Imbolc, Brigid Poetry Cyberfest 2015

Snow Drops For Imbolc 2015, photograph by Bríd Wyldearth

Imbolc 2015

I need to do nothing today

even though I feel better than yesterday

and the urge to go out 

and celebrate Imbolc is upon me

by nothing

I mean

writing my journal

writing this poem

walking with my dog and cats

bringing in logs for the fire

painting meditation

warming up food

uploading some poetry

contributing to the annual Brigid Poetry Cyberfest

having a bath

and maybe changing my bed clothes

my heart aches to be in St David’s

by Non’s Well,

White Sands Bay

and to walk along the coastal path 

to St David’s head

maybe tomorrow

today 

I must be strong

remind myself

of how lucky I am

for this healing lesson

that gives me the time and space

to do nothing

but 

be

me

to go deep

within

earth

creativity

solitudenous

still

silent

peace

by Bríd Wyldearth 2015 

Imbolc Rainbow Labyrinth 2015 by Bríd Wyldearth

Mystery

Three years ago today, Hecate Moon Wolf went off to faerie land on her next big adventure. I did not think I could live without her and I did not imagine I could fall in love again but "I am somehow still around", to quote John Betcheman. On the beach today I met another woman who had been owned by a canine Katy, someone to share some fond memories with. I put a chicken drum stick on her grave in my woman made stone circle in my garden. I have posted all the photos I can find of her here as a permanent memorial. All the photos are by me except the last one, the only one I can find of the two of us. I wrote the poem on her last birthday which we spent at Non's Well eating the most delicious vegan cake, made especially for the event by Lunar Rage.

at Callanish at the lunar stand still

At the Cairnpapple

Photograph by Witchhazel Wildwood at Waylands Smithy 1999, the only photo I can find of both of us.

On Spring Equinox 1998,

seven weeks after I rescued Xena Warrior Princess,

a filthy, toothless Yorkie,

running down the middle of Rotherhithe New Road,at midnight, on Imbolc, 

who deserved a heroic and courageous name,

and, just before I rescued another Yorkie called Suzy,

you were born.

Fierce, irascible Aries warrior,

they had called you Shreddie, after your penchant for shredding tissues, I presume?

And, six months later,

when I had had two rehearsals,

two reassurances that I was qualified to companion a canine,

we met.

This was less than a month since a Dalmatian ate my Suzy in Rotherhithe park,

and left a hole in my heart as fatal as the one his fang made in hers,

as big as the one her human had left in her heart, when she had died of cancer.

We met less than a month since my empty eyed next door neighbour,

off her medication,

tried to strangle me.

Within a few days of watching the life shaken out of Suzy,

I was gasping for breath, 

facing the truth that I did not have the strength to escape,

facing inevitable, merciless, unseeing death 

for the second time in less than a week,

when three angels 

flew up from the Rotherhithe New Road 

and pulled my attacker away from my throat.

I know they were angels 

who else  could they be?

Who else on Rotherhithe New Road

would notice or bother?

I pushed my door shut, 

slid to the floor

and never saw them again.

On Autumn Equinox,

seven months and three weeks since Xena Warrior Princess

ran into my life on Rotherhithe New Road,

six months after you were born in Kent,

five months since Suzy's heart was broken when her human died,

almost four weeks since she then grew cold in my arms,

a few days since angels spared my life,

you jumped onto my lap 

and told me I was not going home without you.

The white hairs in your miniature wolf coat reflected the full moon 

on our first walk in Sydenham Hill Wood

when you told me your goddess name:

Hecate Moon Wolf.

Were you a gift, a recompense from the goddess of death 

or were you dedicated to her 

in the hope she would not claim you before your time?

She did not claim you before your time:

Thirteen years after your birth

thirteen being Hecate's number,

you were still here, 

still teaching me,

still telling me what to do

still dancing for joy in anticipation of dinner and bones and treats,

still protecting me form cats and cows and humans,

with a warning growl and bark.

You growled to protect me from Suzy's murderer and his human

the first time we passed them on our way to the park.

