You really couldn’t make this up

I walked through the gate
there standing before me was a huge 1930s detached three story house.
I’d driven past here hundreds of times and never noticed it.
hiding behind tall fir trees.
it was drizzling rain a dull damp day.
angry clouds above this huge house
I stood beside my friend Chris he looked at me.
looks a bit run down I say choosing my words
old-fashioned rooshed net curtain that haven’t seen a washing machine in a long time adorn the huge windows
I hear my mother saying “they need steeping in some Sally white bleach ‘
your not wrong mam I think.
come on then I say to Chris as we walk past the huge cars on the drive shining and polished complete contrast to the grey and dismal house.
the Adams family comes to mind says Chris as we walk up the stone steps to the first floor front door.

Rocky horror I smile
I ring the bell and we wait.

nice view across the city I say as the door is opened by a well dressed man in a suit

he struggles to open the door pushing boxes to the side of the hallway and beckons us to come in.
I introduce Chris and we take a seat in the waiting room.

Dust in corners of ceiling cracked paint spiders webs and if the windows were cleaned there would be a fabulous view across the city.
the furniture is 1970s g plan in a faded green ancient Wilton carpets thread bare in places tell of better times and I wonder if families stuck within their grief fail to notice the neglect around them as they sit here being advised on their loved ones funeral.

Waiting to pick up ashes or to view a loved one before a funeral.

I’ve worked in many funeral.homes but this is, well run down. shabby and cold. It’s shocking
The man who runs things is lovely a little aloof but I didn’t see this coming.

He asks if there’s anything I need.
No I smile
Okay I’ll go and get her, I’ll put her in the chapel of rest then I’ll come to get you.
off he goes .
I look around.
is there a secret camera I say?
Chris laughs..
we are hear as part of my soul midwife work.
I’m doing the hair and make up of a lady I’ve worked with.
before her family come to view her.
Then next week I’ll do her funeral.
Chris has come to help
for the first time
probably the only time after this.
after few mins he comes back up stairs guides us down stairs to the chapel of rest.
I swear you couldn’t make this up.
It’s under the house next to a garage

Bang bang bang constant hammering of coffins being assembled.
he opens the door creak. musty damp smell
why didn’t I video this …
blare witch goes to funeral home
there before me is a huge room set out with old wooden folding chairs
very dusty chairs
I’m wishing I’d brought a feather duster and some polish it’s set out as a chapel
wow I say.

Chris nudges me
this “could” be fabulous obviously it’s not used now
no says funeral director.
not for years

He smiles shuts the door behind us it’s dark and dismal and I’m reminded of a Steven king film

Here is chapel of rest
a door to the side is opened into what can only described as a large cupboard with a gurney trolly in there body on it looking like it’s been dropped out of a plane and landed very akwardly.
head twisted mouth and eyes open not just cold but bordering frozen.

I look around almost sureal slow motion
now first and foremost I’ve seen alot of corpses in my job
I’m not afraid or shocked I care for the body
when I go to funeral directors they are usually lying with dignity eyes mouth have been closed head straight .
You know what I mean.

Everything okay says funeral director?

There is a arched window behind him covered in dust and spiders webs
it’s winter but the flies are alive one lands on the face of the body

I flick it off
are you going to put a stitch in the mouth I ask?
(usual practice)
Oh no he says I don’t like that..

would you like a tea or coffee?

I’m tempted to ask for a gin I bloody need one

I shake my head
he leaves closing the door and I wonder what the fook is going on.
Chris is standing in the corner with a is this a sick joke look on his face .

I take out my kit and get to work.
talking chatting to my lady as I work.
well I’say to her
ou chose this place I’m betting you”ve never been here before!

Chris come help me hold her mouth closed.
I work gently hair make up fix her body into an acceptable position and close her eyes and mouth.
there is still rope around her feet from when she was brought from the hospital morge

a sticker across her chest her name and date birth.

I flick away flies

There I say as we finish
goodbye my friend

I pray her family don’t come to view in this room
it’s just beyond unbelievable and I’m glad Chris is with me or no one would believe this
we go back up stairs he is sat at an old desk.
where the sink I ask?

sink? He looks puzzled.
Yes I’ve just been handling a body id like to wash my hands.

Chris laughs nervously.
We wash our hands say a polite goodbye tell him I’ll see him to do the funeral.
we get in the car
sit for awhile
seriously that place is beyond I say.
I wonder what I can do
vow to get funeral over with then go back to speak to him
he needs to sort that place out he needs help says Chris.
help…
he needs a mop and bucket and a complete renovation I say.
The funeral went well cars staff everything was good
but behind the scenes there was a completely different story .
I wouldn’t tell the family
what could it achieve?
but I plan to go back and have a chat to see just what the score is there has to be a reason such a beautiful place has fell into such disrepair.

what do you think?

Childhood in the 60s & 70s

.

