Taking note…

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I had caught a glimpse as I drove past the lay-by and nipped round the back of the surgery…there are benefits to carrying a camera in your handbag, even if it does weigh you down a bit sometimes. The buzzard was still sitting there, unconcerned by the passing traffic. I was glad I had noticed and was feeling quite pleased with myself when I walked into the surgery.

A young mother looking harassed, was filling out forms in the waiting room.  On one side of her, there was a quiet lad about twelve, obviously not well. On the other, a young gentleman of perhaps three. Given the age difference there was every possibility of a third child, of an age somewhere between the two but currently at school. Mum had reason to look tired.

Three year old was swinging his legs and looking round, smiling at everyone in sight. I caught his eye and smiled back, sharing that direct complicity that you only get, as a rule, from the very young. Particularly when they are intent on mischief.

His eyes wandered some more then lighted on his Mum. His face lit up with a big, beaming smile.

“Love you, Mum!” he said at the top of his little voice, leaning in for a cuddle. Mum wafted him away as if he was an irritating insect, not even looking up from her task. Puzzlement and disappointment chased across the little face. Crestfallen he shuffled back in the chair and seemed to curl in on himself.

It didn’t last long. Small boys are resilient creatures and within seconds he was happily tormenting his brother. The whole incident took less than a minute before they were called into the surgery.

I couldn’t help thinking about that little incident. I wasn’t casting blame … I don’t know the family and you can never read whole story at a glance. I wondered whether if the mother even realised what she had just done, and what effect it could have on her son. She was so focussed on the sheaf of papers that had to be filled in at every visit these days that I doubt very much if she had even noticed.

More to the point, how often do I do that? Or you? Simply not notice.

It made me wonder. I would hate to feel I have dismissed or rejected expressions of affection through inattention or preoccupation, especially from children. I would hate to feel I have missed the confidences of a friend… or those small, tentative ‘feelers’ that are dropped into a conversation in the hope we will notice and give them space to speak what burdens their heart.

It goes without saying that I have. How many times? How would I know? If I was not paying attention then the moment would be gone and I would never know what I missed. We are the last to see these flaws in ourselves, simply because the attention is focussed inwards.

We are all aware of those times when our attention meanders off at a tangent when someone is speaking. We have probably all read a book and found our thoughts wandering so that we have had to go back and start a page again. It isn’t that we haven’t read the words or heard them… we simply didn’t take it in. We weren’t ‘with it’, weren’t paying attention… though attention should not be regarded as a price to be ‘paid’, but rather as a gift of love.

Because, when you think about it, attention is a gift. The fact that we are able to lift our eyes to see the world around us, to be able to drink in beauty, share laughter, see a ladybird in the grass or a star in the sky… The traditional five physical senses allow us each to perceive in our own way, but none of them give us anything unless we give them our attention.

We can hear the warmth in a voice, read the hidden message in a mundane phrase… if we listen. We can gulp down hot coffee or savour its taste. Our skin touches objects every day, all day… yet how often do we take the time to notice the silken caress of water, the gentleness of the breeze or the life in the hand that touches ours?

There is that old saying, you have to give in order to receive. By giving attention to the world around us, we know its beauty… by being open to a voice we are allowed into the heart of a friend. By hearing a child say ‘Love you,’ we touch a moment of tenderness and joy. And in giving our attention to the moment, we give something else too, showing others that they matter to us.

We are human, we make mistakes… get distracted… frazzled… We will not always pick up the signals, nor truly hear every word. But we can try. Attention is something that grows the more we use it and so is the given gift that comes with it.

Being present

It was weird. I had set up the blog for while I was away with every post I would usually publish. During my absence, I still managed to visit the blogs I would usually read and answered all the comments. In fact, there was absolutely nothing to show I was not at home and at my desk. Even so, the number of page views halved. That happens every so often for no apparent reason and it is not worth even thinking about. This time, though, the stats had been that way for exactly the duration of my absence. I can understand the change when it is obvious that I am away, when posts and responses might be erratic, but on this occasion, there was nothing at all to even hint that I might not be at home.

“So, in effect,” said my friend as I pondered the enigma, “the only thing that is different is your presence.” He was right and that was an interesting idea. There was no observable alteration in my usual routine, but somehow, my lack of presence was communicating itself.

I suppose it is the same sort of thing as when you are speaking to someone who makes all the right noises at the right moments, but who is not really listening. They may be genuinely preoccupied with something else, or simply not interested, but what they are not is present… and you can feel it.