A cultured canine from the very start, 

the gallery in the park was a favourite venue of yours, 

and, as my pagan power wolf,

you made magic with me in circles of women.

On our first ever holiday, you decorated white b&b sheets

with mud from the labyrinths in Rocky valley.

We spent our first winter solstice together in Cornwall.

The first time you saw the sea your barked, 

a brave little soul pitted against ten foot waves.

We danced my zodiac of masks in Boscawen Un stone circle

and we moved to the land of stone circles in time of the 1999 eclipse. 

You ran circles of joy round the Men an Tol every time we visited.

We walked cliff paths,

drew labyrinths on the beach,

kissed circle upon circle of stones, 

played and slept under Uffington White Horse,

bathed in sacred wells and healing oceans,

nestled in beech tree roots at Avebury

drummed as the sun set and the full moon rose over Glastonbury Tor,  

and slept for two weeks beside the Callanish cathedral of stones 

as the full lunar stand still danced on the earth.

Thank you for choosing me.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for walking with me on this earth journey.

I look at you and smile.

You fill my heart with love.

Your bark brings me into the present moment,

into living in the here and now,

into enjoying each moment of living with and loving you

my Hecate Moon Wolf,

my KKKKaty,

beautiful Katy

You're the only KKKate that I adore.

When the moon shines

over our cow shed,

I'll be waiting by the kkkkitchen door.

RSVP to Slow Dance

RSVP

I want to make deep, passionate, real, unhurried love 

to the Earth

every day of the rest of my life

I want to lie down her soft belly and feel her breathe

She is a wild, untameable, woman who will not be rushed

and  if I can slow down and listen long enough

I might hear the myriad secrets that she holds

the thousand daily miracles that she unfolds

in every cell of her magnificent body

I might dare to dance with her

My heart beating time with the timeless heart

of this wild untameable woman who will not be hurried or rushed

I want to slow 

down 

down 

down 

down

and really, 

truly, 

madly, 

deeply, 

slowly 

love the Earth

© Bríd Wyldearth, Spring Equinox 2014

This reply to Slow Dance is dedicated to my dear friend Cheryl Beer,

who so kindly loved and recorded my photographic poem last year:

Slow Dance first came to me in 1999 on the cliff path in Cornwall, where I lived. 

She has been teaching me ever since, tweaking and refining the words and meaning.

Every time I think she is perfect and complete, she surprises me with a new twist.

This equinox it came as an obvious shock, that this was my response. 

Imbolc Photo Poem

drops of snow greeting spring 

on the river bank

beside a treasure filled woollen mill

well overflowing with healing 

accidental offering

of filtered tap water

in recycled silver vessel

songs of prayer and gratitude

echoing amongst the ghosts and spirits and ancestors

cloud and light breathing

above Non's chapel and Bride's bay

backlighting glazed St Bride

petitioned with candles 

and home

what would home be

without a cat and an elephant

above the door?

by 

Bríd Wyldearth 2014

The Arts Periodical

I am delighted to see my work in the new edition of The Arts today. I drew my first ever Síla na Gig at Winter Solstice for the cover of the Matriarchy Research and reclaim Network magazine that I was guest editing. That was the beginning of a life long love affair. Please read my article as an early Solstice greeting.

https://thearts.periodical.co/birth/sila-na-gig

"AND WOMEN"

DREAMING

I dream of all the women in the world

I dream of all the women that I mourn
I dream of all the women that are coldly cut and torn
I dream of all the women that are raped
I dream of all the women that are shaped and stitched for custom’s sake
I dream of all the women that are branded “witches”, “sluts” and “whores”
I dream of all the women that are covered up and enslaved and used in wars
I dream of all of women’s wasted blood and tears and sweat 
I dream of all of women’s sacred places that are desecrate