No mobile phone.

Not even a house phone

Out of bed dressed and rushing out to play.

Leaving house early morning.

Playing around the estate all day.

Didn’t go home if it rained

Sat in bus stop or under the slide in the park.

Pinched turnips from the farmers field to eat.

Trapsing home rotten dirty in the dark.

Building dens, camps and climbing trees.

Riding on bikes giving backies and grazing our knees.

Staying at my mates house she had a massive cat that made me sneeze

Playing kerby in the street with a football we had found.

Hiding from my drunken Dad

In school always being the class clown

Jumping on the milk float

Hiding out in the church hall.

Sharing sherbet dips

And sweets from the half penny tray.

Camping out in crank cavern caves

Star gazing building dens in tall stacks of hay

Building dams in woodland streams at the Dam across the way

telling ghost stories and lighting fires

Sharing bags of chips

Making rope swings sitting in old car tyres

Wagging school and breaking rules

Just council estate scallywag we were never in the cool

Crowd just

Northern kids

Fresh air good fun

Good times we made we didn’t buy

Our childhood was free making memories the sun

Witching hour writer

So tired it’s 2.28am.

I’ve crawled into bed

That place where my brain rebels

Insomnia fairy and writing muse lurk in the shadows of my room.

Hello it shouts as my head greets the softness of my pillow.

It shouts don’t forget tomorrow you need to buy cat food.

Shhhhh! Stop im shattered

It’s like having a hyperactive child who has an obsessive need to tell me random things in the early hours of the morning.

Or discover a line of a poem I’ve been baking in my head.

Oh and you need to ring the g.p before 8am

So if you hurry you may just get five hours sleep.

It’s raining.

Have you locked the car?

You forgot to bake banana bread

Did you wrap the crystals up ready to post tomorrow?

Has the dog had her spot on flea treatment this month.

Shall we go out for Christmas lunch or stay home?

What time are trago mills open until on a week day.

Who played the detective in all that remains ?

What that on BBC or Channel 4 ?

I concentrate on my breathing

Mindfully imagining a beautiful beach and the sound of the waves on the shore.

Have you switched the washing machine off?

I open my eyes

The Pendle witch peers at me from her broom stick on the ceiling

I think I see her smirk.

She knows my nightly dilemma

I reach for my pad and pen

Put on the salt lamp and write.

The glow from my window

By the canal I wonder how many other witching hour writers are out there?

Out of bed pen in hand woken or kept from sleep

Scribing tales poems blogs.

Until the writing blurs ideas quieten

Sleep finds us.

Crystals.

If you have facebook please check out our page Ravens Healing crystals.All funds made go to our cancer retreat providing free breaks, therapies and soul midwife services Thank you in advance

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=105947760881251&id=100878728054821&sfnsn=scwspmo

http://www.ravensretreat.wales

I am enough

Sat chatting around my kitchen table
A throw away comment from a friend
she or I had commented on the amount of certificates and qualifications we both have.
in different therapies and healing modalities.
I’d been thinking of doing yet another course.
I do like to learn and be busy.
yes she smiled we do it to be good enough, to be worthwhile.
She said it in such an accepting way.
such a thoughtful look on her face.
I smiled
I did not answer
her simple comment
was a huge realisation I felt the truth of it spear me in my soul.

As I breathed in a simple truth
I have stepped away from the college brochure.

No man’s land

motorway services
melting pots
of busy people
stopping to pee or eat.
fast food at high prices
that pulsing sound of air con
fruit machines and cash machines
electric car chargers and shiny steel escalators
ever flushing toilets
expressionless attendants
mobile phone chargers
communal eating areas.
no one looks at anyone else.
staring at phones
eating alone.
back through the glass door
hurrying back home
from this always open oasis
this no man’s land
doors always open
each new day is the same as the one before .

Random girl.

My random girl you are everywhere.Reminders that you’ve left this earthly plane.The cranes on the marina I smile as I hear you sayI hate those cranes why are they pointing this way.I miss you random girl.I drive past Sainsbury’s memories flash like cine filmI hear you beside meI’ll be sitting by the window hurry up I’ve got you a cup of teaI smile to myselfSimple but still .I miss youSinging badly in the carStick throwing for honey never went farWind street the scene of many mad nights out.Transparent vodka as you danced aboutChickoland and queing for taxis in the cold night airOr summer nights sat on huge picnic tables with nutty Russians your favourite cocktail.Pink blaring you knew every word.If someone said three years from now you’d be long gone..I miss youRandom text messages.Can you guess what letter it begins with.Long black hair cheeky smile.Knob was a term of endearment.I miss youThe days of champers and the king’s on the high streetFoam party’s at H2OLong beach walks.Flip flop shoppingDog walkingPainted toe nailsI miss youRandom facts like you loved coffee in take away cups.Drawing in the sand.Walking barefoot on the bay.Writing out names watching the sea wash them away.I miss youSitting on the wall at Barry eating chips.Remos at sunset collecting shellsSand in my car.Pebbles in the glove boxBreakfast at vees cafe.I miss youWatching full moons riseWishing the world would go away.Holidays in the sunWalking on different beaches.Singing and having funDid I say I miss you?Memories of songsWind in our hair boat trips on open seas.Sam Smith sang black and goldYou lay with your head upon my kneeWarm sun kissed skinTime flew by days turned into yearsChildren grew families intertwinedWe were going to be nannies togetherHow could fate be so unkind.Although we knew that time together was running out fast.We packed in so many memories I replay them each day that goes past.I speak of you oftenI talk to you stillI loved you my random girl and know I always will ❤️I miss youI miss meI miss usIf someone said three years from now you’d be long gone..Who knew