That you can feel it is easy enough to explain in terms of those infinitesimal changes in tone and body language that we learn to read from the earliest age. But you can generally feel it just as clearly even without the visual and auditory cues. Silence and stillness can communicate presence just as powerfully as they can show disinterest… so I got to thinking about the whole idea of being present.

 

We talk a lot about ‘living in the present’…as if we could ever live anywhere else. We might focus on the past or future, but we can only be in the present. Are we always present though? The answer, for most of us, is ‘probably not’. We spend a lot of our time living on autopilot… a useful knack for routine actions, but not the most effective way to drink the essence of every moment. Our attention, instead of being open wide, is either tight-beamed onto one focus or so diffuse that we take in no more than a general impression. Either way, we can miss not only the details but the heart of the moment too.

Many of us are not even present to our own professed beliefs. We say the words, without paying them a great deal of attention, but fail to put into practice what we truly believe we believe. Most of us are horrified by examples of injustice, prejudice and cruelty… and most of us will be guilty of them at some point in our lives. Teachings of love and kindness are ignored in the pursuit of success, ambition can overrule conscience and ego blinds us to our own reflection.

One of the things we do in the Silent Eye course is to share techniques to combat this lack of presence, and even the simplest exercises can dramatically increase our sense of ‘being here’ and our awareness of the world around and within us. It is surprising how small the changes need to be to open ourselves to being aware of our own presence in the moment. I wonder if it was through some trace of far memory or prescience that we learned to call a ‘present’ a ‘gift’…

For there is another kind of Presence too, that is only felt as we learn to be present. Call it what you will, define it as you must… it is heard in that still, small voice within, that echoes across eons and touches heart, mind and soul, opening the doors of perception to a wider experience of life.

What do you see..?

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An email came in from one of the Silent Eye’s Companions. He was wondering about our perception of the world around us, saying that we walk through our days not really looking, because we are so used to our environments that we don’t give our attention to the details. Same workplace, office, staircase, or traffic every day. It would, he suggested, be interesting to develop goggles that only record what we truly see.

He went on to speculate that the playback of that movie would be for the most part a blank screen with perhaps a few people popping in and out of existence, or a tv show we have watched, maybe a few personal interactions. That, he thought, would be it. The rest would be blank because we don’t really see it, we expect it to be as usual and so we don’t truly register or process what we look at. Or perhaps we think we see only what we expect to see. It would be an interesting experiment.

To be fair, we have things on our mind, or we are busy, or stressed… or any number of other excellent reasons for being so self-contained that we fail to notice details. But most of the time, if we are honest, it is that we simply do just that… fail to notice. And we don’t even notice we are doing it till someone or something brings it to our attention. It might be a walk with a friend new to the area when they spot an interesting feature that we have walked past for years without it ever registering. Or it may be the loose flagstone we have walked over every day… until the day we stub our toe and pain brings it to our consciousness.

We are encouraged as children to play memory games. We think we are training memory, but really what we are doing is training attention… the ability to register and process what we see. We are learning to look. Now, it may be fun to use the tray full of jewels, but there are enough wonders all around us every day and it is easy to open our eyes and begin to notice them. It might be something as simple as a fly on a leaf, a fish blowing bubbles or the reflection of a deep blue sky on the ripples of a pond.

It is amazing just how much we miss. Try it and see… close your eyes and picture your room right now. Then open your eyes and look… really look. You’ll remember the main things, but details like the cobweb in the corner, the chip in the paintwork or the iridescent beetle crawling on the pot plant you will probably have overlooked.

Attention is not just about sight… the other senses come into play too. Textures, scents, sounds and taste are all part of the picture we build of our worlds. And not just the physical senses form our attention. Part of the process of perception is what we do with that information, and when we start to really look at what is around us, we see much more of the people in our lives. By giving them our full attention, we begin to understand them better, picking up on the minute changes in face or stance that allow us to understand their moods, concerns and fears. It allows us to be there for them when they need us, or to share their laughter and tears with a depth we might have missed.

Whatever you practice becomes stronger. The longer we walk around with our attention switched to ‘off’, the less we notice and the more we miss. As soon as we begin to look around and ‘smell the roses’, the world opens up in all sorts of hitherto unnoticed detail. It is by paying attention that we find ourselves caught up in the adventure of living… and I, for one, would prefer to think that if ever those goggles were invented, I would be able to have a full screen, rather than a blank one when I sit down to watch the movie of my days.