I dream of ancient women’s stories and I dream of ancient women’s art
I dream of ancient teaching circles to open gentle, healing hearts
I dream of ancient women’s wisdom and I dream of ancient women’s lore
I dream of times when women’s parts were named with reverence and with awe 
I dream of ancient women’s medicine and I dream of ancient women’s blood
shed in life nourishing cycles with childbirth and the moon
I dream of ancient women whispering that we can change and we can turn
I dream of ancient women encouraging us to make choices and to learn

I dream of times when every woman will be free to refuse pain
I dream of times when every woman will be free to use her courage and her rage
I dream of times when every woman will be free to choose to tell her tales
I dream of times when every woman will be free to remove her make up and her veils
I dream of times that may have been, of times that may yet be
I dream of fair ferociousness and of wild and raw beauty 

I dream with all the women in the world


by Bríd Wyldearth 2012


At first I was a little embarrassed to notice the obvious influence of Martin Luther King's famous speech on this poem. It was not deliberate.

I am always inspired when I hear King's words. I am passionate in my desire to see an end to racism. I have been shocked and hurt when I have been subjected to anti Irish racism. I have been shocked and hurt when I have watched friends of mine subjected to racism. I cannot bear to watch some films that depict this cruelty. I imagine that encountering racism every single day is similar to encountering sexism every single day. We never get used to it. It always hurts on some level although we may ignore it and feel bored by the repetition. Whenever I hear the words from the American constitution that King quotes: "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal", I always want to add "AND WOMEN" and I suppose this poem is my "AND WOMEN" correction to all constitutions world wide.

I have been listening to women and men paying tribute to Martin Luther King and his dream today on the 50th anniversary, people who are famous for speaking out and marching against injustice of all kinds, people who have risked their lives and I cannot help but compare myself to them and wish I had done more and hope that I can do more.

Inspired by King and the many women and men who have spoken out and inspired the changes that have already happened in my life time, I begin by offering this small tribute today.

I Believe

I believe that if ever the son of a Jewish god of love said:
“Do this in memory of me”
it was an invitation,
not a command.

I believe that if the man who said:
“Suffer the little children to come unto me”
were to see little children being forced to go to church,
forced to sit still and in silence,
forced to parrot dead white men’s words
that they do not understand,
he would weep.

The same people who campaign against sex, nudity and violence in film and television
expose their children to images of a bleeding, dying man
hanging on a prehistoric instrument of torture,
dressed only in a crown of thorns and loin cloth,
on a weekly basis.
They explain to their children that this man was tortured to death in order to save them.
They tell them that sex outside marriage is a mortal sin,
that homosexuality is an abomination.

What then happens to their minds and souls
when priests they are told are good and trustworthy rape them?
when they are forced to serve their rapists on the altar?
when they are forced to listen to the holy word of God out of their rapist’s lips?
when they are forced to accept the body of Christ from their rapist’s hands?
Where do they go in their minds in order not to run away screaming?

And what of the rest of the congregation?
How do they live with themselves?
How do they “not notice” or “forget” or “forgive”
the rape of their own children?

I believe that if the man who chased the money lenders out of the temple
were to see his priests buggering little boys and girls in his church buildings
he would do far more than chase them out of his father’s house.

I believe that there is no excuse of ignorance for collusion with and enabling child rapists
by priests and bishops and cardinals and popes
whose seven year training and daily bible reading
must have shown them the words
spoken over two thousand years ago by an illiterate carpenter’s son:
“It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck,
and he cast into the sea,
than that he should harm one hair on the head of one of these little ones.”

I believe that churches all over the world are full of shattered and lost souls
of those who dissociated from their enslaved and imprisoned bodies
rather than experience the rape and the denial and the hypocrisy

I believe that if there are such things as abominations
and eternal fires of damnation,
that is where child rapists belong.
And I believe that if we are to heal from treating child rapists as if they were gods,
we must all cry and wail and scream and demand justice;
we must feel the pain these acts cause all of us
and accept responsibility for comforting, believing and supporting the victims
as they confront their rapists and the church which protected the rapists
and slowly reclaim their shattered and lost souls;
we must envision and create a world of equality,
where nobody takes or is given power
which they can abuse in the name of Christ
or with the excuse of ignorance
or inability to control themselves
at the expense of one single child.

