms of a degenerative disease he’s been diagnosed with, as a result of them walking the 600 odd miles of the south west coastal path. It’s become a sort of touchstone for many people, seeing it as touchstone for the power of the human spirit to overcome anything. If you have not come across the controversy yet, it’s this: that the book, a memoir, may not be entirely true. An investigative journalist delved deeply into the back story and found some glaring issues. I will not go into it further for obvious reasons.

This controversy itself is concerning enough but I have read endless comment threads that concern me a great deal more. People who basically say, who cares, what does it matter, it’s a good story, it helped me, get a life, it’s a book so it doesn’t have to be true (NB: I believe that publishers ask authors of memoirs to sign a declaration of truth before publishing). Around 2/3 of the comments I have read have actively declared they do not care about truth. This ties in with my observation of a similar phenomenon I have seen on social media, of pages putting out fake stories with hideous fake AI pictures, and people reacting to being told it’s none of it real or true with “I don’t care, I like it, why does it matter that it’s AI?” Especially if the picture is cute. AI trains its “art” by strip-mining art and photos on the internet, without consent. Actual photographers and artists are being exploited. And the results of the AI “art” are manifold. Leaving aside loss of income to creators(not to mention the resources than use of AI gobbles up), one of the biggest results is people cannot tell what is real and what is fake. I’ve probably been very, very annoying on Facebook for pointing out when a photo is an AI abomination. I have an excellent memory and knowledge of the natural world, of plants and animals, and an equally excellent knowledge of world history and so on; this means that I spot quite rapidly when something is wrong or out of kilter.

People have commented on the “Salt Path” controversy that many authors and artists in the past were not exemplary people, missing the point entirely that a memoir is expected to be true (leaving aside the fact that we all see our own stories from a particular point of view) and that publishers legally have to ensure that it is. We are not talking about anything to do with artistic license or human error. This book has been taken to the hearts of many thousands of people because it fitted a narrative they needed: that a human being can by dint of sheer will power and determination, overcome anything, even terminal illness. Discovering that the book, billed as a true story, may be anything but true, or worse, flawed by potential unethical, even criminal, behaviour, has made many people react by saying they don’t care about truth, and that upsets me. Everywhere I look these days there are untruths masquerading as truth and the results are horrifying. The blight that is Brexit came about because people were fed lies, especially about the EU. I could go on, and list many but I am deeply tired. I am tired of people being children, of their unmet needs being manipulated by the unscrupulous so that we are becoming less and less able to discern reality and recognise truth. There’s often more truth in honest fiction than there is now in many elements of life.

I have no solution. Doubtless this blog will provoke some discussion, some disagreement. All I can really say is that I believe that truth is a thing that needs to be upheld. The saying, “Truth is the daughter of time” is probably no longer helpful, especially as some of the things that are being lied about (such as those whose agenda means they aim to discredit human-made climate breakdown) are time sensitive. Yes, I suspect many people will discover unequivocally that they have been lied to and rather than accept it, they will double down and nail their colours to the mast of the ship of lies, because people find it very difficult to say, “I was wrong. I was misled.”

In the past the undermining of truth was a very real tool in the toolbox of fascism. Aided by a host of 21st century tech, it’s still proving to be very useful today. Take a stand and uphold truth where you are.

Peace out.

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On the death of a favourite author – a paean to Phil Rickman

On the death of a favourite author – a paean to Phil Rickman

I’m not someone who tends to be a fan-girl over celebrities, of any kind. When someone famous dies, I have that John Donne “send not to know for whom the bell tolls” feeling rather than having any real personal grief. Celebrities are too removed from my sphere to trigger more than a bit of passing sadness; I’ve had sufficient grief of my own in recent years to have the energy to spare. Some deaths are sadder than others, and some I feel are a significant loss to us all whether we knew them or not.

But the death of author Phil Rickman has made me extra sad. It might have vaguely amused him that he died in the run up to Halloween, though, given that his books have had a spooky focus that chimes with the season.

I was a little late to the books. Partly because I’m a person who is very annoying when it comes to taking recommendations for books; I tend to steer clear if someone shoves a book or author at me, enthusing and telling me I’ll love them. The Merrily Watkins books also had that other quality that might put me off: they’re set in my world and therefore it takes only a small error to throw me out and lose the suspension of disbelief. There’ve been a lot of books and TV and film that explore the world of the church, of vicars and vicarages, cathedrals, bishops, priests and clergy of all kinds, and most set my teeth on edge because of the errors. Unlike millions, I loathed “The Vicar of Dibley” from the very first episode. Not only that I found it unfunny but also because it seemed to have done so little actual research and the errors were multifold. Most wouldn’t know or mind but when you live in a world, you notice and you care, even when it’s comedy. So I read the first Merrily Watkins novel (“Wine of Angels”) on high alert.

But the late Mr Rickman not only did his research, widely, broadly and deeply, he seemed to also care about many of the things I care deeply about. He didn’t make fun of the faith of clergy, or of someone questioning, or of new age thought and ideas. He had extensive background understanding of a multitude of issues and systems. He managed to meld the scary with the profound and the human. He trod that tightrope of all horror writers between leaving enough unsaid and to the imagination and of giving sufficient explanation (both rational and supernatural) to make every book a pleasure to read. He had the plotting skills of a thriller writer, with twists and turns and surprises, so you kept on reading till the small hours. His ability to deftly create an entirely believable character who you cheer for (or boo, depending; he was brilliant at villains as well as heroes) was something all writers aspire to and some achieve.

I am grieved that his most recent novel, “An Echo of Crows” has had its launch pushed back a year, and worry that it might never be released. I grieve that we may never know his vision for the lives of his beloved characters. And I grieve that a writer who seemed to really understand the unseen, the spooky and the numinous, is gone. I would offer my condolences to his wife, family and friends, and all MY friends who have loved these books. https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Phil-Rickman/author/B000APIPYI

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“Understanding and Healing Emotional Trauma – Conversations with pioneering clinicians and researchers” – by Daniela Sieff

One of those happy accidents: a book that had been on my books-I-want-to-read list for some time arrived as a present from a dear friend who shares many of my interests and enthusiasms. We had had a conversation about the concept of the archetype of the Death Mother early this year, possibly following me reading and finding extremely powerful, Violet Sherwood’s exploration of the theme in her book, “Haunted – the Death Mother archetype”. My friend shares my huge respect for the late Marion Woodman, and it was the fact that there is a chapter in Daniela Sieff’s book https://www.amazon.co.uk/Understanding-Healing-Emotional-Trauma-Daniela/dp/0415720842 that is a conversation with Woodman that was my primary interest. I’ve managed to read now almost everything Woodman wrote (a few things left but not much) so finding something I’d not heard of was an “OH!” moment. Of course I read that chapter first. How could I not?

