I apologize for the delays in my blog posts. I had hoped to post today, but other things demanded a different action…and thus I have posted on Wynde…I hope you will read my other posts if you have been drawn to my blog….and yes, I will get back to it…soon….promise! Blessed be.
Today I had set aside some time to continue my blog posting on my trip to the UK. But then I started thinking… I mentioned the London terror attack briefly in one of those posts…maybe all too briefly. Today my mind is galloping across the political… greed, corruption, social justice, and most specifically, another mass shooting, a massacre at a high school here in Florida…the lists of these shootings keeps growing..high schools, concert events, churches, theaters, elementary schools. In addition, it is estimated that more than 30 people a day are killed by guns. In the midst of coverage of the shootings at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, three students in this area were arrested after making threats to “shoot up” their respective high schools and a 7 year old child walked into his elementary classroom and committed suicide with a gun. This level of violence…gun violence does not exist in any other western country. I believe that clearly we have a gun problem on multiple levels.
I have seen two of our well known teachers of the Craft, Starhawk and Raven Grimassi, address these issues on social media, and I have seen some persons respond to them with anger that they should stick to witchcraft and not politics. If you are familiar with the Craft, you know that Starhawk has always engaged in political activism. She sees silence as anathema to the practice of the Craft. You need to cast the spell, but you also need to do the work! In fact, the Craft has always been political… some ways we have chosen it, someways we have not.
I do not own a gun, I do not hunt. I grew up in Vermont, surrounded by people who did own guns, multiple, guns and did hunt. I did not know anyone who hunted people except a group who were drafted and served during the Viet Nam War…a few of their names are now etched on the Viet Nam War Memorial in D.C., but that is yet another discussion for another time. Many people in Vermont are still avid hunters. Many of those depend on hunting to help feed their families, and all of those I know most definitely eat what they kill. I also know many people both here in Florida and in Vermont who are armed because they are convinced that they must be armed to protect themselves and their families. I have lived in Virginia, in inner city Philadelphia, in Tampa and even on a relatively isolated farm in Vermont; yet, I still have great difficulty embracing that rationale. I confess that I have never lived in fear, nor been threatened by imminent violence. If I were threatened, I have no idea what my response would be beyond my fierce protection of those I love … I have no idea how it must be to live in a fear so strong that you are compelled to buy a gun, try to keep it both accessible and safe and then invest time and energy making sure you have the expertise and mind set necessary to turn that weapon on another human being.
This is a violent time and I struggle with it even as I watch Game of Thrones and re-watch episodes of it waiting for the next season…or re-read the books, or tune into Blacklist. How to reconcile these interests with my anti-violence campaign. Do not demand an answer, I have no idea but I do knew I have no inclination to wield a sword myself or shoot an arrow through someone’s heart. So the question is how do we as witches walk our path in today’s world? Do we turn away from the world and turn to our altars? Those of you who know me, know I am a proponent of the conjunction AND rather than the OR. I think we need to do both. There is shadow, but there is light.
Most in the Craft believe in the Rule of Three…what you send out to the Universe returns to you in this life or the next three fold. That means that the love, light, all the energy you send does return…you can send that energy via your altar or via social media, or via your own walk on your path day by day. We say do as you will, harm none…think about that, harm none…that is an awesome task. I do not think we should just stick with our herbs, candles, crystals and spells, but we should not neglect them either. We should also not be silent, but our voices should represent our creed, our values. Can we encourage respectful discussion? Can we listen? Can we state our own opinions clearly without disparaging those who think or feel differently? Do not underestimate the power of such a stance and, importantly, do not underestimate the difficulty of maintaining that stance. Every time I go on Facebook, I state my intent to be a positive contributor, to be kind, to be generous, to use my voice clearly without attacking others in any way. I will not promote the posts of others who sow discord in lieu of discussion. I am firm in my intentions…and then the feed begins, I enter the Facebook world designed to manipulate us to keep going, a hotbed of misleading and false information posted and reposted by deliberate design and by impulsive clicks by those who are simply responding to part of the message. And you know what happens? My intentions start to wane and I start to get angry, angry at the racist half truths or outward lies, angry…and I get sucked in to allowing myself to get all riled up just as those people intended..to rile me up and make me more susceptible to my own counterproductive emotions. And when I give in…more and more I do not…dear Goddess, do I regret my contribution to the darkening shadow…and, ironically, that regret is helping me stay more distant from those ravings and less inclined to fix things. I speak my personal truth; I will not be silent, but while I am riled, I am far less likely to be heard.
I have only my own answers, guided by my Path. There are many concerns for this day…hunger, environment, wars, social justice; protecting our Beloved Planet including all creatures. There are many ways to be political, many ways to walk our Path. I will continue to support several NGOs, I will share my opinions honestly and as clearly as I can, I will be open to dialog and I will listen, I will engage lawmakers and be more politically active…as always, I will vote. I will carry the light of the Goddess within me and allow it to shine in my treatment of others, in my own words and actions, gently, clearly with love and respect; and yes, I will go to River to be filled, search the night sky for the Moon and the Stars, marvel in the wonders of my day, go to my altar and light my candles, cast my spells. I will work to strengthen that light within me and to stand with others who share my dream and my intent…I will never give up… I am, after all, a witch.
I have visited Edinburgh twice before. Both with the person I thought would be my life partner. Clearly, that did not work out. Our first trip was to do what was erroneously described as a “walking” tour through the Highlands. In Vermont it would have been described as a strenuous hike up mountainsides and through rough terrain…but most assuredly worth all your effort. Before meeting our walking group in Inverness, we spent some time in Edinburgh. We loved it so much that eventually we returned to Scotland with our ten year old daughter. So much of my travel to this mystical land involves sweet and gentle memories of those times infused with the magick of seeing it anew, with my own eyes, my own vision, unadulterated and unencumbered.
The breakfast room here is a bit more structured…there are assigned seats and less give and take between diners..at least until the conversation evolves about a terrorist attack in London on the previous day. Someone drove a van through pedestrians on London Bridge. The carnage: 6 dead, 48 injured. My thoughts dart back to the Canadian couple I met in York, they were headed to London. I would later discover that they were not involved in the incident. I would also answer a zillion emails from friends looking for reassurance that I was well and out of London. I am grateful for their love and concern and I take a few moments to send love and healing to all those in London.
It seems strange to be planning a holiday in times of such sadness. I remember that Tolkien, in his wisdom, wrote in his Rings Trilogy “all we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” This is my time, I climb the stairs to my room to pack for the day.