The Happy Womb

Thank you to The Happy Womb - www.thehappywomb.com

For posting my poem and images on their blog today:

Wide open – and witnessed

As little girls we are told to keep our legs together. For a woman, “she spreads her legs for anyone” is an insult of the highest order. The power of the wide open vulva is deeply threatening to the very fabric of civilisation.

My four-year-old daughter loves to show us her vulva. Spreading it wide. “Your yoni’s smiling and talking to us!” I say. So proud that she’s proud and comfortable in her body. Her seven-year-old brother says “yueuch, that’s disgusting!”

And that’s pretty much how it continues. We learn to feel shame for this part of ourselves. To shut it away, not show it off. Whereas boys take great pride in pulling their penises out in public and drawing them on schoolbooks and road signs.

Wide open. It is a feeling of vulnerability. And power. Both together. Flashing our genital essence to the world. Look, this is what I am. This is what I can do.

For most women the first time they experience being wide open – and witnessed – is in the process of birth. At this time there is no room for prudity, shame or secrecy. Suddenly this hidden recess, deep, dark and private, stretched wide open to become a portal between two worlds. As a woman’s whole yoni opens so do her eyes, her throat, her heart, her whole soul to allow the birthing process to happen.




Sila na Gig on a church in Kilpeck, Herefordshire, photograph taken by Bríd Wyldearth 2012

The only exception to this taboo, in the whole of Western art, that I know of, is the Síla na Gig, (pronounced Shee-la na gig). Found in the eaves of British and Irish churches, I first learned about them from Ina May Gaskin (check out her interview, here, where she discusses their function and purpose.) There she stands, vulva wide open and proud.

My greatest hope for women is that we be safe enough, feel safe enough, to be wide open and witnessed: lovingly held, tenderly treated, standing in our power and vulnerability.

International Day of Zero Tolerance to Female Genital Mutilation

I first read about Female Genital Mutilation, whilst I was travelling to facilitate a mask making workshop. I did not have time to process my feelings but as I was making my demonstration mask, I could not get the mouth right. Eventually I covered the mouth hole up completely, a very appropriate metaphor for labia infibulation.

I recognised a similar silencing within myself regarding rape and child sexual abuse and I found myself obeying another silencing from a Muslim friend who accused me of judging with western eyes something that I could not possibly understand.

I was blamed for "asking for" or "inviting" rape, and as far as I am aware, a reason given in favour of FGM is to prevent girls and women from inviting sex or rape. Are men really so unable to control themselves that they have to blame women for rape? If I was a man I would be insulted by this attitude.

My first mask, made without consciously planning, shows me as raped child.

I was later drawn on to study Síla na Gigs, goddess figurines found on medieval churches who display their genitalia.

I felt addicted to painting and sculpting them. I did not fully understand why. Women in pottery classes who saw me sculpting their open vulvas would giggle uncontrollably. I felt their discomfort and I allowed myself to be silenced yet again.

As I contemplate and celebrate International Day of Zero Tolerance to Female Genital Mutilation and want to contribute to the debate and the zero tolerance, I notice that displaying an open vulva is the exact opposite to sewing one up. I invoke this ancient goddess to help me in my desire to help end this subjugation of women, within the context of world wide misogyny and rape. After years of copying ancient sculptures, my hands created my own original Síla na Gig.

I have yet to hear of a man blaming a Síla na Gig for making him unable to control himself from raping one or a woman.


SHADOWS OF AN ANCIENT GODDESS

by Bríd Wyldearth 2011

An ancient woman squats
above an old church door.
She holds her vulva open,
impossible to ignore.

Weird witch Síla na Gig,
powerful, daring and rude,
I wish I dared sit on a church wall
wicked and wanton and nude!

Eerie faerie Síla na Gig,
bathing your quim in the sun,
your holy hole outrageously obvious,
your mouth fixed in a mocking grin,

you might as well be shouting
to pilgrims rich and poor:
“I am your mother, your sister, your wife,
your daughter, your lover, your whore."