Structured in four parts, the book examines the abiding theme of emotional trauma from three very different perspectives: from psychodynamic perspectives, from neurobiological perspectives and from evolutionary aspects, with a fourth part summing up the whole. The sheer depth and breadth of the experience and wisdom of each clinician/researcher is quite breath-taking; the questions asked by Sieff are carefully posed and themselves deeply informed. This is not a book to be whizzed through at speed but rather to be read slowly and with thought, to be processed over probably months or even years rather than forgotten and discarded. I should add that while this is published by an academic publisher, it’s written and formatted in an accessible way that makes it a pleasure to read. As someone who has read many self-help books over the years and found them pretty damned useless as they are nearly always too shallow and lacking in real rigour, and always fail to deliver (except to put the spondoolies in the pockets of publishers and sometimes, superstar authors) I would not describe this as a self-help book in the classic sense of the phrase. There’s no easy bullet-point lists of things to do or tasks to set about. Yet in elucidating a variety of things, it did help me a great deal. Just as Sherwood’s book managed to break through my resistance about trauma when a person was pre-verbal(or even pre-birth) holding so much power even over the adult, this took that further and opened up the evolutionary, neurobiological and psycho-dynamic aspects of trauma. The science is, to me, irrefutable. This is freeing for someone who has always felt she should be able to overcome my way out of old deep traumas, haul myself up by my bootstraps. Realising the sheer weight of it all, and my own undoubted smallness, I have begun to feel I can stop beating myself up about it. This has created a space, albeit still tiny, where growth and healing may happen.

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A New Angle on Fairies

A New Angle on Fairies

I let the anniversary of this blog go by without a mention – FIFTEEN years! – because I’m struggling with my health (mental, physical, emotional, spiritual) and just couldn’t find the oomph to even think of what to say, let alone write it. Many people I blogged with when I started are gone from the virtual world (and some from the physical world too) and many folks have moved to Substack. I fully understand the importance of getting remuneration for one’s writing (and this is not in any way a criticism) but I am cautious of anything that requires me to sign up to be able to read it, even more cautious of anything that requires me to put my financial details in anywhere, and because writing (unlike the TV, movie and online tropes that depict writers as millionaires) is increasingly a poor life choice, I have very limited funds. So I remain here, free to read. My gift to you, dear readers.

I have been feeling increasingly irrelevant and forgotten in recent years. It’s been some years since I published a full length novel; sales of the existing ones have tanked and probably only a new one will revitalise and restore my visibility. “On Hob Hill” was completed at the autumn Equinox, and I am very slowly working my way through edits. It occurred to me today that it’s now almost 20 years since I wrote “Away With The Fairies” and that feels weird. The incredible period of intense creativity seems another age away, and I a different person. That novel has 99 reviews on Amazon (who’ll make it to 100?) and has proven to be a story that has touched a lot of lives since I published it myself in 2011. I’ve had to say on occasions, it’s not really about fairies at all. Early on in its existence, I was contacted by a Daily Fail (we all know who I mean) journalist who was looking for adult women who believed in fairies for a feature. I ummed and ahhed and then declined, feeling sure the article would actually be quite scathing and mocking. I have often wondered since whether I made the right decision. The finished feature had some elements of sniggering behind the hands but the women in it did generally come across as sane, reasonable and decent; but still, would my sales have been better with a mention in a paper I loathe and despise? Integrity is seldom cheap.

One of the questions posed in “Away With The Fairies” is what do we mean by fairies? It’s discussed a good number of times in the novel. Are they fallen angels, nature spirits (devas) spirits of the dead, remnants of a hidden, forgotten pygmy race, figments of overactive imagination or mere superstition? When I wrote the novel, the existence of the so-called hobbits of the island of Flores was only just being discovered so my postulation that fairies might be a race memory of a race of smaller humans existing in the margins of the big people’s worlds was a lucky guess that I am, to this day, rather chuffed with.

I thought I’d covered most ideas. In recent years I’ve been reading my way through the works of C.G. Jung, as well as those of the 1st and 2nd generation Jungians. It’s slow going because this stuff is dense, complex and demanding and requires much digestion but it’s given me many powerful insights. Reading “The Red Book” (I keep the readers’ edition on my bedside table, the huge illustrated one too big for any normal shelf) helped me to understand many things, especially (for the purposes of this blog) that period of creativity I mentioned. In 2003, following a relocation to another part of the country, I found myself overwhelmed with constant internal images, often like screenplays, and a narrative going on whether I wanted it or not. It was terrifying because the images and narratives were powerful and often quite alien. I’d turned my back on writing in 1995 when a brain haemorrhage brought on by the stress of the journey towards publication (I came very close to getting a contract with one or the then Big Six) almost ended me. I did not want to write because that way lay madness. Except madness was arriving anyway. After months of torment, trying to push it away and having it come flooding back, I went to town, bought some A4 lined paper and sat down to write it all down, believing if I could get it out of my head it would stop. In 17 days, I wrote 110k words and had a complete novel. I was shocked, and astounded, and didn’t know what to do. That novel was “The Bet”. The flood of images did not stop. For 2 years I wrote, in waves of varying urgency and distress and completed (I think) 8 novels. I had an agent (that came to nothing, but hey). Then life shifted dramatically again and the flooding of my mind stopped.

Discovering the story behind Jung’s “Red Book” has helped me understand a bit better what happened to me. I was around the same age as he had been when it happened to him. “Jung was deluged “by an incessant stream of fantasies”, a “multitude of psychic contents and images”. In order to cope with the storms of emotions, he wrote down his fantasies and let the storms transpose themselves into images.” (James Hillman, “Healing Fiction” p 57) Hillman’s book has been quite a revelation for a variety of reasons but the next few quotes are what I’d like to share because they pertain to fairies.

