Our Healing cabin.

It’s been a long year.

I’m a great believer of power of positive thought .

So at begining of the year I had enough money saved to have our therapy cabin built.

But that was it nothing left for extras like insulation decorating carpets ect.

I thought if it’s meant to be it will come.

So held out my hands to the universe and visualised it done.

That was February.

It’s been slow process but I’m thrilled to say we are almost there.

I’m so happy.

We just put gravel down outside I need a garden picnic bench and outside loo building then a tidy up along the back way out that leads to car park and we are done.

I’m sitting here on my own in my counseling corner feeling so very grateful.

Some curtains up and inside is done!

This time last year it was just a dream.

Trusting in the universe, visualising and alot of hard work and we are almost there.

Ravens Retreat Healing Hive.

Thank you universe ❤️

Going home

Earth, water, fire, we have walked through together.

I know we have only hours left as friends.

Air will be the last element to leave.

Like a cocoon of protection we are together on the final part of this path.

A journey I promised I would accompany you on

You told me you were scared.

What if there is nothing at the end of the road?

What if it’s simply a snuffing out of a candle, lights out.

Darkness then nothing?

How could I tell you what I knew to be true?

It is like the lighting of a candle the opening of a new door.

Walking out of the darkness.

I know because I’ve been here before.

The first time they said was a near death experience.

I had to disagree.

It was near life utter calmness floating watching quizzically at the panic below.

As they fought to bring me back maybe it wasn’t my time to go.

Many times I have had the privilege to vigil to hold hands as souls leave.

Chanting in whispers

Mirroring those last breathes

Catching sight of loved ones who come to greet you at your death.

Death of the body but not of your soul.

As you let go of my hand as your welcomed back home.

I stand in the calmness then trace my steps back alone.

Why do we all write?

I remember the day I learned to read.

You know that sudden click when the penny drops.

Books have always been by very best friend.

The magic of being in the story.

Knowing the characters.

The sadness of finishing a book.

Writing was much the same.

My father wasn’t the best.

But I’m thankful he taught me to write.

He gave me an old jotter.

A thick pencil.

Wrote my name at the top of the page .

I copied it and copied it.

Then my address

My dog’s name.

Then a sentence I’d ask him to write.

This was before I started school.

It was magic

I could write,and I did.

I have never stopped.

English was my favourite subject at junior school.

I remember the teacher giving us a subject in creative writing and within minutes I’d be lost in the story that had began to bake in my head.

I’d write about anything and everything.

I remember writing about the starlings.

I lived backing onto the woods on a huge council estate

There were always hundreds of starlings they would swarm all flying together in a squarking fluid like black cloud.

I’d stand on the shed roof to watch.

Hundreds of birds together.

Almost moving as one huge cloud.

How did they do it.

I imagined their leader calling out to his tribe their were ranks.

Everyone of them had a job.

A community.

All looking after each other.

They weren’t the prettiest of birds or the biggest but I loved them.

The teacher loved it she asked if she could keep it.

I was a shy eleven year old.

Blushed and nodded.

Mrs Moore I was so happy.

She was a wonderful teacher who inspired me throughout my school years.

Diary’s note pads, poems.

Lists I wrote everything down.

I wrote when I was happy, sad, mad, upset or lost.

I think it’s because writing gives me a way to work things out?

Does that make sense?

Words are easier for me when they fall out of a pen or a key board.

Although since loosing my best friend nursing her through cancer.

Ive written about my journey through bereavement hoping it will help others.

I’ve also discovered voice note.

I talk to her and record it.

I need to find a way to add it to my blog.

So where and why did you start your blogging journey?

Could you live without writing.

I definitely couldn’t.

Pen paper and blogs are my friend, counselor and confidant.

Wrapped crystal

So as I’m grounded I thought I’d have a go at copper wrapping crystals.

My son Michael says you can learn anything on YouTube.

I reckon he’s right!

Two pairs of small pliers and some copper wire oh and a collection of crystals

This is the result!

I’m quite pleased.

I love crafting but never have the time.

It’s quite relaxing.

Watch this space 😊

The universe has spoken #Stop

I’ve admitted defeat I’m Ill.

I’m not a person who has coughs and colds.

I think it’s genuinely because I haven’t got time to be I’ll.

I work three jobs. My most important is my work as a soul midwife. (Cancer care)

Then I also work a full time job with the NHS mental health services

Thirdly I run our cottage retreat which provides breaks and free therapies for cancer patients.

As I’ve just written this down and read it back I’m like WTF?

Something has got to give.

I did the funeral last Monday of Karen the beautiful lady I’ve been working with.

I saw her everyday in the last four months .

She lived in the next village .

The visits were around a hour maybe two a reflexology treatment, out for coffee, chatting, paper work re wills and funeral .

Sometimes just sitting.

Whatever she needed.

Then as I say I work full time which is community work with mental health patients who have a servere long term diagnosis.

Home to sort out tidy clean restock our cottage retreat.