Orgasmic dancing Síla na Gig,
are you just prehistoric pornography?
Or do you have something to say
to the twenty first century?

"I will not collude in your big cover up.
I will not clothe myself in your shame.
Uncensored and open and honest and proud,
I show the world who I am and why I came."

Why do you sit on a church wall?
Why do you show us your cunt?
Why did the stonemason carve you?
And what exactly is it that you want?

“I was here before the church was
and I’ll be here long after it’s gone.
I honour the place of original magic
the place from which we all come

I open the gate between worlds
the doorway to life and to death
this gesture is just as important
as any gesture to pray or to bless

I am your ancestral goddess.
I am swollen and violated and raped.
This is the result of your violence.
I will not disappear without trace.

When you seek to disempower me,
you invade me against my will
you build churches over my temples and groves
and convince my children that I am evil.

Remember where you originate.
Remember your spiritual roots.
Remember that god is a woman as well.
Remember deep, radical truths.

Womanhood is as sacred
as any church or holy place.
We give birth, we give pleasure and we give love,
we give comfort and healing and peace.”






And, at the risk, of repeating myself by posting the same poem two posts running, I dedicate Dreaming to all the women in the world whose genitals have been raped and mutilated, in prayer for zero tolerance to Female Genital Mutilation.

Dreaming

I dream of all the women in the world

I dream of all the women that I mourn
I dream of all the women that are coldly cut and torn
I dream of all the women that are raped
I dream of all the women that are shaped and stitched for custom’s sake
I dream of all the women that are branded “witches”, “sluts” and “whores”
I dream of all the women that are covered up and enslaved and used in wars
I dream of all of women’s wasted blood and tears and sweat 
I dream of all of women’s sacred places that are desecrate

I dream of ancient women’s stories and I dream of ancient women’s art
I dream of ancient teaching circles to open gentle, healing hearts
I dream of ancient women’s wisdom and I dream of ancient women’s lore
I dream of times when women’s parts were named with reverence and with awe 
I dream of ancient women’s medicine and I dream of ancient women’s blood
shed in life nourishing cycles with childbirth and the moon
I dream of ancient women whispering that we can change and we can turn
I dream of ancient women encouraging us to make choices and to learn

I dream of times when every woman will be free to refuse pain
I dream of times when every woman will be free to use her courage and her rage
I dream of times when every woman will be free to choose to tell her tales
I dream of times when every woman will be free to remove her make up and her veils
I dream of times that may have been, of times that may yet be
I dream of fair ferociousness and of wild and raw beauty 

I dream with all the women in the world


by Bríd Wyldearth 2012  

Brigid Poetry Festival

I began to blog in order to take part in the Cyber Brigid Poetry Festival and it is coming around at the end of this week and has a facebook page with a 2011 date https://www.facebook.com/BrigidPoetryFest

The following poem began many moons ago and coalesced this summer with a subtitle "Brigid Dreams". I would love as many poeple as possible to read this and join the dream.

Dreaming
or
Brigid Dreams

I dream of all the women in the world

I dream of all the women that I mourn
I dream of all the women that are coldly cut and torn
I dream of all the women that are raped
I dream of all the women that are shaped and stitched for custom’s sake
I dream of all the women that are branded “witches”, “sluts” and “whores”
I dream of all the women that are covered up and enslaved and used in wars
I dream of all of women’s wasted blood and tears and sweat 
I dream of all of women’s sacred places that are desecrate

I dream of ancient women’s stories and I dream of ancient women’s art
I dream of ancient teaching circles to open gentle, healing hearts
I dream of ancient women’s wisdom and I dream of ancient women’s lore
I dream of times when women’s parts were named with reverence and with awe 
I dream of ancient women’s medicine and I dream of ancient women’s blood
shed in life nourishing cycles with childbirth and the moon
I dream of ancient women whispering that we can change and we can turn
I dream of ancient women encouraging us to make choices and to learn