“Complexes do not respond to worry, to searching parties, to naturalists with tags and labels. The “little people” (as Jung called the complexes) scurry into the bush the moment one’s attention is turned towards them.” Sounds familiar, eh? Isobel, the protagonist of “Away With The Fairies” encounters spooky goings-on at her new cottage, but only glimpses out of the corner of the eye or mind, of odd things that can be explained away yet occur again and again. She wants to face things head-on, deal with her bereavements in a logical, rational manner, with a fixed end point and neat stages, and yet, nothing co-operates. Her refusal of the unconscious, the illogical, the irrational is brave but foolish, because they’re all much more powerful than her dented and bruised self.

Hillman later writes, “Of prime importance is recognizing that these little people do come from the land of the dead. Like Jung’s Philemon and Salome, they are legendary personages of history, showing culture at work in the channels of the soul. The land of the dead is the country of the ancestors, and the images who walk in on us are our ancestors. If not literally the blood and genes from whom we descend, then they are the historical progenitors or archetypes, of our particular spirit informing it with ancestral culture.”

It seems strange that almost 20 years after writing that novel, I am, the author, still understanding what I wrote, in that frenzy of creativity, and with it, myself. And yet, here I am. In developing further understanding of my inner world, I can see that this infuses everything. “Oh Hob Hill” recalls certain moods and events in other novels, yet is quite different as a work of fiction. It started as a jokey short story that refused to co-operate. I had little control. I know some might scoff, but the novel knew where it wanted to go. I dearly hope that I did listen and by letting it “have its head” I have allowed something that is as potentially healing and helpful as other novels I have written. I do not underestimate the power of fiction, whether writing it or reading it, to change us. Fiction is more than entertainment that passes the time. And I have to also recognise that the writing of my own books has changed me profoundly, even if few read it. The act of creation itself is what matters first; nothing is ever static, and I do hope that my work is a part of what others discover in their journey towards themselves.

“Away With The Fairies” by Vivienne Tuffnell https://www.amazon.co.uk/Away-Fairies-Vivienne-Tuffnell-ebook/dp/B005RDS02A

“Healing Fiction” by James Hillman https://www.amazon.co.uk/Healing-Fiction-James-Hillman-ebook/dp/B0079LCEN4/

“The Red Book” by C.G Jung https://www.amazon.co.uk/Red-Book-Liber-Novus-Philemon/dp/0393065677/

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“Where The Wildflowers Grow” by Leif Bersweden – a review

“Where The Wildflowers Grow” by Leif Bersweden – a review

As a first blog post of the year, one that refers to a book that was a Christmas present sort of redeems the fact that it’s the final day of a very wet February and I’d not blogged at all till today. My bad. I’ve been trying to recover fitness and mobility after foot surgery at the end of November that had me literally off my feet for a whole six weeks. I wasn’t allowed to walk at all, unless using crutches and making sure only my heel bore any weight. The surgeon told me that for every hour I had to spend 55 minutes of it with the afflicted foot UP or the bone, ligaments, tendons and skin would not heal properly. To say it did my head in is an understatement, especially in the run-up to Christmas. Walking differently for six weeks as well as not getting the exercise my EDS needs to keep muscles in good order has meant that once the temporary metal pin (there’s one that’s permanent so I must remember I have it if going through scanners or MRI machines) was removed, early in the New Year I’ve been focused on trying to allow the rest of the healing to take place deep within the foot, and try and restore gait to normal and rebuild muscles and fitness. Overall effect, a spike in pain and crushing fatigue. People said, “Oh I’d love to spend six weeks with my feet up and everything being done for me!” but honestly, it’s not good for a body or a soul.

The vast amount of rain this month (around 4 times the expected rainfall for this month in this county) has made inaccessible many of the places I’d usually head to for restorative walks so Mr Bersweden’s book has been a bit of a godsend. The author took a year to cycle round Britain and Ireland “botanising” as he puts it. Unsparing of the often dire weather, he visits a range of locations and meets up with experts in particular plant life, starting on New Year’s day with a hangover and ending the following December. Each month brings new delights, some accessible to lame ducks like me, such as the bluebells woods and some up mountains and off the beaten tracks, and some needing magnifiers to actually confirm identity. I was envious of many of the visits, but was just so impressed by both Mr Bersweden’s exuberant joy at finally encountering some much yearned-for plant (sometimes very tiny beings) that I forgot the envy and just enjoyed the delight.

I was introduced to many botanists from the past, some I had heard of and some I had not. Ellen Hutchins, who died just short of the age of thirty in 1815, was the first of the Irish female botanists, whose work was lauded by many well-know names of the time and who corresponded with them in warm and friendly terms almost unknown at a time when female scientists were treated poorly and often despised by their male counterparts. Her drawings and paintings of mosses, liverworts, lichens and sea weeds were printed in botanical texts and her name was given to around 17 species she first identified as distinct (though many have later been renamed because of changes in taxonomy). Her illness and early death robbed the world of a very remarkable woman. Curiously, about two years ago, I think I dreamed of her; this is an excerpt from the dream:

“I am exploring a hillside which has gullies and crevices with interesting plants and rocks. I get stuck with vertigo on one high bit and have to crawl down. I find myself at the entrance to a wide cave. There is a girl there in traditional Irish dress from long ago and she offers to teach me the names of the mosses and lichens. She shows me the different kinds – there is a candling moss (it’s fruiting bodies look like little lit candles) which has a Small Copper butterfly on it. She tells me all the mosses and lichens have their own properties. She tells me the Gaelic names for them, none of which I know (and I wish she knew the Latin names so I could go and look them up). I ask her, “Do you know all the names of the flora and fauna?” She laughs and invites me into the cave. There are beds of mosses and rushes and lichens laid out (wooden frames like raised beds for vegetables)”

There’s a strong message of ecological concern running through the book, woven into every strand of narrative, focusing on the tragedy of losing all these precious things, often without them even being known about beyond a few hardy botanists. The love of the natural world shines through in an infectious way that makes the reader feel enthused, and there’s a wealth of interesting and exciting information that just makes the plants described seem even more amazing.