A chance of rain today, well, after all, I am in Scotland. I have learned in all my travels that the key to a good holiday is a good raincoat. Do not skimp on the rain gear. For this trip I have purchased a Kuhl rain jacket with attached hood. It falls to mid thigh and folds easily into one of its pockets. (I ordered it through the REI website.) It tucks easily into the bag I use for my daily activities and I make it a point to always have it with me. I also wear my fleece. The high temperature today will be 63 degrees and I will step out the door to a temperature of 52 degrees….just a wee bit chilly to this Vermonter turned Floridian! The brisk wind in my face validates my good decision.
I leave Queens Crescent for Dalkeith Road to begin the walk that will lead to Arthur’s Seat. If you search Wikipedia, you will discover that Arthur’s Seat rises 822 feet and is a “relatively easy climb.” The operative word here is “relatively.” Relative to what? I have climbed Arthur’s Seat and do not remember it as an easy climb. I remember sometimes struggling with the steps, stopping to catch my breath while my daughter trotted along some distance ahead, patiently stopping from time to time to permit her parents to catch up. But I also remember the magnificent view from the summit. I remember sitting on a rock and journaling with wonder, and I also remember the gaggle of tourists and locals who, like me, were not deterred from making it to the top. I have since learned that the path from the east, the path we took in the times past, is the easiest path, of course I now find myself approaching from the west.
I turn to something I have not experienced before… the rugged beauty of Salisbury Crags. As I walked the base of the Crags, I did gaze up at the extinct volcano that is Arthur’s Seat…did I want to climb it? The moment of decision as the path veered to the left… I saw the steep path up to the Seat to my right…a narrow path that included multiple walkers making their way up, up, up. I could not do both…the Crags beckoned me, far fewer walkers and promises of the new…I veered to the left and climbed to the top of the Crag.
I love the serene beauty of this place, the clear blue skies, the sound of birds, the smell of the air, the crispness of the moment. I etched it in my mind as it permeated my soul. I am so blessed, so very blessed. And so grateful for each step, each breath. I am living in the present tense.
Eventually my path leads me away from the Craigs, out of the Park, past the Scottish Parliament building and into the gates of the Palace of Holyrood house. I am interested in visiting the Palace, so I plunk down my 12 pounds stirling, plug in my earphones and begin the audio tour of the Palace. Needless to say, the Palace has a complicated history, and has many aspects that defy my meager attempts at description. The Palace is closed during royal visits and the private chambers on the third floor are also closed to the public, but many of the rooms on the second floor are used by the Queen to this day. I was particularly interested in the Chambers of Mary, Queen of Scots. First, because as a historical figure she fascinates me, and secondly because her chambers are located in the oldest remaining part of the Palace. I climb the steep, winding and somewhat narrow steps to the rooms where James VI of Scotland was born, and where Mary’s private secretary, David Rizzio was stabbed 56 times by Scottish Lords and Mary’s jealous husband, Lord Darnley. I must confess that I was unable to see the bloodstains on the floor of the Outer Chamber which are purported to be clearly visible.
Adjacent to the Palace is the ruin of Holyrood Abby. The Abby dates back to 1125 and King David. Its name refers to the fragment of the True Cross that was brought to the Abbey by David’s mother, St. Margaret. After the the battle of Neville’s Cross in 1346, the English housed the fragment in Durham Cathedral. It reportedly vanished around the time of the Reformation.
I love exploring old churches, cathedrals, sacred sites, most built with pagan hands, all built on sacred land, each stone holding the memory of all that is past. Here at Holyrood Abbey I here the echoes of pagan builders, the chaos of Robert Bruce convening his Parliament, the grandeur of the coronation of James II, I see the disastrous collapse of the roof in the 18th century and yet I still feel the glorious beauty of its triumphs testifying to all that has come before…yes the stones do hold that memory and keep it sacred for us to experience.
There is a lovely cafe on the Palace grounds; The Cafe at the Park. I go through the line to order my belated lunch, then open up the pages of my journal as I sip a pint of Innis and Gunn and munch on a turkey with coleslaw sandwich on seeded rye. I turn from the decadent desserts….reluctantly, and instead opt for a cup of cappuccino before heading up the Royal Mile to the castle.
From the peaceful walk on the Crags to the jostling energy of the Royal Mile, even this early in June, the High Street is clogged with tourists and even a local or two. I am not disappointed. Cities should be vibrant and their energy palpable. I love the movement of Edinburgh. Canongate Kirk, St. Giles, John Knox House, Midlothian Heart, Mercat Cross, the sites, the shops, the restaurants and a Starbucks! The Royal Mile has it all. It is as I walk the Royal Mile that I remember my Heritage Pass. It is a 7 day pass that allows me entrance to historical sites…ummm, did not need to pay that 12 pounds for the Palace. Oh well, I have easy access to the Castle, no ticket lines for me.
Approaching the castle I remember that during one trip I saw the Royal Tatoo on these very grounds. As i enter I see that they are building a huge staging…most likely for seating during a similar event. I wander the castle visiting the Royal Apartments, and sitting briefly in St. Margaret’s Chapel. I wait patiently in line to see the Honours of Scotland and once again experience the goosebumps of seeing that jeweled crown, the sword, the scepter and then the red oblong block of red sandstone that is the Stone of Destiny. Yes the stones hold the memory and the experience is worth the wait.
I had planned to confront my fear of buses this today, so with map in hand I explore bus stops and bus routes, trying to absorb where, when and how. By the time I boarded the bus on South Bridge, I realized I had walked almost all the way back to the Appin House. Well, now I know. I am smiling as I open the door thinking how crazy it was to be so apprehensive and I am greeted by my host Jim. We chat for a time and he gives me the bus route to Rosslyn Chapel which is tomorrows destination. Bus 37 all the way…I can do that.
After choosing my breakfast time and menu for the next day, I climb the stairs to my room. My legs are telling me I logged in a few steps today and my hot shower is particularly delicious. I settle in with some notes on Rosslyn and a glass of wine. It is getting close to the Solstice and the light lingers, I do not see that waxing Gibbous Moon as I snuggle into bed, but, thank you, Goddess, how I feel Her energy.
The Arnot House is so comfortable and welcoming, Kim such a perfect host, that farewells do not come easy. I still follow her on Facebook and think about returning…York is just that special. Scotland beckons!