A little care…

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The narrow village street is busy with rush hour traffic. The lorry coming towards me on the other side of the road is respecting the speed limit, the impatient driver behind him is not. Without warning, the car pulls out onto my side of the road, overtaking the lorry and coming straight at me. In that scintilla of clarity that happens at these moments, I realise there was nowhere for me to go. I could turn into the path of the lorry…but that is hardly a good choice. I could wrench the wheel to the left and plough into the schoolchildren waiting at the bus stop… and that is no choice at all. Or grit my teeth, hold the wheel, and slam the brakes on, hoping the cars behind me are going slow enough to stop.

I hit the brakes… so does the lorry… and the impatient driver hits the accelerator, raising one obnoxious finger to the world, squeezes through the gap with millimetres to spare, racing off to whatever destination is more important to him than the lives of others.

I am not a timid driver and I don’t scare easily… but this brief incident left me shaking all the way to work. It had been close.

Sadly, it is the kind of scenario that happens every day on our increasingly busy roads. This time, tragedy was averted by the quick reactions of several drivers. It is not always so, and the toll of death and destruction on the roads rises daily. Accidents happen often enough, both on and off the roads, but many are not accidents at all, they are simply the result of heedless or selfish behaviour and, when lives are lost to such causes, it is tantamount to murder.

How would the lorry driver have fared emotionally, as well as legally, had I turned my car beneath his wheels? How would I have lived with my actions had I instinctively turned away and hit the children? How would either outcome have affected others… witnesses, those who care about us, the parents of the children? How many lives would have been injured, broken or lost? In both cases, the road would have been clear for our impatient motorist to speed away and possibly remain unaware of what he had done.

I could not help reflecting on the fragility of life. This gift that we are privileged to share can be torn away at any moment, by any number of unforeseen circumstances and there will be nothing left of us but a memory. Our emotional lives are just as fragile and can be broken by just such a lack of care as was shown by the reckless driver. We may be the guilty party, the one who causes harm… sometimes through a genuine misunderstanding or error, sometimes through a lack of empathy or care…  yet because we move forward with our own lives, we may not see the devastation we leave behind.

Our society is increasing the distance between us in many ways, even while it brings us closer in others. It is easier than ever before to keep in touch and to watch events unfolding across the globe, yet it is probably easier than ever before to remain isolated, touching the world only through the medium of keyboard and screen. It is our responsibility to ensure that we do not lose our ability to care… that, although we are undoubtedly the central point of our own consciousness, we do not learn to see ourselves as the sun in a universe of lesser satellites.

Consideration, empathy and kindness are social skills, and without social interaction, we can forget how central they are to allowing society to function. We see the effects of isolation every day and how quickly and insidiously these essential skills can be forgotten. Awareness and care for others can be unconsciously replaced with a false, but inalienable sense of self as the central point for all things. When one person’s journey…in their own eyes… becomes worth more than that of any other, tragedy will not be far behind.

It costs nothing except a moment’s thought and feeling to consider the impact of our actions. We will not always get it right, regardless of how well-intentioned we may be, but a little care goes a long way towards making sure that we do not go too far wrong. We cannot always avoid disaster, but if we can take responsibility for our own actions and open ourselves to the needs of others, we may not only be helping them, but saving ourselves untold heartache too.

A practical course…

“…am I missing something?” The frantic voice on the phone made it quite clear that he really hoped he was…
“There’s a grey ring with symbols on it. Turn it to the one with parallel lines.”
“Okay, done that.”
“Then, above where the ‘U’ shaped bit of red plastic is, there is a red slider. Push it to the right.”
“Whew… That’s got it. Thank you!” He hung up to deal with the piscine emergency and, while I threw on some clothes to go and join him, it occurred to me that this was a really useful example of one of the exercises we use in the Silent Eye to build awareness.

The gadget in question is nothing interesting, nor is it one I own, but it isn’t something I have to think about either; operating a hosepipe is just one of those things you do on autopilot. I cannot recall ever having particularly examined the fancy nozzle-that-does-everything-except-feed-the-cat, but I was, thankfully, able to conjure its image in sufficient detail to be of use.

I am lucky in this respect; my imagination and memory work with visuals and, while I may be utterly useless at remembering anything to do with numbers these days, what I have seen I can usually picture with clarity. Part of that is just down to how my mind functions; where some people remember the spoken word accurately and others have a gift for recalling numbers, I tend to remember what I have seen. Except numbers. But part of it too is down to training.