“Where the Wildflowers Grow” is available from most booksellers including the Online One That Must Not Be Named. While the weather continues wet and my area prone to flooding (Norfolk looks like a lake…) I’m going to have to content myself with botanising closer to home or just reading about it.

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Books I read in 2023

Books I read in 2023

As 2023 draws to its close, I have totted up the books I have read this year (that I managed to write down in my “Books what I have read” note book) and it’s likely that the final total will be 85 books. There’s a day or two left, and I’m halfway through the most recent of the Rivers of London books (a Christmas present) so I think that will probably be finished by midnight on the 31st. One of the bonuses of having to rest entirely after orthopaedic surgery on my foot is I have got through about 20 books in the last five weeks. I’m not allowed to be up on the foot, so no housework, no walking around at all. To say it’s been hard on my mental health is an understatement; I’ve only left the house twice: once to have a dressing changed and once to have stitches removed. Huge thanks to my old flat-mate Sarah who posted me a selection of books to supplement my existing reading pile.

I’m not going to put links to books because with that many to choose a selection from, I’d never get this blog post finished and posted.

As mentioned above, Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London series has been one of the series I powered through, having got a special deal on a bundle of them. The most recent was a Christmas present. I’ve yet to read the novellas and short stories, as well as all the graphic novels. Intelligent, well-plotted, interesting and with nods to other authors like Pratchett and Tolkien, these are light enough to race through but not without some provoking of thought.

I also reread the entire Merrily Watkins series by Phil Rickman, before finally reading the most recent one, “The Fever of the World” set during the original lockdown. I’ve reread also “The Chalice” and have now begin working my way through his other stand-alone novels. Good, well constructed and complex novels, some may find them spooky or even terrifying but I (because I have had a strange life) mostly find some comfort in realising that weird things don’t just happen to me, even if this is fiction.

In the same vein, I reread all the novels by Dion Fortune. “The Sea Priestess” probably remains my favourite, especially as I once visited where much of the story is set. Written before the 1735 Witchcraft Act was repealed with the enactment in 1951 of the Fraudulent Mediums Act, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witchcraft_Act_1735 her novels used the medium of fiction to transmit esoteric lore that would otherwise have had the potential to land her in court. Her non-fiction works also tap-dance along a difficult tightrope.

I read a good number of crime novels, of varying quality and appeal. Among them, broadly speaking, were the very last John Le Carre spy novel “Silverview” and one of his first, “The Spy Who Came in from the Cold”. I was very impressed by how much he was able to shift and change both style and focus over the course of his career, both books mirroring the Zeitgeist of the times they were written. Best of the murder mysteries was “Breathless” by Amy Culloch which was extremely well written and researched, and kept me reading in the first days after my operation. Worst of the crime novels is a toss-up between Tom Hindle’s “The Murder Game” and “Murder Before Evensong” by Richard Coles. To be fair, I don’t think that cosy crime is a genre I generally enjoy or appreciate but so many do seem to treat the reader as a total idiot, and these both did that.

As well as the Fortune and Rickman novels, the spooky/horror area was well covered, enjoying “Hare House” by Sally Hinchcliffe, and “The Hollows” by Daniel Church very much indeed, and being irritated by Fiona Barrett’s “The Dark Between the Trees” (like a very poor imitation of Robert Holdstock’s “Mythago Wood”) and Lauren Owen’s “Small Angels” (which I almost lobbed across the room several times out of irritation). “The Ghost Tree” by Barbara Erskine was enjoyable but not memorable; it was also rather derivative of her own work!

I read two Pulitzer winners, one classic, “Beloved” by Toni Morrison and this year’s winner “Trust” by Hernan Diaz. The first I thought a truly extraordinary book, haunting and unsettling. The 2nd was a let-down; told using 4 narratives of the same events, none of the voices of the characters were sufficiently differentiated. It felt like someone putting on an accent rather than (as you would hope) the authentic voices of real people. Not one of the characters were remotely sympathetic, so it was hard to care what happened to them. The overall message of the book is along the lines of, “Oh yes, capitalism is such a bad thing but it’s our thing so we’ll love it anyway.”

In non-fiction, I covered a lot of ground among the first and second(and maybe third) generation of Jungians.

“Children’s Dreams” by C G Jung and others

“Confronting Evil” by Bud Harris

“Into the heart of the Feminine – Facing the Death Mother archetype” by Massimillia and Bud Harris

“The Ravaged Bridegroom” by Marion Woodman

“The Maiden King” by Marion Woodman

“Conscious Femininity” by Marion Woodman

“The Mystery of the Coniunctio” by Edward Edinger

“Transformation of the God Image – an Elucidation of Jung’s Answer to Job” Edward Edinger

“The Aion Lectures” by Edward Edinger

“The Mysterium Lectures” by Edward Edinger

All of these bear multiple readings. I’m half way through volume 2 of Marie-Louise von Franz’s Complete works, and close to the end of the reader’s edition of Jung’s famous Red Book (which I have as the full, gigantic and beautiful edition but have not read all the way, just dipped in to)

On a Jungian note, I read “Labyrinths” by Catrin Clay, a biography of Emma Jung and her marriage to Carl. Very revealing, very worth a read.

In other non fiction, I read “Inside the Neolithic Mind” by David Lewis-Williams and David Pearce, which was an excellent read, and am close to the end of “Kindred- Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art” by Rebecca Wragg Sykes, a superb and accessible book that informs and entertains, as well as raising much thought on what it means to be human. I also read Aldous Huxley’s “Psychedelics”, and as it’s a short book, it’s one I’d highly recommend.

A book I was given last Christmas I was finally in the right space to read. “The Wild Swans”, written and illustrated by Jackie Morris is a powerful fairytale that I’d really love to discuss with a group of Jungians – any of you out there read it?

There were others, obviously, and some I have read half of but not yet finished, some I gave up on. In other bookish news I completed “On Hob Hill”, finally limping past the finish line in September. I commissioned a truly astounding cover, and have begun the first round of edits. No date yet for publication and this year’s book sales have been so dismal I find it hard to find the energy to get the many stages and tasks done, but I sincerely hope I’ll get it out before the year is half done. For a tale that began as a silly short story intended for the first All Hallows after my father died four years ago, it’s grown massively and become something entirely other than what it began as.