Lingering in the breakfast room, there is more conversation with Kim and the couple from Canada. They are also heading to the train station. They are going to spend a bit of time in London before leaving for home. A second couple joins us, they are from California. Over a second cup of coffee we share more stories and more experiences…and… we discover that we all travel a la Rick Steves. We laugh and swap tales of how we were all drawn to the Arnot House because of his guidebook. We also note that the popularity of his books have grown such that it is difficult to book impromptu travel using his suggestions. I share their lamentations that on previous trips an unexpected side trip still produced a Rick Steves suggested sleeping arrangement. So now travel needs to be a bit more organized, a bit more planned….but for the adventurous traveler all things are still possible!
My walk to the train station is considerably shorter and less confusing than my attempts to make my way from the train station to Grosvenor Terrace. I have booked my seat in advance, my rail pass gives me easy access to the platform and trains arrive and depart precisely as scheduled. My backpack slips easily into the overhead rack and once again I marvel at my ability to hoist it into those overhead luggage racks in both trains and planes.
The passenger car is alive with laughter and chatter – more young people excited to be going on holiday, eager tourists and weekend commuters. I pull out my Ipad. I have downloaded my guidebooks and once again I review my plans and priorities. The train ride from York to Edinburgh lasts about two and a half hours. The ride takes me along the East coast of the UK, along the North Sea, through the Moors to Druham, Newcastle and Berwick before arriving at Waverly Station in Edinburgh. I remember that I had researched stopping in Newcastle to perhaps hike a bit of Hadrian’s Wall. I have a sentimental memory of just such a hike a trip or two ago, but this is a new adventure, and I am crone. Maybe…later in my journey…maybe, maybe not…but still a possibility
Arriving in Waverly Station, I decide to grab lunch. Inside the main terminal is the Beer House. There is a table available and I claim a seat and order a beer and an interesting and unique cheese sandwich. I can do several side trips originating in either Edinburgh or Inverness traveling by bus. My previous travels in Europe, my time in Philadelphia and D.C., have all helped me to be very comfortable traveling by train, subway and metro systems, I confess I am not so comfortable traveling by bus. I know I need to get over this if I am going to be able to explore places not accessible by rail..so I finish my beer, hoist my backpack over my shoulder and I follow the signs for Way Out-1-Princess Street. The sign points the way out of the station and up the stairs to the Tourist Information Center.
I always visit the local TI. The centers provide a wealth of information, great tips and the answers to my often random questions. I confess my discomfort about buses to my agent, who laughs and reassures me that drivers are most helpful and that the system is fairly easy to negotiate. She gives me information on side trips available from both Edinburgh and Inverness and tells me that my decision not to purchase a Citilink Bus pass was good one. She also tells me that most bus fares within Edinburgh have been raised from 1.50 to 1.60 and it is always a good idea to have the correct change. Before leaving the complex, I reserve my seat for my train journey to Inverness, my next destination.
The sleeping accommodations recommended by the Rick Steves guidebook were either fully booked or the guest houses simply did not get back to me. Booking over a month before my trip proved to be just not early enough. I was able, however, to find a reasonable alternative through on line listings. The Appin House could accommodate my dates and my need for a single room… even a single room with bath…bath private, but not en suite. The guest house is about a mile and a half from Waverly Station and since I had no earthly idea where I was going, I happily paid the 8.00 taxi cab fare to 4 Queens Crescent.
Final arrangements for my stay were made directly with my host, Jim Burnett by telephone. Due to the timing of my arrival, he would not be at the house, but he gave me the passcode to open the main door and also told me where to find the key to my room. The front door opened with ease and the key was exactly where Jim had said it would be. As I picked up the key, a woman greeted me and insisted on carrying my backpack and showing me to my room. She opened my room, showed me to the private bath and told me about ordering my breakfast for the next morning. My room is on the third floor of the guest house. It is a tiny room with a twin bed facing a large window that is framed by heavy Morris inspired drapes and a deep swag. On one wall there is a maple wardrobe and on the other is a desk and chair. Next to my bed is a small nightstand….lots of electrical outlets! The thick heavy woolen carpet is an expanse of red and green plaid. The walls are covered with a wallpaper of creamy linen peppered with pale gold medallions. The window overlooks Queen’s Crescent, the room is small but comfortable: I settle in.
At some point in my planning of this trip, someone suggested an app called Maplets. I have found this app to be helpful in my travels. I also combine the maps in the Rick Steves Guidebook as well as the Lonely Planet Guide, to help me navigate my travels and my exploration of Edinburgh is no exemption. With a sense of direction restored, I start down the stairs and decide to explore my little neighborhood…but first I stop in the foyer to order my breakfast and select a time frame for my morning meal.
Turning right on Queens Crescent, I make my way to Mayfield Garden and eventually to Ratcliffe Terrace. I step into Leslie’s Pub and step up to the bar to order my first whiskey in Scotland. The bartender greets me with a grin. I ask for a recommendation that will not cost quite as much as my plane ticket home. He laughs and takes out a glass. I do give him some guidance, telling him I do not enjoy the whiskeys with a heavy peat flavor. He pours from a bottle along the middle shelf… “try this”… I take a sip and nod my approval…he finishes the pour…I sip again…Glenmorangie…very nice…welcome to Scotland.
Morning in York! I have a morning ritual that inspires my day. It starts my day everyday no matter where I might be. Propped up in bed, I sip my coffee and journal. I acquired this habit in February of 2005…living on my own in an old farmhouse built on the most sacred of lands in Vermont. I had begun reading a book by Julia Cameron (Cameron, Julia, The artist’s way: a spiritual path to higher creativity, New York: J.P. Tarcher/Putnam, 2002). Her proposed exercises include writing three pages each and every morning. She refers to them as morning pages. For me they were MOURNING pages. At the time I discovered her book I had experienced an unexpected and unwelcomed shift in my life and I was searching for some way to swim through the profound sadness that this shift left in its wake. This concept of morning pages proved to be so helpful and so healing for me that I have continued to write them more than 15 years later. Every morning starts with three pages of uneven prose, vague ideas and mundane musings. The second part of this ritual is my morning meditation, twenty minutes or so of conversation with the Goddess or focus on living in the present tense. And thus my morning in York begins.
A hot shower and the wonders of ibuprofen have alleviated the aches of attempts to get from train station to guest house and then explore a bit of York. Having successfully charged phone and Ipad, I slip my travel journal into my day pack, count me pounds stirling…yes, need to find a bank…and head downstairs to the dining room following the promising fragrance of bacon.
