Archive of ‘Magic’ category

Beautiful Spring

Artist – Zula Kenyon

Spring is gathering outside, filling the world with wildflowers. The other day I stood in the forest, a light, cool spring rain singing through the trees. It was just beautiful. I can still hear it, feel it, my face turned towards the sky. 

There’s blue star shaped flowers on the ground, growing in blankets among the trees. I know this flower, if only through song. I know its white cousin very well because it filled the fields behind our house where I grew up, but the blue one never showed itself. It grew in other parts of Norway, (now I’ve moved to Slovenia). But my dad would sing a song about it, and I also sang it to him one day while we were walking by the river when he was feeling depressed. I wanted to remind him of beauty, of magic, of joy.

It’s a simple song. About someone receiving a bouquet of these blue flowers from a young girl in a forest. In return, he gives her a few coins to buy some chocolate, but as she happily skips away from him, he reflects that he has never before received such a rich gift, and in truth, it was she who was good towards him, not the other way around.

My dad would sing me different songs while growing up. One was about a girl living in a forest.

“I know a little girl, yes I know her so well, I know a little girl north in the woods.”

And my mom would sing about a girl who asks the southern wind to not touch the veil on her hat because she needs to look beautiful for her beloved.

“And the girl asked the southern wind, don’t touch the veil on my hat. It needs to be nice and clean for my beloved. With a hat with a veil and silken straw. A dress with lace along the neck, two white shoes with ribbons, and socks as clear as day.”

Silly little songs that I still remember, if only the first sentence of it. Hearing them again always brings me back to my childhood. Do you know songs like that?

 

Iceland 

I wanted to write about Iceland sooner. But then I got sick and life carried me along with it. What I will remember most is how it felt to return to the wild north. To be in a place somewhat untamed by people. The houses in the countryside seemed almost lost, swallowed up like they didn’t quite belong among the fields and mountains. And I loved all the streams and rivers and small lakes that you could drink from. The fresh air, and the blue light of the mornings, and the smell of snow. I loved the steam that would rise up here and there from the ground. It was such a strange sight. And I liked seeing the small Icelandic horses along the road. The place was full of them.

I felt at home in Iceland. In Reykjavik, I went for a long walk along the ocean in the heavy snow that had fallen overnight. I always have to go to the ocean when I can. I like to stand and watch the horizon, to feel what might lie beyond it, and listen to the distant voice of the sea.

But now I’m back in Slovenia and waiting for the Spring Equinox. Everything is coming back to life. Can you feel it? Or perhaps autumn is coming to where you are, and you feel things falling away? Wishing you beauty, love, light. 

The Cold North

I went to Iceland with my husband. And I’ve seen many beautiful things. It’s so strange being on an island, surrounded by the cold ocean, so similar to my own home, and yet very different. Listening to a language I feel I should understand, but don’t. It feels like listening to an old memory. A distant past.

We had a small storm today, here in Reykjavik. I spent the morning and early afternoon indoors, growing restless, watching the trees wave outside my window. And then I felt it call to me, that wind, and the sun came through the rain and so I went outside. I walked to the sea and watched it tossing around, silver gray and white and endless. And some words came to me out there, that I wanted to write down. I’ve felt pretty empty lately.

I had to be careful to not fall over in the wind, and I turned back, headed to a small coffee shop. I like watching people, without interacting, but just observing life and things happening around me. There are several people with computers, some reading the newspaper, most just talking over a beer, over soup and sandwiches. I order lemongrass peppermint tea and a slice of chocolate cake with cream.

I’m enjoying my last few days here in Iceland. I know I will blink and it will be gone.

Hope to write more, later 🙂 

The Return of Light

Here I am, back again. Writing from Slovenia. My husband and I moved from Norway to Slovenia, and then again within Slovenia. We’re now in a small, lovely town with more sunlight than my Norwegian-self think is normal for winter. It is wonderful, but somehow it makes me think a storm is coming. It’s almost like being back in California, though much colder of course. 

I like going for walks, watching the mountains. And I feel I’m settling down now, slowly. So many things have happened, and it’s been hard for me to find the quiet within myself to write. And whenever I do write something (I have several unpublished drafts) I feel afraid to share it. Perhaps I’ve been a bit raw, feeling vulnerable. Scared of not being enough, or too much. All of that stuff. But 2017 brings new beginnings. A new year, a new cycle. 

The Winter Solstice

I don’t want to move into the New Year without mentioning the Winter Solstice. It was especially beautiful this time around as I celebrated it with friends, on the top of the mountain, above the clouds. It truly felt like we were in a different land, far far above everything and everyone else. In a different world. We climbed the mountain beneath an orange sky, and at the top, we did a ceremony together. We sang and watched the sun come up. I remember the pink edge of the clouds and how they stretched out like an ocean below us. And the incense, drifting like smoke above the ground around us. We were all robed in white and yellow, and a friend stood in the center of the circle, dressed as the Divine Mother. She lit a candle as the sun rose, and it felt like magic. A gift. I’ve always wanted to celebrate the Solstices and Equinoxes as long as I’ve known they existed. And now I’m finally part of a group that brings that old magic back to life. 