That’s about it from me for 2023. May it bring us all a better time than recent ones.

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Where’s my DOPAMINE? On finally finishing writing a book.

Where’s my DOPAMINE? On finally finishing writing a book.

About ten days ago, I limped to the finishing line of completing the first draft of “On Hob Hill.” It took me about four years. In the past, it would have taken perhaps 4 to 6 months, or perhaps a year, and I wouldn’t be calling it a first draft because usually I’d be able to write something and feel that beyond some tinkering about, it was done. But recent years have been harder and harder for me to deal with, what with bereavements, stresses, health challenges that shift and change constantly and did I mention stress.

Incidentally, the title needs to be read in the angry voice of Daenerys Targaryon from the TV series “Game of Thrones” when her baby dragons have gone missing. There’s probably a gif for it somewhere, but put “Where are my dragons?” into You Tube along with the name of the series and you’ll get the picture. I feel cheated, I think. There’s claims that completing things gives you a dopamine boost but honestly, apart from a sense of relief, I didn’t feel much when I typed “The End”.

Those of you who are readers (I daren’t say fans because that just feels like hubris) of my works might now wonder when I shall publish it. The answer is, I don’t know. Perhaps never. If the effort of writing is immense, then so too is the process of getting things ready for publishing (including rewriting), deciding on concepts for cover art, finding an artist (I have someone in mind but need to ask) then bringing everything together, while making sure the font is the right size, and writing the bloody blurb…The list is endless.

What’s the book about? That’s a tough one. It’s a totally whacked out mix of comedy, horror, mystery with lashings of strange characters who are not in any way whatsoever based on people I have known. Honest. Really, every author is influenced (often unconsciously) by people they have encountered, but we do ensure that characters remain actually fictional. Set in an isolated old mansion house built in the lee of a Neolithic hill fort that looms above everything, there’s a retired Egyptian death metal band, a Hollywood star, a former solider turned gardener, an opera singer working as a cleaner, a very discreet pet sitter called Ben, and an African grey parrot called Toto. Toto was the starting point of the entire novel, which was meant to be a humorous short story for Halloween four years ago. The title of the novel owes itself to a dream where I saw a road sign, on a slant, saying, “Hob Hill” which owes itself to a repressed memory of actually seeing that very road sign in the spooky and disturbing TV series of Quatermass from the late ‘70s. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quatermass_(TV_serial) I saw a still from the series on Twitter a couple of years ago and realised where I’d got the image from. The brain is a strange beast, no doubt.

To celebrate finishing it, I ordered myself a sampler pack of perfumes from the extraordinary perfume house 4160 Tuesdays.https://www.4160tuesdays.com/ I have had a few of theirs before, buying “A Walk in the Forest” to celebrate publishing “A Voice from the Cave”. The choice of samples was influenced by the book, choosing fragrances that reflected aspects of the story or characters. There’s a heavy Egyptian element to the story, which involved me brushing up on my knowledge of the topic, ploughing through a number of books. That’s reflected in “Midnight in the Palace Gardens”, “The Darkest Bloom” and “Shazam!” Character-wise, “Invisible Ben”, “Goddess of Love and Perfume” for Ben and the Hollywood star, respectively, “Oakmossery for the soldier turned gardener, and “Paradox” for the opera singer turned cleaner. And as a bonus, the extra sample, “Both sides of Clouds” works well for Toto. I admit that the heavenly perfumes (I’m trying them out one at a time, or thereabouts) have given me more of a dopamine hit than finishing the book. I had promised myself a treat when I finished. Current favourites of them all are Paradox and Shazam! I still have one or two to try out so that might shift.

The other aspect that had held me up was the whole feeling of utter futility of being an independent author among a gigantic army of other independent authors, of trying to catch the attention of the reading public in a sea of noise. I still feel that. I have 5 or 6 completed manuscripts on my hard drive already that I just can’t face doing anything with. That includes two sequels to “The Bet.” The other works in progress include, “Rough Edges” a sequel to “Square Peg”, “The Selkie’s Song” (or son, not sure yet), “Tabula Rasa”, “The Bag o’ Nails” and a sequel to “Strangers and Pilgrims” with a working title of “Where Springs not Fail”, and some fragments of other works still without titles.

The chances are I will try to get “On Hob Hill” published because I do have strong ideas for cover art and plenty of people have expressed excitement at the themes and hinted story. But when is another matter. I am so, so tired.

Anyway, I’m going to try another of the perfumes when I go out this evening and maybe there’s a bit of an uplift to be had there.

Tales of the Well-Spring 8 – St Helen’s Well and Elen of the Ways
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Tales of the Well-Spring 8 – St Helen’s Well and Elen of the Ways

Tales of the Well-Spring 8 – St Helen’s Well and Elen of the Ways

Already we are in August(and rapidly approaching September) and I’ve written so few blog posts this year. It’s been one challenge after another and I am genuinely so, so tired. Tired of being tired too. That said, I have managed to get further with the work-in-progress, “On Hob Hill” and hope to have it finished very soon.

Since I went to the White Spring in April, we have explored a few more springs and holy wells, which I hope to write about in due course. However, I’m a bit behind as we visited St Helen’s Well last summer for the first time. We’ve been back a number of times since then and it’s slightly different each time.

Thanks should go to the FB group Holy Wells, Healing Wells and Sacred springs Springs of Britain https://www.facebook.com/groups/244060782427611 for the tips on finding this particular well. Situated in Thetford Forest, not far from the Neolithic flint mines of Grime’s Graves (within walking distance even, though it’s a bit far for me), this spring is a curious one. Finds suggest the site was used in prehistoric times, potentially even in Palaeolithic times. The original healing well emerged, it is thought, close to or actually in the walls of St Helen’s church. This church was built on the promontory overlooking the river Little Ouse, thought to have been during the reign of Edward the Confessor. It was mentioned in the Doomsday book (20 years after the Norman conquest this was a government imposed census of the country) but fell into disrepair some hundreds of years later, and eventually fell down completely. Humps and hummocks in the grass are all that remain; there have been archaeological digs there but not for many years. The spring itself, renowned as a supplier of healing water, vanished too. Fast forward to the 18th century when flints for guns were in huge demand; it was quarried from the chalk close to where the church once stood and turned out many millions of flints before it too fell into disuse, leaving a massive crater. https://insearchofholywellsandhealingsprings.com/tag/st-helens-well/ The arrival of the railway also disturbed the ground. Quite when the spring-head re-emerged is hard to ascertain but it’s there now. You can park in the main car park and then walk (it’s about 20 minutes or so to stroll to the spring). The direct route down to the spring from the noticeboard is quite steep and if it’s muddy, you can easily slip. However, there is a less precipitous route a short distance further on that is unmarked.