The dining room of the Arnot House has a lovely large bay window that looks out on Grosvenor Street. The view is perfectly framed by cascades of roses. There is a couple in the dining room as well, but they have not chosen the table by the window, so clearly it was meant for me. I help myself to a bowl of Greek yogurt and fresh fruit from the sideboard. Kim appears with a french press full of coffee and a plate of wheat toast and fresh baked scones. I am suddenly hungry and have no problem eating my two eggs over easy with bacon breakfast.
Conversation always comes easily to travelers sharing a dining room at a guest house. Very soon I learn that the couple is from Victoria, Canada and that they too are travelling through the UK. We shared our impressions of York and recommendations and a few helpful suggestions. As they were finishing their last sips of coffee, an older woman entered the dining room. She too is Canadian but from Ontario. She is originally from Kent and is visiting England for the first time since leaving Kent during World War II. She is in her mid eighties, and clearly all those years in Ontario have not erased her English accent. As the couple leaves, we briefly discuss our plans for solitary travel. She is back in England on a sort of pilgrimage, paying homage to her past, to her history, to her land, to her people. She speaks of a childhood marked by rations, darkness, sirens, the sounds of bombers, the persistent and pervasive fears. She worries that this generation will forget because they not only have not learned, they have not listened. She tells me that one of the unexpected benefits of this journey has been the number of people who have shared her history of war ravaged England and the validation of sharing their stories and hers. She has experienced the country emerging from 1945, and like her, it is resilient, but she worries that the healing will mask the scars and it is the scars that bear witness. The wisdom of the Crone.
Just before crossing the street to enter Bootham Bar is the Yorkshire Museum. It adjoins St. Mary’s Abby, the gardens and the Church of St. Olaves. There is a place to sit and I am able to use the wifi emanating from the Museum. My plan is to explore York without a plan and with no expectations, although written in pencil is my wistful plan to attend Evensong at the Minster and finally hear it sung. I gather my touristy stuff and decide to explore the gardens, St. Olave’s Church by Marygate and the ruins of St. Mary’s Abbey.
Unfortunately, I am so mesmerized by a sea of iris as I approach St. Olaves that I neglect to take out my phone and take a picture. The blooms defy description. The gardens fittingly adorn this complex that dates from the early 11th Century. The Church was built in 1055. Originally dedicated to St. Olaf II of Norway, the Church remains an active Church to this day. In May of 1088 the church was rededicated to the Virgin Mary and the area grew into the richest and most powerful Bendictine Abbey in Northern England. The richness of the Abbey did not escape the notice of King Henry VIII, and in 1539 he closed the Abbey and destroyed the structure that had been rebuilt in the 13th Century.
I circle the Abbey Gardens drinking in the early June blooms and the echoes of times past; meander around St. Olaves and leave via Marygate to find the entrance to the stairs that lead to the top of the wall. I have decided to walk the wall this day.
The Wall Walk is one of the best ways to experience York. Medieval city on one side, the hustle and bustle of modern day York traffic and life on the other. The Friends of York Walls have produced a helpful and informative guide for exploring the Wall…at www.yorkwalls.org.uk, there is a ton of information and a valuable map for making your way between the gaps, places where the wall is not, but should be.
The Minster dominates the city within the walls. The wall is a mosaic of city view…chimneys, roof tops, glimpses of gardens and green spaces, the wonders of the Minster appearing and receding, sunlight splashing off windows. The path is well worn, with the steps of history on each stone.
The Minster from the top of the York Wall
Walking the Wall is a two hour undertaking…for this traveler a bit more…I want to see it all, to hear it all, I do not want to miss anything, but of course, I do. I reach the last bar and descend the stairs to the street below. On my way to the Shambles, hunger gets the best of me and I slip into the Wildwood Restaurant on Lower Petergate. An Italian restaurant with modern decor, I am soon sipping wine and eating perfectly cooked whole wheat penne pasta with vegetables…yummy. The diffuse sunlight has disappeared and as I leave the restaurant I am greeted by a light drizzle. This is the England I know and love!
Any history or travel guide of York will tell you that the Shambles is the best preserved medieval street in the world. Its overhanging timbered structures and narrow streets bring back memories of times long past. Although there is a street names the Shambles, the area is a twisty turny maze of beckoning alleys and narrow streets…a maze of delight and fancy.
The Shambles certainly looks like J.K. Rowlings’ inspiration for Diagon Alley. There is even a shop that takes full advantage of this inspiration. 30 The Shambles is now home to the Shop that Must not be Named. The shop is purveyor of all things Potter. Even in the chilly drizzle of midday there is a cue extending down the block of devotees eager to explore the shop and spend their money. Because the shop is so popular, shopkeepers are only letting in a few people at a time….a crowded store must most certainly limit sales. The wonderful benefit of Harry Potter and this shop is that this new shop has endeared York to a whole new generation who will feel its magic and soak up its history.
I did not take the picture of the inside of the shop…I copied from another site. I do love Harry Potter, but not enough to stand in line in a cold drizzle just to get in the door!
I wandered the walled city for the rest of the afternoon, dipping in and out of alleyways and small shops, making my way back to the Minster for a bit of time in the garden before attending Evensong. As I entered the garden gate and located a bench close to the Minster, the clouds and drizzle gave way to a rosy hue that bathed the exterior of the Minster in a mystical glow. A woman asked me if she could share my bench and I smiled, nodded and moved over to make room for her. A young woman from northwest of York, I discover that she often comes to York on her own to rejuvenate and renew. Leaving children, husband, work and mundane life behind to bask in the more ethereal. When I mention my plan to finally hear Evensong sung, she shakes her head sadly. “Not tonight,” she tells me. A bump in the path has occurred and the service will be a spoken one. Disappointed I decide to enter the Minster and sit quietly just for a few moments. I have always been drawn to the magnificence of Gothic cathedrals. Souring tributes to a god built by pagan hands. Built on sacred sites, celebrating the human spirit. York Minster is particularly beautiful. Inner arches soaring to the summit, stone embracing soaring stained glass windows. The Great East Window, the size of a tennis court it is the largest expanse of stained glass in the country. I learn that half of all the medieval stained glass in England is embraced within the walls of York Minster. During World Wars I and II, the windows were removed, hidden, protected and later reassembled. I also learn that keeping them in good repair, like the preservation of the Minster is a never ending task done by many loving and dedicated protectors.