I have been working with the Mysteries for nearly half a century. Early in my studies, it became evident that there were two basic choices open to anyone seriously following that path… study for knowledge or study for application, and it seemed to me that the two needed to work in tandem.

While you cannot put into practice what you do not know, and therefore knowledge is necessary, the acquisition of knowledge alone serves no purpose unless it is used, except to satisfy the hunger of the inquiring mind and foster understanding. But as real understanding comes only with experience… so the most practical course would be to learn all you can, extrapolate the practical uses and apply them. And, as the lessons learned studying the Mysteries must be applied to life, it is through your own life that you learn.

Right from the very beginning of my own studies,there were exercises in awareness, even though, ironically, I did not realise it at the time. From simply visualising your room as you drift into sleep, to noting new details in familiar places, or playing memory games with yourself… they were simple enough exercises. It is difficult to gauge the cumulative effect, especially if your mind works best in pictures, until something makes you take note.

The hosepipe was an insignificant example, but the clarity with which it was brought to mind was striking. Places I have visited once, maybe thirty years ago, are still very clear. I drive thousands of miles on obscure roads and seldom look at a map… and if that kind of thing is a practical result of my studies, then I am happy to have spent so much time on ‘awareness’ exercises.

When the Silent Eye was founded, we wanted to create a distance learning course that was, above all, of practical use to the seeker, so it is no surprise that amongst the earliest exercises, we included those designed to stretch the unused mental muscles of simply noticing. They seem such simple exercises that most students approach them lightly…and yet, without exception, those same students find them a revelation, either through how many physical details they have been overlooking or how what they discover connects with other areas of their own experience. Almost all the journals about these exercises contain one common phrase… “I never noticed that before.”

Deliberately taking notice of something is only one step on the journey to awareness though. It goes much deeper than that, or there might seem little point in chasing this elusive state. It extends beyond the obvious, through an awareness of oneself, to that awareness of others that we call empathy. It opens you to emotion, and you may laugh and weep more readily, especially at the touch of beauty. It opens you to the natural world, so that its details are not missed and its creatures are seen in all their amazing complexity. Beyond that, too, until all you know of creation joins in a single, magnificent, delicate web of life. It opens you to life.

Time for change…

Image: Pixabay

I was given a clock for Christmas, a clock framed by pictures of my grandchildren. I hung it on the wall, marvelling at how quickly life can change. I, who was a young woman not two minutes ago, or so it seems, have grandchildren.

My eldest granddaughter had made me a card too and written it herself…with a little help from her father. I had to smile at the design the pair of them had chosen, a single red candle with holly leaves and berries… a design I had made from sugarpaste, every year, to decorate the family Christmas cake when the boys were young. Christmas is a time for tradition and memory. My granddaughter has recently changed from being an only child to being a big sister. She is trying to work out relationships and needed to check if her Daddy had been in grandma’s tummy, once upon a time. Her father raised his eyebrows and grinned… we shared a glance that was not only between mother and son but between two adults who are parents and who understand the odd things small children can say. In one sentence, little Hollie had summed up a lifetime of changes.

I have seen so many changes, both natural and unnaturally brusque, over the years. When life creates change, we have little choice but to accept them. We do not always find it easy to create change for ourselves… even n the small things.

I yawn at the computer, finish my coffee and stand at the back door in the freezing night air to wake myself up. It’s only eight o’clock. Way too early for bed.

Or is it, really? Why?

Let’s think about this. I’ve been up since five…there’s no one here now but Ani and me, no requirements at this time of night to do anything, only the choice to work, wallow in a bathtub or put my feet up with a film. Granted, I can’t go to bed too early or I’ll have a desperate dog climbing the walls by morning, but she is asleep for the evening so this is a reasonable time as far as she is concerned. Especially given than ‘early to bed, early to rise’ will kick in if I sleep soon. It would do me good to stop tapping away, and relax for a while. So, what stops me?

Guilt. Years of habit, that’s what. Eight o’clock isn’t bedtime, it is the start of the evening in a busy household when everyone is at work all day. This is the time when cooking and dishes are done, time to sit down and relax with the family.

This no longer applies. My household has gone minimalist, just me and the dog, my official working day starts early and my unofficial working day finishes at whatever time I choose to stop writing. Still, the habit of being awake all evening is a hard one to break.

I’m working on it, taking the odd hour or two out to watch a film or read for a while. Because I can. That was a hard one. I can. Me. Selfishly, indulgently.