You walk among mixed woodland, the path chalky at times and hummocked, reminding you of the quarrying that went on here. It was always quiet and peaceful each time we went. If you were expecting a nice little well house or a wishing well structure, you’ll be disappointed. The spring-head itself rises and flows away under the railways bridge down to the river; there are multiple places where it bubbles up. It forms a pool, with margins of marshy ground, surrounded by trees, with one largish hazel that drops nuts into the pool in the autumn. There’s an atmosphere of peace and a strange quiet watchfulness. A few discreet votive offerings suggest it’s an active site of pilgrimage and possibly ritual. Every so often a train rushes by but it seems a million miles away from this little oasis. If you sit quietly, it’s like the waters close round you after a stone’s been thrown into deep water. The ripples expand, and then there is stillness. I sat and painted, using the water with my paints, the first time we went.

But who was St Helen? It’s a mix of myth, legend and history and much debate about it all. St Elen, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Elen is distinct for St Helen, mother of Constantine the Great, the Roman emperor who imposed Christianity as the state religion. St Elen is a Welsh saint, whose story is told here https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Welsh_mythology#The_Dream_of_Macsen_Wledig about how in the 4th century, the dream of the emperor caused him to seek out the woman in his dreams and marry her; she later organised the building of roads across Britain, becoming known as Elen of the Hosts, and sometimes as Elen of the Ways. We have no way of knowing which Helen/Elen the church in Thetford Forest commemorated, and of the well, even less is known. But Elen of the Ways has risen in prominence in recent years and has become a figure of some debate, even furious dismissal. The book by Caroline Wise, “Finding Elen” https://www.amazon.co.uk/Finding-Elen-Quest-Ways/dp/1508644039/ is an excellent book for exploring this mysterious figure, described by many as an antlered goddess, guarding the wild places and hidden roads of this country. Many deny she exists or ever existed, as an historical figure of worship. Antlered goddesses do exist in the archaeological records all across Europe; some wear bovine horns, some wear the horns of sheep and goats and some of various deer species. The debate can be heated and it does get nasty. My feeling is that it’s like one of the definitions of myth: “Myth is something that has never happened and is happening all the time” (attributed to Sallustius). Elen may not have been a historic goddess going back to the mists of time but the fact is, she seems to exist now. And at a time of huge ecological crises, the arrival of a guardian deity of the wild spaces and the wild creatures, seems both timely, comforting, and encouraging. I had a dream last year, shortly before we finally sought out and visited St Helen’s Well, in which the figure of Elen of the Ways appeared, in the form of a statue. An incredibly beautiful, detailed and intricate statue that I have looked out for ever since then, but have failed to find. I found a small silver charm of a female deer, which I wear often and indeed, I wore when I had my self-baptism at the White Spring in April. That day’s guardian of the shrine spotted it and asked me if it was for Elen (which indeed it was) and it turned out she’s a friend of Caroline Wise who wrote the book.

The fact that a new goddess who has always existed (I know it’s a paradox) has emerged and has become a focus for a greater awareness and love for the natural world is one of the few things to have encouraged me both spiritually and emotionally this year.

Not Recovering From Anything
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Not Recovering From Anything

Not Recovering from Anything

According to some, the pandemic is over with. Done. Finished. History. Well, I’d say it’s certainly history. Living through such a disruptive and frightening period is certainly historic. I’m not going to go into statistics or figures here, because it’s a constantly changing picture so I cannot be exact. By the time anyone reads this it will have shifted. But in the UK, people are still getting very sick, being hospitalised and are dying of the virus. There’s an estimate that one in ten infections leads to Long Covid, and given how entirely poorly the similar condition of M.E (myalgic encephalomyelitis https://www.meaction.net/learn/what-is-me/) has been understood and those with it treated shockingly badly, there’s not much in terms of help or progress with research.

My first run-in with the virus was before we knew it was present in the population. There were notices about anyone coming back from the Wuhan province in China, but back in those innocent days, we just didn’t know. I’d been unwell but it was February 2020 and I thought it’d just been a ‘flu-like cold. So I did my usual February work trip to Austria. After a very early start and a rough flight (the last twitches of Hurricane Bernard) I was feeling awful. We had an early supper, adjourned to our rooms and that was when the crisis hit. I can’t actually remember much, other than being on the floor of my bathroom, feeling like I was dying. I found it hard to breathe, fever spiking, coughing, somewhat out of my head. I’d been hit by waves of terrible nausea, hence heading to the bathroom. Around 2 or 3am I somehow managed to get to my feet, boil my kettle, make a herb tea, fill my hot water bottle, take some pain killers then collapsed into bed. I remember regretting not taking my key out of the door, thinking they’d maybe have to break it down if I didn’t make it. The next morning, I woke, feeling as if I’d been put through a mangle repeatedly. I could not eat. But the crisis had passed. I dragged myself through the rest of the week; truly I don’t know how. It wasn’t until much later in the year when I had my first vaccination that I realised I’d already had the virus. Anecdotal evidence was that those who had already had the virus reacted strongly to the first vaccine. I ended up in bed for a week. The second jab made me feel fantastic – again, another confirmation of previous infection.

2020 came after the dreadful 2019 where family illnesses, crises and the passing of my father, had already knocked the stuffing out of me. I’d had shingles twice during the most stressful parts. So I put my lack of energy from February 2020 down to the effects of that on top of my existing M.E, and the other intractable health problems. In the first week of the initial UK lockdown, my mother died suddenly. If you have dealt with the aftermath of a loved one’s death, sudden or expected, that’s tough enough. But add on the confusion and sense of complete untethering of the normal run of life brought on by both pandemic and lockdown, the stress was catastrophic.