After an all too brief interlude gazing at the intricate wonders of the Minster interior, I decide to return to the Shambles for a light dinner. On Lower Petergate I discover the Rouge Cafe. Within moments I am seated, sipping a glass of red wine, enjoying a salad and a bowl of onion soup.
Tomorrow I leave York for Edinburgh, and oh, yes, I will have that apple dessert and yes, include that scoop of ice cream.
The Crone’s Way continues…on terra firma, the first day of my time in the United Kingdom begins. I have had little sleep but I am well fortified with caffeine.
Gatwick Airport has clear directions to the Rail Station and clear signage for Platform 4, the train to Kings Cross. I quickly learn some mundane lessons as I begin my journey: using a rail pass is both quick and convenient, its use requires a very short learning curve. Part of that curve includes the ability to reserve a seat of your choice on most trains without cost. This reservation will assure you of the location of your seat as well as the direction the seat faces. Forward facing seats are usually preferable, unless, of course, you are the sort of person who is more comfortable viewing the path already taken. The use of a back pack was further validated. A backpack expedites a rush from airport to train station to crowded platforms. Something carried on your back is easier to maneuver onto the train and infinitely easier to stash in the luggage areas provided on each passenger car. These lessons I learned having settled into my rear facing seat having been ejected from my front facing seat by a fellow traveler who patiently described the reservation process to me while pointing out the tags on the various seats throughout the coach. Once settled into my seat I also learned that legible journal are not possible when travelling by rail.
Gatwick is about 20 miles South of London and the trip to Kings Cross lasts just over an hour, so I watched as the view outside my window emerged from airport to country and bit by bit became an urban landscape. How long had it been since I had been to London? I leaned into the window and marveled at the skyline, new buildings, bridges, a weaving of affluent and working class neighborhoods.
I was bound for Kings Cross and a train that would bring me to York. Kings Cross Station is situated on northern edge of London. A merging point of local and long distance rail, the station is the busiest train station in all of the United Kingdom. As I enter the main station I am surrounded by a sea of travelers, travelers with maps and questioning faces, travelers with brief cases and faces of deliberate purpose as they thread through the throng. I find the energy of this place exhilarating as I make my way to the long distance train section of the terminal.
Entering this part of the terminal, I am struck by how familiar it looks. Clearly I have been here several times before, but it has been many years, and there is something else about it…I smile as my eyes fall on Platform 9. For an instant I almost expect to see Platform 9 ¾ emerge from the center area. As I look at the listings of departures for my particular train, it does seem only fitting that at some point this train should take me not to York, but to Hogwarts.
Have I mentioned that I am a big believer in magick? The power of intention. So I am not surprised that my seat to York –even without a reservation – is forward facing and boast a large window with an unobstructed view of the landscape. The passenger car itself is brimming with excited and joyful chatter; warm smiles and a cheery hello great me at every glance. The back of the car is hosting a group of women bound for York and a bachelorette weekend. I know this because they share their plans as freely as they share the plates of goodies they have brought on board, as well as the bottles of champagne that appear out of nowhere and travel throughout the car. One young woman is adorned with a short veil and its label reveals that she is the bride to be.
New beginnings, it is a fitting theme for my own travels and the excited chatter of the passenger car becomes a fitting sound track to my thoughts and my own expectations. I feel the magick of my own new beginnings swirl around me, tempting me to explore the possibilities, daring me to dream, teasing me to open the gate, the magick is whirling and glittering and giggling, it sings to me, dancing and laughing, all I need do is flick my wand.
My moment is interrupted by the arrival of the snack trolley. Lost in my own thoughts I half expect the trolley to be selling Bert’s Botts, Pumpkin Pasties or even Chocolate Frogs. But alas, the spell dissipates and I purchase a package of nuts, a small bottle of wine and a bottle of water. It is almost a two hour ride to York, so I settle in with guidebooks and itineraries.
York Railway Station is also a bustling station, especially since it is the station midway between London and Edinburgh. Built in the 19th Century, it is functional and picturesque, but it is here that I have my first experience of stranger in a strange land. My sense of direction abandons me and I see no signs that clearly point me in the direction of my B and B. I have a map, and the directions to the B and B…are they written in English? I sit on a bench to regroup and look around. Having developed a plan, I head for the crossover to get to the other side of the tracks. That seems to be my best bet. The cross overs involve stairs and carrying your luggage. There are elevators (lifts) but the lines are long and stair climbing is certainly part of my future. All stairs at the station clearly remind travelers that this is the U.K. and the rule is PLEASE KEEP LEFT. I smile as I find my forward process impeded by a small group of travelers struggling with their luggage and clogging the staircase insisting on being to the right.
As I leave the train station, I am surprised to find that nothing in the real world seems to match my maps and directions. I ask several people only to discover that I have somehow chosen folks even worse at map reading than I. I finally find the correct car park, but not the designated path, I wander looking like the lost tourist that I am. My not quite 16 pound back pack feels much heavier and the map appears even more obtuse. A gentleman stops me. “May I help you?” Gratefully I detail my plight. He smiles and tells me that I am very close, simply missing the turn onto the path. He also shows me how very close to the train station Grosvenor Terrace is once you know the way.
Grosvenor Terrace is a quiet street lined with trees and large Victorian styled homes, many of which have been converted to B and Bs. The Arnot House, owned by Kim Slater-Robbins and her mother Ann is a large brick home adorned with roses and resting in the middle of the street. The home was built in 1885 and has three floors, the upper two being devoted to its work as a guest house.
Kim greeted me with a huge smile and listened to the tale of my adventure from train to Arnot House with empathy…I removed my three ton back pack and she insisted on carrying it up the one flight of stairs and into my room. The room was sparkling and spotless with those extra touches that were to set a very high bar for the rest of my travels: little necessities like band aids and a sewing kit to the canister of baked goods, pot for tea and coffee and a decanter of the most lovely sherry. Kim gave me the grand tour, explained about breakfast and options for my visit in York. Although I was tired, I was also hungry, so after Kim left, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and headed downstairs to ask Kim about the nearest place where a hungry traveler might find food and a pint.