I hadn’t actually realised the conditioning, the programming, I had both accepted and imposed upon myself over the years; habits and routines that have inadvertently dominated the decades. It is only when that old saying kicks in that you start to notice; ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’… and it works both ways.

Like a chronic pain that you learn to live with for so long, that it is only when it disappears that you notice it, so it has been since I began to take stock of how hidebound many aspects of my life had become. Many things have changed over the past few years, and those changes highlighted how much of my day was lost to habit. With subtle shifts in responsibility, the ‘I’ that I was is no longer required, redundant. As with many redundancies there was a period of floundering in the unknown as I emerged from under the security blanket of habit, desperately scrabbling to keep hold of at least some of the familiar yet tattered threads.

Routines are not all bad. They allow us to get through the necessary tasks and have time for getting out there and living. There are many routines, however, we are simply unaware of, and because we have done things ‘that way’ for years, we neither notice nor take the opportunities for change.

Now, finally, the I that I am is beginning to unfold. Not because it has to in order to keep pace with the changing circumstances of life, or some outward imposition of change, but because I am choosing, in awareness, to let go of many old and outworn behaviours. And yes, parts of me are kick and scream in protest as I strip back the familiar spars and start the spring cleaning of my days. As with physical spring cleaning, the de-cluttering will hopefully leave me with only those things I need, freeing up the dark cupboards and stuffed drawers. It doesn’t mean changing everything; I am still going to brush my teeth before bed and comb my hair before I go out. It just means being aware of what I am doing and why… and I am finding it to be an ongoing voyage of rediscovery.

We fear change in our secure routines, even when we don’t recognise them as such. They are what we think of as our lives after all, forgetting that these habits are no more than patterns with which we regulate our days. Life may be waiting patiently in the wings for us to give the cue for it to begin a new act, but while we are still immersed in the last, the curtain cannot rise.

Clueless…

The past few days have seen us up to our eyeballs in research, planning and speculation. With the December Living Land workshop less than two weeks away, this was our last chance to get out in the field and check the details… so out into the fields and hills we went.

We were lucky with the weather, in spite of the frost that whitened the world. The chill of mid-November was mitigated by clear skies and a hint of sun on the coppery carpets of beech leaves. The emerald leaves of bluebells, reminding us that spring is just on the other side of winter, cluster thickly around stone and tree.  Wherever we went, a robin seemed to be watching and busy squirrels worked frantically at secreting their winter hoard. And, wherever we ventured, odd and intriguing clues seemed to laugh at our blindness.

Places we have visited many times before suddenly seemed to be revealing secrets. Not that they had ever been hidden. Most of them had been seen, even photographed, before… but we had not seen them to any purpose. The familiar was made new in our eyes and, as we finally considered what we thought we already knew, intriguing lines of exploration wandered across time and history, opening our eyes and minds to possibilities we had never noticed.

There is a curious ‘blindness’, as if some things may not be known until the time is right…or until you are equipped with sufficient knowledge or experience to begin to appreciate the insights they are offering. Their presence is registered, you can call them up on memory, yet their significance is veiled and does not impinge upon conscious thought. What goes on in the subconscious mind, though, is another matter.

All that which has apparently passed unnoticed is filed in a dark corner that might as well be labelled ‘classified’ for all the good it appears to serve. Yet, beneath the surface, everything we see, hear, read or experience is busy ferreting out the connections needed to give it enough relevance to be useful. It may eventually resurface with the flourish of a pantomime fairy, throwing off its dark cloak to reveal the magic it has kept hidden…and leaving you wondering at your own lack of vision.

Whether it is a clue in the landscape that elucidates a mystery, or something that was within you all along that illuminates your vision of yourself, we are all blinkered from time to time. The conscious mind and its hidden counterpart seem to work at different speeds and have a differing view of the world. Then sometimes they work in tandem, needing only a single clue cast into the cup to create an elixir that clears the mist to leave you speechless at what was right there in front of your eyes all along. Knowledge becomes understanding and your world takes on a new depth and dimension. How could you possibly have missed that for so long..? But you did, and you undoubtedly will again… until the moment is right.

Green Light

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Every day I drive the five mile stretch of road to my son’s home, then drive back. I do this seven days a week, every single day, except when I’m away. This stretch of road is an ‘A’ road… no parked cars, few turn-offs, just a couple of quiet junctions and very few bends. I know it well. I have been driving it daily for more than fifteen years. So well do I know it, that I barely have to think about it.