For the record, there were aspects of lockdown I appreciated. The quiet. Being able to sit in the garden and hear the cuckoo calling a few miles away. The lack of traffic. The increased bird song. The cleaner air. I miss those. As an introvert, I didn’t find the enforced isolation a problem, certainly not at first. Social media was already a source of fellowship. At home, it was just my husband and myself, our daughter being far away in Germany. Skype calls kept us close. We watched TV series we’d missed the first time (“The West Wing” had passed us by – I’d highly recommend it) and we rewatched dvd box sets of favourites. I spent part of many nights plagued by insomnia (grief does that) sitting rereading old favourites on the sofa.

When my gym reopened, with well-spaced out equipment, I returned. I realised I was probably not well. I’d walked every day I could, during the strict lockdown, and when it was finally allowed to drive somewhere for a walk, we went to the coast about 45 minutes away. In the wake of a storm, I found two pieces of amber within a few paces. But despite having tried to keep fit, I was not returning to pre-Covid levels.

That first summer of lockdown, I was finally moved up the queue for an autism assessment, and by the autumn I’d had my appointments by video link. I don’t think I will ever fully forgive the assessors. When I first put in my request, I had been asked if they might speak to a parent or someone who knew me as a child. At that stage my father was frail and my mother had dementia. I made it (I thought) very clear this wasn’t appropriate. When they contacted me again the autumn after my father died, I was asked this again. I was upset and angry. There can be no other health assessment that asks adults if they can talk to their parents. As the process went on, I was asked another SIX times. I became distressed each time and made it clear this was not possible. The two people I saw, one a clinical psychologist, the other a speech therapist, were nice, pleasant and seemed quite sensible. But even they kept on asking, even suggesting speaking to a sibling. I had agreed they could talk to my husband as he’s known me since we were 18. I imagine there was a supervisor behind the scenes demanding this. I hope that was what it was. I considered making a formal complaint but in the end, what’s the point? I had no energy and no stomach for a fight. When my statement arrived, I seethed. It made it quite obvious that there was no doubt, that I was clearly autistic. They didn’t need to speak to anyone else. They’d put me through such distress needlessly. If by chance either reads this, I’d say be ashamed of yourselves and do better; the system will only change if YOU change it. I can’t.

I’ve had Covid again, just before Christmas. It wasn’t as severe but it was horrible, alien-feeling as if someone not earthly was running through my nerves and veins. It took months and months after that to get back to what I’d been before. It varies day to day still. I’m still not able to go to the gym 2 or 3 times a week, and long walks are impossible. I get weird symptoms. I find taking an antihistamine (Loratidine is best) sorts many of those, which suggests that the after effects include mast cell activation issues. Mentally, I get very foggy. Writing is harder than it’s ever been. I’ve limped away at “On Hob Hill” sometimes managing a few thousand words a month, sometimes nothing at all. It’s now gone past the 90k words mark and is almost finished. Go, me. I get dreadfully low and depressed, and anxiety hits sometimes like a silent invisible tornado. Going among people is awful. I’ve realised that the human world is intolerably noisy and chaotic. Shops play awful music, traffic is like thunder. Human beings are driven more than before by a me-first mentality and the greater majority of them are anathema to me. I’d like to go and live in my cave in the mountains.

Last year I had shingles again for the third time. I also had to be treated for Lyme disease when a bull’s eye rash came up on my foot. There’s a plethora of ongoing health issues, none of which will kill me but all together make life less than delightful. Constant chronic pain feeds into low mood and anxiety. I’m not recovering from anything. I’m not bouncing back. And if I’m not, many, many others aren’t bouncing back too. People are pretending it’s all over. Government is trying ruthlessly to suppress evidence of a host of things, including the sheer numbers affected by Long Covid. I’ve written here in the past about the Just World Fallacy and it strikes me that a lot of people simply don’t want to believe that a previously normally healthy person can be struck down and not fully recover, because it could happen to them.

I’m aware this blog post might well sound a pity-me, poor-me, kind of affair. It’s not a bid for sympathy. In some ways it’s a bid to remind folks that for many the last 3 years are not going to be relegated to the dustbin of history, that many will be living with the after-effects of all kinds for a long time to come. There’s also a host of revelations that will emerge in the coming years that will show how very badly those in charge have treated the country (I can only speak of the UK) and I hope that one day, justice will be done.

Tales of the Well-Spring 7 – Red Spring, White Spring
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Tales of the Well-Spring 7 – Red Spring, White Spring

Tales of the Well-Spring 7 – Red Spring, White Spring

The other day I was looking through my dream journals, going back around ten years, and while I was looking for one dream in particular I noticed that one of the commonest themes of my dreams has been to do with springs, holy wells and well-springs. I only began writing up my dreams on a regular basis as digital documents less than two years ago, so the facility to search for keywords is only possible with my computer. Doing it the old-fashioned way gave me the impression that it’s probably my most visited theme. I wish I had begun sooner and in a more organised way (as suggested by my article on keeping a dream journal here) but even so, it’s been enlightening to recognise this recurring theme.

It’s a recurring theme in my waking life too. Strangers and Pilgrims, https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0054D3DVQ/ my novel published over ten years ago, involves the search for a mysterious House of the Well-Spring, and the magical spring that heals all hurts. One of my favourite things to do is to visit springs and holy wells. There’s something extraordinary about the phenomenon of water from the rocks (or earth), bubbling up and flowing out over a landscape, something primal, mysterious and, dare I say it, numinous. You can reduce it to the basic geology, of course, and waffle on about the water cycle, but when you stand in the presence of water emerging from the depths of the earth, somehow the science of it seems less vital. No wonder many see a spring as a gift from the divine realm, and the places where such things occur as the doors to the Otherworld.