Suggestion and directions in hand, I turn left off Grosvenor Terrace and head toward Bootham Bar. I have learned that Bootham Bar is not a bar in the American sense, but rather an opening, a gate through the city wall. York’s City Wall is impressive. It is the most complete example of a medieval wall in all of England, and stands on the ruins of the Roman Wall built before it. I enter Bootham Bar, leaving all motorized vehicles behind and I am in the midst of a river of pedestrian traffic. A narrow street lined with shops and eateries, High Petergate is closed to both bicycle and vehicle traffic from 10:30 to 5:00 daily. Kim has recommended Hole in the Wall Pub which is not far within the gate, on my left. I enter and am relieved to find an open table close to the large window that opens onto the street. As I sit I can see the passersby and I notice a large table of locals to my left. I know they are locals because even though they smile at me, they have been complaining about the early influx of tourists.
If you were asked to describe a typical English pub, you would describe Hole in the Wall. As you enter, the brick façade gives way to warm woods, brass the hint of music under laughter and serious conversation, a well-stocked bar and the smells of chips and ale. The pub at first seems small and intimate, but further exploration reveals twists and turns and the promise of a larger gathering place.
One of the women at the large table catches my eye and leans toward me, she explains that food needs to be ordered at the kitchen, and drinks at the bar. I laugh and thank her saying that without her help I would have waited quite a long time for my first meal in York! The group is friendly and I easily get directions to the kitchen and suggestions on the menu, as well as other information on how the entire process works.
Of course, I opt for fish and chips as my first official meal in the U.K.. The woman at the kitchen window asks if I want mushy peas with my fish. Mushy peas? How could I have forgotten about mushy peas? Yes, of course, mushy peas…then to the bar for my pint of Guinness…double poured. I arrive with my drink at my table, hoist my glass to the helpers on my left, they approved…my dinner arrives…life is good.
I step outside the pub and decide not to go back to the Arnot House, but rather turn left and head up High Petergate to the Minster. York Minster dominates the city, I step through the garden gate and my eyes reach skyward. It is impressive, majestic, beautiful, breath taking. The bells are tolling and I hear the organ drifting through the garden. It is Evensong. There are no words. Regardless of your beliefs, no matter what your religion, no matter your history, sometimes your soul just knows, this is a sacred time, this is sacred space in a sacred land.
The night before a journey is a sea of anticipation. My morning meditation, waves of distractions…so hard to keep focus, I surrender to the flow and instead do an impromptu ritual for safe journey and magickal inspirations. I walk by the river and bless the rising sun. Today is the day, finally, after all the planning, all the pieces are beginning to become visible. The manifestation of intent. Returning home, I review my packing one more time. I have downloaded the most helpful guidebooks onto my IPad so that I need not carry the weight of the books themselves. I have torn out a few relative maps just for orientation and also added some apps on to my phone and tablet that might prove convenient. Copies of my documents and what itinerary I have conjured are left with my children. Copies are also tucked into my backpack. I have added things to my cross shoulder bag which will carry my IPad and other items that will need to be accessible during my travel…okay, I am ready, as ready as I can be.
Excited and assured, I grab my bag and my backpack and head for the airport. The airport is doing some construction within the main facility and so I do not linger there but rather take the tram directly to the airside after checking in and printing out my boarding pass. With no bags to check and a well- organized backpack, security is not a problem. I enter a small restaurant at the airside and order wine, cheese and roasted vegetables. An overnight flight and dinner will be served on the plane, but a celebration is order. Thank you, Goddess, for the gifts of the Earth.
It will be awhile before boarding. I make myself comfortable in a seat near the boarding gate. I gaze pensively out of the tinted windows to the wide expanse of cloudless blue skies. So many stories to be told. Are they worth telling? How will I tell them? I am a woman, like many women who has thought herself not pretty enough, not smart enough, not wealthy enough, not creative enough, not talented enough, and not spiritual enough. Always judging myself and always coming up wanting. I think back to a book by Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way, there is a valuable mantra in that book, “my job is to do the work, not judge the work,” followed by, “Goddess, I am in charge of the quantity, You are in charge of the quality.” And thus one by one I have snipped the tethers of never enough, the oppression of self-imposed limitations and restrictions, I am learning that I am enough, and I hope to light that flame of enough, of spirit in others. That is the journey we all make to our inner core; the Dark Moon work of the Maiden, the Fullness of the Mother and the Wisdom of the Crone.
There is a freedom today that permeates my soul, my heart, my total being. I am sitting at the airport having permitted my red hair to become white, having cut the long curls to a close cropped cap. I sit here with my 16 pound back pack, fingering my pentacle with its Alexandrite center, dreaming of the path ahead, a ribbon of known and unknown; planned and unplanned, knowledge and discovery. I take a deep breath and then another, I allow my eyes to close and the meditative journey to begin.
Good morning Great Britain! British Airways, comfortable flight, a bit of sleep, some food, some wine, some conversation, some time reading…life is good.
We landed just before 8 am. Not having to wait at baggage claim is always a blessing, but especially when you need to navigate the lines at passport control. The walk seemed like miles of moving sidewalks, twists and turns. I am sure it was a function of my being excited to just get on with it. Carrying my back pack also meant that I could pick up my pace when the crowd permitted me more access. I could not stop smiling. Finally the hallway gave way to a wide expanse of open space, a huge maze of passengers, lines up and down, left and right, all leading to the front of the hall where a long row of kiosks with high windows and cameras stood guard. There was a shorter line for passengers with EU passports, but the “other” line was the one that demanded my presence. I went to the end of the line…yes, still smiling….ahead of me was a group of about ten people, mostly women, pushing huge carts of luggage and carrying huge purses on their shoulders. They had flown to London to board a cruise. They were laughing and chiding each other as they complained about having to manage their own luggage and bemoaning the length of the line as well as its slow forward progress. I smiled as I realized that my perception of these people had been that they were older, senior, mature adults. I laughed as I realized that although I saw myself as younger, vital, energetic and adventurous, to all around me, I was decidedly a 69, almost 70 year old woman with white hair and a backpack!
I was still thinking about that as I stepped up to the passport control desk. My 2011 passport showed a woman with shoulder length red hair, hmmm. The Brits use facial recognition software so the discrepancy was not an issue. My lack of a concrete itinerary was at first questioned but my rail pass and my York reservation addressed those concerns. My passport was stamped and I was sent on my way with a very warm welcome to Great Britain and wishes for a successful adventure.
I belong to a credit union so I used my debit card at the airport to get just two hundred pounds sterling. I would get more cash with my card at a bank once I arrived in York. I planned to use credit and debit cards when I could but I also was able to negotiate better lodging rates by paying in cash. ATM accomplished, off to the train station. Rail pass validated, next step of the journey Platform 4, a train to Kings Cross, London where I will board a second train heading to York. Still excited, still smiling, but wait, what is that I see? A Costa oasis on my way to Platform 4? Well first things first… it is almost 9:30, time for a wee bit of caffeine and a huge cup of latte…Blessed be!