Nevertheless, all roads are alive in their own, particular way and taking notice reveals many surprises. This road passes through the fields and hedgerows of rural Buckinghamshire between the town and my village. Driving back today there were men giving the wide grass verges their annual trim and filling the air with that evocative scent of new-mown grass. Being a hot day, the cut grass dried quickly, blowing green-gold flurries across the road. Dust devils danced in the laybys, whipped into action by passing lorries. A flattened can tumbled across the road in silver sparkles, and, as always, the kites wheeled overhead. Beside the road, the tragedy of road kill; the vivid green and red of a woodpecker and the glossy russet of a sleek young fox… a counterpoint to the badger, curled as if asleep in the gutter.

In the hedgerows the scarlet splashes of field poppies and the yellow of ragwort blaze against the pinks of herb Robert and fireweed, while the porcelain blue of cranesbill calms the shadows. By the road a feather, a very large feather, stands upright in the grass. There is nowhere to stop here, so I regretfully silence my curiosity and head for home, feeling the road beneath me through the wheel of the car, hearing the birds over the engine noise.

I notice the details, observing my own awareness in the moment, feeling very much alive. Because it is such an easy road to drive, I can usually pay attention to the road and  focus on the changing seasons of the landscape around me. Yesterday, however, was a different story.

A recent housing development at the edge of town necessitated a new road junction with traffic lights. When it was brand new… an interruption to the steady flow… awareness was a given. Very quickly, however, the junction became part of the accepted nature of the road, just another detail to bear in mind when driving. Going into town yesterday threw this into sharp relief, and illustrated neatly the very mechanicalness of which we speak in the Silent Eye course.

I had a lot on my mind that morning and I was already halfway across the junction before I realised I couldn’t remember looking to see if the lights were red or green. There was a flare of horror as I glanced up at the farthest set of lights to check and saw that, thankfuly, I was fine. Time seems to stop in these moments and I appeared to have several conversations with myself at once, berating and questioning, in that strange state of bifurcated consciousness, while still driving steadily through what was, after all, only a split second and a mere ten yards of the junction.

I had obviously looked at the lights on autopilot, which explains why there was no immediate memory of doing so. And that autopilot is one of the things which can carry us through life blind to the details, retaining only the haziest notion of what has been going on around us… and within us for that matter, focussing entirely on the personal and missing so much of everything…and everyone… else. It is a conveniently effortless state in which to live and very often we are simply unaware that we are operating in that way as habit, routine and our familiar normality hold our attention in a mechanical state. It does make me wonder just how much of our lives we live as automata before we finally hit that junction and have to wake up.

granny

The Feathered Seer – Part 3 (No. Really. The Feathered Seer!) by Running Elk

Nine Ladies Stone Circle, Stanton Moor
Copyright: Graham Dunn

During the exploration session on Spirit Animals, presented during The Silent Eye (a modern mystery school) “Leaf and Flame: the Foliate Man” weekend in 2016, one of the companions enquired about “Shape-shifting”. Since this was outside the scope of the discussion, the concept was briefly addressed without going into any real detail. It was, therefore, with some surprise, that I found myself agreeing to present an exploration session on the topic during “The Feathered Seer” weekend in 2017.

As April approached, the usual buzz of anticipation built towards the day that the work-book was released, and roles revealed. Most surprised, therefore, when an email arrived indicating the “costume” arrangements for the weekend. Other than the, at this stage, mysterious “Weaver” and “Spinner”, only I would be required to be costumed: in the role of Shaman. This made it easy, as I probably had a few things lying around which would foot the bill.

As it turned out, this was a double blessing, as neither Robe, nor Shell were to be found. Ironically, both would make a reappearance, pretty much where they were always believed to reside, before the weekend was out!

The work-book, when it arrived, proved to be a masterful crafting of ritual movement, wrapped in a touching storyline; at once intimately personal, and, ultimately, Universal. I wasn’t entirely sure that I was fully “ready” to experience the Temple energies that the unfolding of such a story was likely to unleash, particularly when viewed from the perspective of the Shaman of the Raven Clan.

Did I mention synchronicity?

The exploration session I’d outlined focussed on the reasons why shape-shifting appears so difficult. It isn’t that we cannot do it, indeed we do a form of shape-shifting on a daily basis, without ever really thinking about it. It is only when we come to consider shifting into a form other than human that we become stuck: in a variety of fears, ultimately centred on the persistent illusion which we fear most. The weekend, unknown to me, would approach an inspection of the root, and illusory nature, of these very same fears.

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