Christmas

Christmas was also beautiful and spent among friends. I felt I was given small gifts of moments, of meaningful discoveries. Gifts of love. And I went for a walk in the dusk of Christmas Eve, standing for a long time under the Christmas star, praying, hoping. Asking for help. I always feel sad on that day, missing my family. I just can’t help it, even after all these years. I always feel broken open and hurting a bit. But I was reminded that I’m very lucky to have received so much love growing up. It fed me and helped me have hope in life, and in other people. I still feel I’m carrying that love inside of me, like a golden seed. 

Wishing everyone a beautiful 2017. I would love to hear from you. How are you? 

Quiet Spaces

Blair_Leighton_God_SpeedThey are so fragile, these voices that want to come through. I hear them and close my eyes fro a moment, listening. But sometimes I feel too thin and worn to write them down, and I need more listening, more watching as spring comes out, the world unfurling itself in green and new colors.

I’ve been wandering through quiet spaces, looking for words, light, myself. The Goddess.

I went outside to see if my rocks were there, the flat ones by the lake. And I found them, only half swallowed by the recent rain, and I sat down, hugging my knees, gazing out on the sky and water, the distant mountains. The world felt warm and friendly, alive once more with bees and flowers, green grasses saying and gleaming in the sunlight. A yellow butterfly fluttered over the lake, and I watches waves lap against rocks, leaving wet glittering shapes. 

Later I gathered windflowers. There are so many of them now, like white blankets in the fields, and I pick them, love them. They’re my childhood remembered. But there are other flowers too. Dandelion, the first violets along the roadside. I walked in the warmth of the sun, picked green leaves to nibble on, heard the clear song of birds, saw shadows of wings on the road.  

These are light days, bright days, the world transformed into green and colors, and the nights are half nights, pale and without stars. In the evening, I look outside and I can still see everything clearly, the world draped in soft blue, the mountains black shapes in the lake.

I walk between windows a lot, between tasks, breathing the air coming in. I feel I’ve been woken from a dream, a dark winter dream, and nothing seems quite real. Everything changed in the blink of an eye. 

A Black Sky

Theodore Kittlesen

Theodore Kittlesen

I stood on the rocks today, by the lake, watching the sky, seeing it darken around the edges. Lights dimming as though slowly being switched off, as clouds stretched closer, and the water grew black around me.

I could not move. I had not meant to stay out very long, but I could not leave that sky. I watched it, heard rain start to fall behind me, felt the first drop of it on my skin, and still I stayed. I don’t mind getting wet, not when I’m close to home. And it was one of those moments that I wanted to be in the middle of, like in the heart of a storm, though there was no wind, only silence and a darkness inching closer. But there was light also, golden glints of it between the clouds.

I sat down. Waited for the rain. But it did not come, instead, I felt hail, heard it sing through the trees before it reached me. And it did not sting. It was a strange thing to sit in the middle of a hail shower, that felt soft, almost like snow. It filled the hood of my coat, and got in my hair, and I tipped my head back to stare into its silver thick stream. Gradually it stopped, and the lights turned back on, the sky a thick sleepy grey. So I got up, brushed white, soft stones from my coat and climbed up the hill, to the road leading home.

I feel at times I’m still walking through winter, even with flowers coming up everywhere, and new leaves sprouting on trees. The air is so cold, and the nights still breathing ice through my window. I do hope it will warm up, that it won’t be a cold summer like last year.

My husband and I went for a hike through the forest last Sunday, and I watched the sky then too. We came to a clearing with a dirt road and houses, and I saw how dark it was, beautiful, powerful, brewing a storm above grey apple trees. And it hailed, and I heard a crack of thunder, shaking the sky.

I feel the world breaking open, and earlier on my walk today, I imagined the Goddess tipping a pot of gold through the cracks in the clouds, making flowers and colors spread over fields and grass. I felt like sitting down, mouse still in the grass, watching clouds roll past me, getting lost in them. Sometimes I feel them swallowing me up, as though my spirit is not on the ground, but in the sky, and I feel their rain and light, the power they gather on their journey across the world. 

Do you feel the sky speaking to you? 

Singing to Moonlight

Light is returning, so I stand by my window in the early morning when the birds are singing to moonlight, and the sky is not dark, not bright, but somewhere in-between. The whole world is blue and shining, and I can feel dawn creeping closer, closer. It comes quickly now, so I grasp this moment with both hands, a moment of magic, two worlds intersecting, when standing by my window is standing between night and day. And I can see the trees, the lake, the mountains slip into brightness. 

It’s strange how when the sky is no longer blue, but white, a touch of gold on the horizon, the birds fall silent. It’s as though they were only singing to wake the sun, or call down the moon. There is a stretch of quiet around sunrise, and then the day starts, the magic breaks and all is bright and normal again. The birds are just birds, happy song filled things, of air and feathers, and not mystical beings of the night, of the in-between, singing through dimensions.

Beautiful Dreams

Sometimes I have dreams that feel like a gift.