I dream of times when every woman will be free to refuse pain
I dream of times when every woman will be free to use her courage and her rage
I dream of times when every woman will be free to choose to tell her tales
I dream of times when every woman will be free to remove her make up and her veils
I dream of times that may have been, of times that may yet be
I dream of fair ferociousness and of wild and raw beauty 

I dream with all the women in the world


by Bríd Wyldearth 2012  

Potential

Summer Solstice,
the standing still of the sun
after expansion
before contraction
uncomfortable uncertainty
emptiness
chaos
potential

anything can happen
in the heat of the longest day
in my dance with our fiery star

nothing could happen
my dreams,
plans,
creativity,
I
would not exist
without the sun

illusions of solitary stardom dissolve

I console myself with my solar soul mate

anything
more than I could ever dream on my own
is possible


Bríd Wyldearth Summer Solstice 2012


I have had a perfect day. I wrote two poems before I got up and then joined Twitter to write the following poem which describes a perfect evening I had last night with my friend Irene who has agreed to co-ordinate music for my Rainbow Labyrinth poetry celebration.

Starry Juice

by Bríd Wyldearth, National Poetry Day 2012

I have just listened to a divine piece of music,
A thousand names of the Goddess,
The most beautiful song I have ever heard.
I walk the moonlit beach in sheer bliss.

As I let the music wash over me,
I lost connection to time and space,
To my friend and her dog and her caravan,
I felt utterly alone and at peace.

My eye is drawn to a white pebble,
Smooth and round as the moon,
Cold in my fingers as mountain streams,
As perfect as the heavenly tune.

My cat miaows and I raise my head.
I cannot see her eyes or her motion.
In the unpolluted sky the milky way
Pours her starry juice into the ocean.

I am like a star: alone and self contained,
Yet held in a galactic dance.
Is my existence fated destiny
Or accidental and random chance?

I pocket the pebble to remember this night.
When I get home I play the divine cd.
I write down all the names that I can recall
Of goddesses from every culture and her story.

The Sisterhood of Branwen

I should be heart broken and despondent. The women who supported me for more than eighteen months have all left Cardigan Woman's Aid who are under new management. I went to their leaving do this week and wrote this poem for them. As with many of my poems it rhymes but stretches the limits of scanning. It does however say it all. It gives a taste of the magic these women have worked in many lives and I have no doubt that they will all continue their important work in another context. I do however feel intense anger at this government, the cuts it is imposing and patriarchy in all his forms.

THE SISTERHOOD OF BRANWEN

by Bríd Wyldearth 2012

The sisterhood of Branwen are a ferocious bunch
You wouldn’t want to meet them if you like to kick and punch
They hide women from their husbands and help them to claim their dues
And you might be mistaken in blaming them for the end of traditional family values

They get women addicted to their subversive freedom programme
And show them how to tell between a bully and a real man
They sit around and chatter with cakes and cups of tea
And they say that all they’re doing is crafting jewelry

And on the feast of Brigid, goddess of healing and creativity
They make eyes and crosses for protection and dolls for strength and liberty
They weave labyrinths to envision futures of comfort, calm and peace
And they make masks and art and lanterns to empower and beautify and please

And they congratulate and applaud every woman’s achievements
As they rediscover their creativity, courage, strength and confidence
And deep within the earth they meet at each full moon
To plant seeds for new beginnings and to celebrate their creative wombs

And every time they meet they light a candle in remembrance
Of all the women and children who have not survived domestic violence
And although the tentacles of patriarchy still seek power through domination
The sisterhood of Branwen know that true power comes from within and liberation



THANK YOU SISTERHOOD OF BRANWEN FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART FOR GIVING ME MORE SUPPORT, UNDERSTANDING AND AFFIRMATION THAN I HAVE EVER KNOWN

Celtic Women Fest 2012

Thank you Cheryl Beer for these photos from the CW12 Blog:http://celticwomenfest.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/cw12-monday-early-evening.html

Chez has just suggested we do this at the end of each festival. I am always amazed and happy when what sounds beautiful to me sounds beautiful to others particularly when they are as good singers and musicians as Cheryl Beer :)