A journey of body and spirit begins long before the first steps on solid ground. I had dreamed the journey, I had cast spells for the journey, I had journaled my wish for the journey and set my intention to draw this journey out of the ether and into the world of substance. I began to weave the magickal and the mundane in preparation for those steps. My search engines and YouTube became dedicated tools as much as all my notes and books and magickal workings. In retrospect, I chuckle at some… for instance I became a frequent viewer of the very dated but very helpful You Tube series, “Speaking our Language…Learn Scottish Gaelic.” I chuckle a bit as I remember caring for my toddler grandson and rattling off “Ciamar a tha sibh? Tha gu math, tapadh leat.” Spoiler alert…I did not succeed in learning the language, but I did use that phrase a few times…especially the tapadh leat, which means thank you.
Having been to the United Kingdom before I listed areas that called to me to return. I compiled information on ley lines, sacred sites and especially places meaningful to me. I am a Vermonter and rugged landscapes with rock outcroppings always make my heart soar. I knew I wanted to walk in the Highlands as I had done years before. I wanted to feel the cold winds that carry the cold rains, I wanted to breathe sweet air and sink my feet into the dark Highland mud. I debated just getting off the plane with no plan verses having an itinerary with dots laid out on a map. I opted for drawing only broad brush strokes and coloring in lots of flexibility. Once that decision was made I made my first purchases: Guide Books, Rick Steves’ Guide Books for Scotland, Great Britain and Wales; Lonely Planet guide book for Scotland and the Rough Guide book for Scotland.
I have always opted for travelling light, whether an overnight jaunt or a month of travel. This has been somewhat of a challenge for me because often times in my ritual and teaching life, lugging heavy baskets and multiple items is the rule rather than the exception. I am convinced, however, that to travel via plane for any amount of time is to travel light, and that was especially true for this journey. I have learned that back packs work better for me than any size suitcase on wheels. When a suitcase has wheels it seduces me into believing that adding an item or two to the mix does not matter…usually those items are best left at home. The goal was not to check my luggage, to be able to carry it on my back for extended distances and periods of time, and also to be able to comfortably lift it into the overhead compartments of planes, trains and buses. For me, that meant that the pack had to weigh no more than 16 pounds and be able to fit in most of those compartments. I have climbed enough stairs in train stations and B and Bs to learn that carrying something on your back is easier than tugging something up a staircase, heavy and sighing with every stair. I have also witnessed my share of tourists who struggle to get luggage on and off the trains or wait in long lines for the elevators while the stairs are just a hop away. So, I did treat myself to a new Rick Steves Classic Back Door bag… the basic one, not the convertible one. The convertible one expands and I knew I would have a difficult time convincing myself not to tuck some other items into that compartment. That being said my bag is 21’X14”X9” and weighs less than two pounds. It does not taper like many packs and it’s squared off design is more easily organized. This trip I also planned to use packing cubes to keep everything in order and to eliminate packing and unpacking and packing again at every stop.
This trip presented some additional challenges for light packing. I was travelling in the Highlands where temperatures would still be in the 40s, but I would be there for an extended period of time, plus I might spend some time in England, so there was a chance I would experience much warmer temperatures. An on line search produces numerous resources and advice on light packing. I found a video on line produced by Rick Steves featuring Sarah Mudoch. Sarah is one of the Steves tour guides. She had just returned from a trip to Italy, so not only did the video show how and what to pack, but it was based on the pack she had brought to Italy. The video was so helpful that I subscribed to her blog: Adventures with Sarah.net. Not only was it informative and entertaining, but she was quick to answer emails regarding my particular dilemma. And Sarah is really hard core on packing light.
In order to help anchor the journey in substance, my first tether would be my airline ticket. I quickly discovered that flights from Tampa to London were considerably more convenient and less expensive than flights from Tampa to Edinburgh. Since I planned to purchase a British Rail pass to ensure flexibility as well as savings, flying to London seemed the best plan….it did however, cast part of my journey in stone…the beginning and the end. London, not Edinburgh; England not Scotland. Regardless of the free flow of travel, I enjoy the security of having reservations for my first and last nights of my journey. After a night flight from Tampa, I wanted to have an easy and comfortable, but still interesting place for a night or two to regroup and recover. There was York staring up from the map in bold letters. I am not sure what I love about York, but I had fond memories of my last trip, so without further deliberation, I booked two nights at the Arnot House. The Arnot House is within walking distance from the train station and just around the corner from the City Wall. Perfect, fly into Gatwick, navigate passport control, train to King’s Cross, hop a second train to York. Sigh of relief.
The need to decide on the last night of my journey forced me to make a major decision about where to spend both my birthday and MidSummer. My initial plan was to be at the standing stones in Lewis or at Tigh na Cailleach in Glen Lyon or even on Ben Nevis, but now that would not work because I needed to be near Heathrow for my return flight on June 22. A few years ago I had thought about MidSummer at Stonehenge, but that no longer called to me. Much to my surprise messages popped up everywhere…random thoughts, random images. During one of my walks I was playing an album by Kellianna. “Mists of Avalon.” Okay, Goddess, I get it…Glastonbury. I would spend both my birthday and MidSummer there before heading to London and Heathrow. I had to make reservations because it would be three, maybe four nights. Synchronisity…a pagan themed B and B. The name? The Covenstead, the room? Hedgewitch. Sometimes the Goddess changes your plans, sometimes they are different, but prove to be infinitely more magickal.
With the passing of yet another birthday, the Solar and the Lunar returns reveal the swirl of possibilities and the illumination of promises still unfolding. This was a remarkable birthday and with its passing a stronger commitment to this site was born…a renewed energy and a stronger vision. Such incredible sites on the Internet dedicated to the Craft. Sites resplendent with candlelit pentagrams, and besoms, magickal calligraphy, images of Goddess and God, many dark and beckoning emerged from my searches and visits. With renewed commitment, I realized these sites had affected me in yet another realm….the realm of self doubt…was my site witchy enough? There is a mirror image to that question that many of my students have voiced…is my life witchy enough?
The title of my page is Wynde. Wynde is my adaptation of an old Scottish word, Wynd. A wynd is a narrow pathway or alley way. It often has twists and turns, and more often leads to hidden treasures. Gael refers to all things celtic and thus the name of my site and my store reflects both my path and my affinity for Scotland, Ireland and all things Gaelic.