Glastonbury, that epitome of all that is mythic, magical and wondrous (it’s not without its problems, to be fair but we’ll leave that aside for the time being) is the home of at least 3 wells of significance. The Dark Well, situated in the crypt of the ruined abbey church, is dedicated to St Joseph, who is said to have brought the Grail to England. The Chalice Well https://www.chalicewell.org.uk/ where he is said to have hidden the Grail, making the waters run red forever as a remembrance of Christ’s blood, is now the site of one of the most beautiful gardens and the home of Peace almost beyond expressing. The waters that well up here are iron-rich, and leave a red deposit, and are believed to contain great healing properties. It’s one of my favourite places on this earth. If you ever get a chance to visit, do. Once the site of Dion Fortune’s temple, this quiet, lovely place feels like you are closer to the mysteries of life than you can imagine. A series of channels, some shaped as water falls, some as pools, flow through the garden before leaving the garden through a grate at the end. The water is also piped to a standpipe outside in Well-House Lane, where anyone can fill their bottles and containers. This water source has never failed, even in droughts.

During our post-Easter week off, we spent a couple of days in Glastonbury. I’d not been since November 2019, shortly after my father died, and I’d missed how at home I feel there. A new (to me) business has opened since I was last there, Sons of Asgard https://www.sonsofasgard.co.uk/ , who specialise in herbs, oils, resins, roots and a host of other amazing things, stocking such rarities as black frankincense, a thing used medicinally for lung complaints and which I have not been able to get hold of for a long while. On our second day, I had made plans to meet some friends. We spent a couple of hours sitting in the sunshine in the Chalice Well gardens, talking about deep things, before they had to go to ensure they were home in time for the school run. The next part of my plan was more complicated.

I wrote about the White Spring here https://zenandtheartoftightropewalking.wordpress.com/2016/08/22/tales-of-the-wellspring-5-the-white-spring-of-glastonbury/ , a few years ago, and I have longed to have the chance to bath in these waters. But the White Spring isn’t open every day, and depends on the wonderful volunteers so it took some meticulous planning to ensure that my hopes came to fruition.

Now the White Spring http://www.whitespring.org.uk/ also emerges from the hill known as the Tor but is entirely different. This water is calcium-rich. I know of nowhere where two springs emerge not many metres apart, with completely different water. In Victorian times, Well-House Lane was put in, destroying the previous landscape of little combs and flowing waterfalls, from the spring, and no pictures remain (as far as I can find) of what it once looked like. One book describes it as “fairy-like”. They built a well-house to contain a reservoir to supply the town with fresh clean water (a noble aim thwarted by the propensity of calcium-rich waters to clog up pipes with limescale) but it wasn’t in use for very long. The well-house was shut, and some time in the 90s, it was reopened with a cafe and some little shops. On a hot summer day, bathing your sore, dusty feet in a channel of icy water was very refreshing. But alas, this too shut. When I went back again for the first time in some years, I found it had been adopted and renovated as a healing temple. I wrote much about the ambience in my previous article on the subject but it’s still a truly special place.

After my friends had gone, I got changed in the loos at Chalice Well (your ticket allows admission all day, back and forth) and we went across the lane to the White Spring. Candle-flames shimmered and shivered in the pools; incense rose and swirled. Every sound was echoed; you automatically began whispering rather than talking out loud. My husband was there as my “second” (and also to mind my bags!). I’d done some mental preparation, but I found myself beyond words, beyond ritual. Divesting myself of my shawl and sandals, I took the steps up to the first and shallowest pool, sat on the edge as I put my feet into the water. It wasn’t as cold as snow-melt or of glacial meltwater but it was painfully cold. Agonisingly cold. It came to my calves. My dress soaked up the water at the hem. I gasped, taking deep breaths that came out as yelps. I stood, and walked a slow circuit round, trying to breathe through the pain of the chill. All ideas fled. I was strangely emptied. A couple of other people were there to bathe; a young man, more robust than I, had already entered the middle-depth pool and immersed himself without my almost chimp-like gasping. He then climbed onto the walls surrounding the deepest healing pool, and clapped rhythmically and let out various ritual cries, before entering the water again. Another did similar while I stood, almost frozen to the spot. Eventually, I went to the middle pool. Smaller, and about 3 feet deep, this once felt more contained, womb-like and intimate. I sat on the edge and let myself go into the water. More yelps as involuntary in-breaths took me. The water was so, so cold. Now I understand from the core of my being how people who can swim may drown falling into cold water. Eventually, I ducked down into a crouch and immersed myself entirely.

When I rose again, a second or two later, I found myself in such terrible pain. My head was gripped with the most intense, migraine-type agony, and I had to fight to stay upright and breathe through it. At that moment, I knew the deeper pool wasn’t safe for me. It doesn’t sound like much, 4 feet deep, but I had no way of knowing if the ingress and egress would be possible. My hands had ceased to work properly and I couldn’t think. I slowly walked back across the first pool, and my husband assisted my down the steps and wrapped me in my shawl again. My teeth were chattering, my dress was steaming as my remaining body heat evaporated some of the moisture. I spent a short time in some of the shrines, tying a few cotton cords as prayers (my hands took ages to remember how to work!) before I needed assistance to put my sandals back on. I stopped to speak to the guardian of the day who noticed my silver deer charm and asked if it was for Elen of the Ways (it is; I may write more on that topic another time). I talked with her for a short while about my experience (not of any instant healing or of any sense of physical rebirth but of something begun and not completed, because that’s what I think happened). Then we returned to the Chalice Well, where I changed into dry clothes, put on a jumper as well as my shawl, swallowed some migraine relief and we went and curled up on a swing seat in an arbour in the Meadow (where you can picnic). I slowly ate some lunch, and then either fell asleep or zoned out. Eventually I felt the pain recede, and we walked, very very slowly back into town and dropped in to see another dear friend for a short while. We drove back to our hotel (a Travel-Lodge on the edge of the town, very basic but clean, simple and cheap) where I climbed into bed and tried to get warm again.

I have not written about my internal experiences because I am still working through them. Some might think that what I did was foolish, to continue to enter the water despite the pain, and maybe it was. But it felt right. Something I needed to do, if you will. The thing is, many new age ideas deny the reality of pain, discomfort, of darkness and of difficulty. Life is not sweetness and light all the time. So I wish cherish this experience and let it work through me. If I get to go back, I will walk in the water but I doubt I will try for full immersion again.