I had such a lovely day on Monday, hearing new to me and wondrous singers and poets and reading my poetry to a warm and appreciative audience before gathering the stalwarts together in a circle to co create a garland of sound sculpture flowers. The result was completely different to what i had expected and far more beautiful and flowery :)

Slow Dance on Radio Tricoed

Talking about Celtic Women Festival 2012 happening this weekend. I am reading and sound sculpting there tomorrow:)

Celtic Women Festival 2012

I think I have been a little tardy in posting about my commitment to co-ordinate a sound sculpture at the close of CW12 at 6.45pm this coming Monday. I will also be doing a poem or two between music sets.

Here is the interview Cheryl and I did about it:
http://celticwomenfest.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/cw12-at-radio-tircoed.html

I have had the most life changing weekend of my life so far. I am cautious about my enthusiasm and optimism because I have tried so many things and been so disappointed so many times but I do believe that it is possible that I might have found a healing that will work for me at last. I have spent the weekend learning how to Throat Sing with Dr Vladislav Matrenitsky, http://www.un-hun.com/un-hun_en.html , a Ukrainian medical doctor who learned from a Tuvan Shaman in Siberia. I keep getting told there are no coincidences but I don't know what other word to use. Four years ago while I was visiting Mum in hospital every day, I saw a concert advertised near St Andrews. It was a three hour drive but I knew it was important to give myself a treat. The singer who I went to see, had come to one of my mask workshops many years ago and I had always wanted to see her live - she sang celtic ballads and Indian music from her dual heritage and she was brilliant. However that night she shared the bill with Hun Hur Tu, a band of Tuvan throat singers. I sat on the floor at the front of a barn by the sea and balled my eyes out silently as their music washed through me and I saw the land and spirits where the music came from. I am not sure if anyone saw or was embarrassed or discomforted by my tears - I felt quite private - aware of a full auditorium behind me but feeling completely alone with the music and my grieving heart.

Then last week I saw a flyer about a workshop teaching Tuvan throat singing and I woke up far earlier than usual on Saturday, in time to make it for a 10am start. Anyone who knows mw knows that this is a miracle in itself. Vladislav is a methodical teacher with a warm heart. He was completely confident that we could all do everything he asked of us and showed no surprise at all as each one of us managed each of the three types of singing, producing sounds that I imagine is something like the sounds angels make.

I still cannot quite believe that my voice, which can barely hold a tune, can make the sound of angels singing in the cavities of my head and body and that these sounds can dissolve chronic pain that I have had for years. The owner of the house we worked in kindly gave me huge clumps of Mombrisia, a flower that my mother loved, which needed to be planted the next morning. I was up at the crack of dawn, wide awake, but needing a bath to ease aching and tense muscles, and after some singing was miraculously able to start planting. However, I was too enthusiastic, as is my wont, and got very hot and sore and unable to move long before all the planting was done. I was so upset that I swore and beat myself up and envisioned a load of dead plants lying in my garden. My guest heard me and offered to help after her yoga and I suddenly realised I could sit down and throat sing. Within a few minutes I was able to finish planting in the back of my cottage and after another rest and throat singing, my guest and I planted the rest and got some serious weeding done into the bargain. Later that morning, a local crow called to me and I replied in throat growls with overtones.

Potential

Summer Solstice, 

the standing still of the sun
after expansion
before contraction
uncomfortable uncertainty
emptiness
chaos
potential

anything can happen
in the heat of the longest day
in my dance with our fiery star

nothing could happen
my dreams,
plans,
creativity,
I
would not exist
without the sun

illusions of solitary stardom dissolve

I console myself with my solar soul mate

anything
more than I could ever dream on my own
is possible

Life is getting more and more surreal :) I am now watching this clip of a talk that I was in the front row of the audience for. I was still shell shocked from seeing myself on the big screen so I did not contribute from the floor as it were but I wish there had been more time to hear more from the contributers...

And here is the link to the bbciplayer where you can watch the film again:http://www.bbc.co.uk/i/p00kqz5p/