I do admire and love to visit those intensely witchy sites….especially the dark ones that seem seeped in mystery. These sites are so mystically magcikal to me. I also admire the houses of witches whose craft permeates every nook and crannie of their abode. I have one friend in particular…even as you park your car on the street the house calls to you…a powerful witch and priestess abides within…magickal offerings adorn the trees, spheres hang from branches and peek out of bushes, magick is in the air! Inside the air carries the sweet scents of incense and candles, tributes to the Goddess and God transform mundane to magickal…inside, outside, above and below, it all vibrates with the essence of her craft and the path she shares with her Shaman partner. I love being in that space, soaking in that essence, and I especially love when we weave our energies in that ritual space. I live in a condo…a fairly small condo, but even before I moved to smaller spaces, the visible signs of my craft have been more subtle. I have maintained my same Goddess blessing at my entrance, but now a I have a sprig of rosemary across the top of it since I no longer have outdoor space. My witches ball still hangs in the center of my sliding glass doors that face West, but now those doors lead to a Juliette balcony. Herb pots, candles, a lunar calender, a magickal planner, all are scattered hither and thither around the living area, dining room and kitchen, tributes to my Spirit Horse and the ELements. My bedroom is less subtle…my altar centered on my Amethyst Cathedral, my besoms, my window adorned with a stained glass crescent moon and numerous crystals…candles, cauldrons, magick abounds.
My spaces are a bit more subtle because my space reflects the path I follow and the merging of my particular magickal with mundane. Your Wynde is yours to create. How you choose to express your Craft will be determined by your own context and your footsteps upon your path…where will it lead you? I am witch of Air, Water and Fire: I am High Priestess and teacher, healer and crone, this site reflects who I am at this manifestation of my life. There are many ways for you to experience and express your path as you journey forward. Let go of expectations and listen to the Goddess who speaks within. Be true to the Voice. Perhaps your monuments to your craft will be filled with pentagrams and candlelit corners, images of the Goddess, crystals and besom…perhaps your expression will be a single candle and a small bouquet of flowers, whatever your create, create it with joy in your soul and the love of the Goddess in your heart…all else will follow.
And, yes, my site is witchy enough – it is a creation of the path I have followed, a journey that continues to twist and turn, that narrows, then expands to narrow yet again… there is magick on this path….and endless possibilities.
Sometimes the Goddess challenges our resolve with distractions. We hear this inner voice of inspiration, purposeful possibilities, numerous threads of future action, then as the weaving begins, as the warp appears set, the distractions begin, the tension seems amiss. Like some witches, I have struggled to balance the magickal and the mundane only to discover that it is the arbitrary boundary I have created between the two that is the tension, that creates the problem. There is no boundary, it is our intentions about our magickal life that heightens our awareness and permits the magickal to shimmer through all that seemed mundane.
It has been almost three years now since I sold my hillside farm, bid a gentle farewell to the woodland spirits, meadow elves and water sprites to return to urban living. The difficult choices of a crone was eased by the loving embrace of children, grandchildren, old friends and a beloved spiritual family. Here I discovered the water witch within my soul and the promises of footsteps yet to come. Sun in Gemini, Moon in Cancer, Leo rising, no longer the Priestess, time to embrace the Crone…but how…where is the next step?High
On this morning, I ask myself, “Why do this at all?” Why as I struggled to anticipate the next step in my 69th and 70th year did I create a web site, attach a store and embark on this strange journey? More importantly, why, as I begin my 71st year have I intensified my commitment to continue? The answers spill out in a series of heartbeats…I love this Goddess path with every fiber of my being, and I love to write…surely at this crossroads, it is time for one to give voice to the other such that others may hear. Another answer to my question also emerges, a crone at 60 dances the power dance around the fire, creates magick at the altars of the Forest and the Mountain top, but who is this crone at 70? I had to discover her, own her, love her and share her, believing that in some small way this sharing will be seen by just the right person at just the right time and that sharing will inspire her or his journey forward as well.
As I anticipated my 70th birthday,I was determined that my 70th would be both a remarkable celebration and a life altering experience. I love birthday parties, balloons, friends, ice cream, and especially birthday cakes, but not this time, I wanted this to be a time of a personal journey, my Cailleach journey, and for me, that meant Scotland. I set my intention with a wee bit of reservation, but as so often happens when you set your foot on a true path, the Goddess gave me a major shove forward. A debt I had long ago written off was paid and suddenly, I had a savings account and work to do.
From that beginning was born this site and this blog. I wanted to write about this journey, I wanted to share it and suddenly mundane ideas became very magickal indeed. I did not embrace my crone-hood or my 60s gracefully. I colored my hair,obsessed about the lines on my face and neck, all the while agonizing over just the right anti-aging products. Somehow in all this denial, there was a light of inspiration. I started taking care of myself. Holy basil tea became a daily indulgence, I started eating a bit more healthily, I started walking and OMG, even exercising. I lamented my lack of stamina and determined to improve. There were hits and misses, times of discouragement and a few times of exuberant success. I discovered some of my patterns – I do better when I have a goal, especially a really big goal, and I need some sort of schedule. The trip to Scotland was a really big goal.
I faced some truths as a crone headed to age 70. Stamina, flexibility and strength require more effort than in younger times. Much to my chagrin I found that I was no longer able to sit cross legged for extended periods of time. (Just when did that happen?) I needed to be able to carry my backpack and walk a minimum of 5 miles a day – that would take some effort…and then, there was that face in the mirror, no longer the face of youth, but rather the face of experience and a journey well traveled. Coloring my hair did not change that face no matter how I tried to convince myself otherwise. Nor was the secret to that face found at a cosmetic counter…two major changes emerged…. the first was to cut my hair short, really short, for me painfully short, and to permit the locks of the crone to sprout forth. The second was to put aside the false promises of anti-aging creams and instead to find a healthy skin regime that worked for me. In Vermont, I had attended several Women’s Herbal Conferences sponsored by Sage Mountain and they had become the building blocks for my own herbal work. I returned to that knowledge and now that I was no longer working full time, there was space to create my own skin and hair products, to conjure my own magick while dancing between the worlds in their creation. The bath fizzies on this site are a function of that magick and there will be more to come.
My journey has had some interesting twists and turns, such is the stuff of magick. Each week I will post and invite you to share that journey with me…. Next time, how i planned and how I prepared…Blessed be.