Help my hubby to finish building our new therapies cabin out the back of the retreat .

Then sort out own house out general cleaning cooking fall into bed get up and do it all again.

Oh and on a Tuesday evenings I go to our development circle in our spiritualist church .

Wednesday evening I do healing circle.

These two things I try to protect as they are my “me time”.

Every other Friday I have my grand daughter over night as her parents work and it’s so lovely to have her to myself.

So you get the picture I’m busy.

Anyway Karen died on 28th Oct.

So a huge chunk of what I was doing stopped.

I’m convinced my body went..

Yay she’s stopped shes got time to fight this virus or whatever the f&&k this is!

So I did what I normally do.

I ignored it.

Yesterday I couldn’t get my ass out of bed.

My poor hubby despairs.

‘you won’t be told’!

He says as though I’m a naughty child have you been to the doctor’s?

I’ve rang I say sheepishly.

I hate taking medication especially antibiotics unless it’s absolutely needed.

So I agreed to night nurse medication

And a day in bed.

Rest.

I’m sure it’s the universes way of getting me to rest.

Like those stingers the police throw infront of stolen cars.

The tyres go flat and the skid sideways.

Well that’s kinda how I feel.

I can’t help think there’s so much I should be doing.

But okay universe im listening.

I’ll have a lazy Sunday I’m bed and a week off work.

Keep me entertained guys tell me what your up to.

Have a fabulous weekend.

What is a pie?

So I’m originally from the north of England.

Five miles outside the town of Wigan.

And At Helens

Google Wigan and pies.

They are famous for them.

Wiganers are known as pie eaters

St Helens has Pimbletts pies.

Livsleys pies

Wigan pools pies

Greg’s ect the list is endless

This is relevent I promise.

So 16 years ago I move to Wales

South Wales it not the other side of the world around 150 miles from Wigan.

So here’s the thing.

Welsh have cheese and potatoes

pie.

You’ll see it on menu’s in cafes

Work canteen

Buy it chilled in local supermarket.

BUT IT ISN’T A PIE!

So dictionary says a pie is a filling encased in pastry.

Right?

Well it is in Wigan.

But not here in Wales.

It’s mash potatoes with cheese stired in more sprinkled on top. In a dish.

Then grilled.

No pastry to be seen so it’s not a pie!

My Welsh hubby thinks it’s so funny

So come on guys is it a pie or not?

And don’t get me started on rissoles!

Connections like rain drops

So today I went to a spoken word poetry event . One of my favourite venues chilled and friendly. Beautiful old church.

This is the story I told after I’d finished reading I was approached by a lovely lady who is possibly a relation of Matthew the man in the story.

As she spoke I was reminded of what I already know

Without doubt we are all connected. We are a circle within a circle with no beginning and never ending.

Read on tell me what you think?

Ancestor connection.

I worship the old gods of this land the isle of Albion.

I follow the wheel of the year. Tonight the wheel turns it is Samhain eve in a 13c churchyard.

Its 3am and almost a full moon. There is a avenue of yew trees and it’s without one of the most magical places I know.

It’s my favourite place for ritual. The place I come to give thanks, to show gratitude. To talk with spirit.

To think to read. To just to be.

I wonder from my usual path many of the tombstones are overgrown covered in ivy surrounded by knot weed.

Standing back from all the others is an old stone old coffin shaped base it is covered in ivy.

I’m always drawn to it but no details are visible.

I stand in the moonlight. I ask ‘who are you?’

Touching the base of the cold stone.
I start to pick at the ivy..

it has pushed its way into the grey stone clinging green fingers into the details of intricate carved words.

I chant and hum quietly to myself it becomes quite mediative

As I pull at the vines they come away in narly sharp lengths sometimes tiny pieces that cling with remarkable strength.

We are a circle within a circle with no begining and never ending. I sing to my yet unknown companion
Time slips by slowly and the winter sun begins to rise birds begin to sing.

The carved words become visible.
I read out loud. Matthew Goodridge. Age 43
Mellincreethin a shiver runs through me as I read the next line .

Died 31 Oct 1888 Samhain..

Further down I read the names of Matthews daughters .Sarah Anne 14. Tirzah 9.
I catch a glimpse of someone watching me from the avenue of yew trees a tall man he nods smiles politely lifts his cap as he walks slowly through the avenue of sacred yews.

Matthew I whisper.

The sun shines as Celtic new year is born.

I sit there beside Matthew his two young daughters .

I will remember you Matthew.

My samhain ancestor of this place I love.

We are a circle within a circle. With no beginning and never ending.

All of us connected. The stuff of stars.

That was four years ago Matthew.
Your stone stands straight and tall cleared cleaned and cared for.
I remember you often.
This poem is for you.

Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on centuries old welsh stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I would exist
You died centuries before I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you. stardust connected
in flesh, in blood, in bone.

Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.

Dear Matthew goodridge , the place you filled
hundreds of years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left

who would have loved you so.
I wonder of your life you lived of those l loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and stand here to honour you.