Last night I was in a beautiful landscape, and my spirit soaked it up like rain water. I remember simply watching the clouds, feeling the wind in my hair, thinking, I’m gathering jewels in my soul because it was all so beautiful. I thought of the Goddess as I fell asleep, and maybe she brought me a moment of magic, of beauty. 

The dream world tends to be even more vibrant and colorful than this one, those moments when it shows up crystal clear. 

And then I woke up and heard the morning birds, the ones calling out the time before sunrise. The world was a soft, dark blue and they must be different birds than the ones singing during the day because they sound different, mystical, magical. I listened for a while and then got up, crawled into bed, because I had fallen asleep on the couch. I’ve been sick with a stomach virus, but I feel a bit better today, on the inside as well. Maybe my dreams revived me a little. I feel I can write again. 

I stood by the window, in my chilled, almost frozen bedroom, and watched the moon. A winter cold moon I thought, even though it’s spring. It was round and full and the world had fallen silent around it. 

I feel I live for drops of beauty in my life, moments I can tuck away somewhere inside of me. And they are everywhere, especially in spring when the world is ready to burst forth with color, and yet is taking its time doing it. In a way, I’m glad because then there is time to watch it happen. Yesterday my husband and I drove to look for something he lost while stopping along the road a few days ago. We ended up wading through a hill full of windflower, which made me want to lie down among them and feel their voices. We didn’t find what we came for, but we got to be in an ocean of white for a while. 

I also wanted to share some videos with you. There’s a series of them, where myself and others are talking about astral projection, dreams etc. You can also see my husband there, a guy with dark curly hair and a friendly face. I feel a bit shy sharing, just because it’s hard to see myself on video, but maybe you’d like to watch them. 

When the Light Speaks

Cavé, Jules-Cyrille (b,1859)- My Daisies, Flower-Girl, 1897 -2b

Cavé, Jules-Cyrille (b,1859)- My Daisies, Flower-Girl

I gathered wind-flowers and put them in a vase next to where I’m writing now, to stay close to their magic. I also noticed the first of the nettles, peeking through the dirt, and watched the sky for a long time, above the glittering lake.

Something was gathering power out there, coming back alive, the sky full of clouds, dark and white ones, with light between them. I felt I wanted to stand in the wind, watching them, feel into that slow brooding something. It reminded me of summer, which often feels like thunder, like sun and rain and storm, and yet most of the time nothing happens. But I love that beautiful contrast, darkness tinted with gold.

Evening light

I went into my bedroom, because it lets in the evening light, though its window is narrow. And I can only see green branches, pine cones, a bit of sky, and distant mountains. 

I sat gathering flowers in my heart, mostly roses because they are a favorite, but also violets, forget-me-nots. I was reading in that white silent space, hearing the wind outside, mending something inside of me that had been hurt, a worry that says I can’t trust myself, what I sense and feel. The world has its loud opinions, that I shrink from, turning to the Goddess, the angels, praying that what I hear, deep in my bones, truly is their guidance. 

Sometimes I go from room to room, window to window, watching the sky. And just before sunset I see waves of light on the walls, streaming through my apartment, and the birds are full of magic and song, and I hear them, like crystal water, calling forth the night.  

Darkness Sprung into Light

The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev

The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev

She saw a pale white flower, blossoming out of the darkness, leaving a trail of light on the water, pointing to the horizon, to her new life. 

She picked it up, holding it in her hands, carefully, tenderly, a fragile thing of snow white petals, glittering faintly. She put it to her heart, knowing it was also inside of her; darkness sprung into light.

***

The sun is out, and I feel my spirit responding, brightening to the white light in the trees, the field pale, withering away during the cold nights though there is no snow yet. But I’m waiting for it, seeing it approaching from a distance, seeing the top of the mountain dusted white in the morning. 

I curl up in my sleep and have to leave the oven on at night though I don’t like it. I’d rather leave my window open, if I could, letting in the night air, feeling it brush against me as I lay awake, looking at a pale light in my window, from the waxing moon. 

I’m writing a little every morning, in the black hours before dawn. I have more courage then, and more strength to just sit until the words begin to flow. I’m wondering what it means to have a courageous heart, a heart that’s honest, pure, as inspired by the song below. 

First Light

francois fressinier

Francois Fressinier

I like to sit in the darkness, by candlelight, watching the black morning outside my window, seeing cars driving by, the day starting. I sit in silence, working on my book, burning incense, praying. 

I want to stand in the doorway, in that moment of breaking, of first light touching the sky, cold air wrapped around me. 

I want to walk softly, letting nothing touch me save the voice of the Goddess, whispering to her, hearing her whisper back. There is something about the early morning that makes me want to be quiet and still within myself; that makes the words come, as though the calm of night still lingers, the stars having left some of their magic behind. 

I read once about a man wanting to be careful so that the morning did not break like glass around him. That stayed with me because I feel it too. I don’t want to rush or be brash. I don’t even want to speak. I just want to sit and watch the sky brightening, perhaps quietly make breakfast, breathing in its sweetness. See a dark forest outside my window, fields now green and yellow, grass dying away, no more flowers, the world left naked. 

1 2