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 t o 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.

Help.

I need help. There I said it!

I run a cottage retreat offer free breaks for cancer / end of life patients.

Im a soul midwife end of life companion and advocate for anyone who needs me.

No charge free.

Therapies visits support all free.

Im also a wedding and funeral celebrant this service is also free for patients

I also have to work full time to finance this bills have to be paid.

Car needs fuel.

Mortgage electricity oil ect.

What I need is someone to advise me and or help with funding or grants that I may be eligible for in the U.K.

My dream is to be able to devote all my time working as soul midwife but at the moment that’s not possible.

It’s so important that my services remain free.

I never want someone to think they can’t afford a soul midwife.

Donations are fine I’m good with that

There is a donate now button on my website.

http://www.ravensretreat.wales

But to enable me to let my paid job go I need some sort of funding

So do you or anyone you know have any experience of how to go about this?

I know there is the national lottery grants act but I’m hopeless at all this entails

We are a community interest company.

Completely non profit.

So I know we are eligible.

If you can help.in anyway or you’d like to fund raise for us.

I’d be eternally grateful.

Please share our website and this post.

Hopefully someone can point me in the right direction.

http://www.ravensretreat.wales

Home is where the heart is. Canals, lakes and waterfalls my town.

I am forever grateful for this small row of cottages and the bank of the tenant canal in South Wales where I live.

I settled here fourteen years ago.

We originally looked a bit further out from the city as houses were cheaper.

I’m so glad we did.

Don’t get me wrong readers of my blog will know we’ve had our fair share of problems massive flood thanks to storm Callum in Oct 2018

But in a way it made me fall in love with this magical place even more.

Family’s helped each other bonds and friendships were made and strengthened

It’s not a posh place to live.

Small two up two down cottages

But it’s paradise to me.

Our home is here.

Our cancer retreat and therapy cabin is here.

Our cats our dog geese swans and birds

Home is where the heart is.

My heart is right here.

For that I’m truly grateful.

http://www.ravensretreat.wales

Old photographs. Damp walls, singing kettles and coal fires

I came across this old photograph.
that’s my Nan and grand father the year is 1966.
that’s me sitting on my grand father’s knee, my niece Angela is the baby in the shawl.
I don’t remember my grandfather.
he died when I was three.
my Nan was amazing a huge influence on who I am today.

Strong northern woman.

You can see from the photo they didn’t have much.

She always worked he like all the men in our family drank never a few always too much.

This was taken in their home a very old run down terraced house facing a park in a collery town in the north of England.

I remember the smell of damp. frayed seat covers on the old two seater sofa I’d pick at the sponge foam through the thread bare covers as I fell asleep listening to the sound of my Nans old Jones treadle sewing machine
it was a magical rythem of my life.
The playground across the road was known as Nanny goat park.
it stood in the shadow of glass factories.

I remember cold fingers gripping the handle of the roundabout as nanny’s old staffie dog Bruce barked until I’d get off.

Cold morning air white spiders webs in privit hedges
Ice on the inside of the bedroom windows. Cold breath in the air.

Chopping stick in the mornings to lite the fire.

The smell of fire lighters and inky fingers from screwing up yesterday’s news paper to insure a flame.

Grand dad died when I was three and nanny moved to a council house with a garden
no park across the road but also no smell of damp.
the windows had lead that reflected onto the bare plaster walls from the light of the street lamp.
while I’d snuggle under sheets blankets and coats to keep us warm
complaining that they made me itch
She would shush me and given a stone hot water bottle wrapped in a tea towel.
sitting on the back doorstep waiting for the kettles whistle hot milky tea.
sterilised milk and a chipped China cup.

Perfect boiled eggs and thick buttered toast.
hearing her singing Vera Lynn White cliffs of Dover and shouting at my cousin’s to stop kicking the bloody football on the side of the house.

Jesus Mary and bloody Joseph she would shout followed by your make the bloody saints in heaven swear as my drunken dad would fall into the back door the smell of beer tobacco and vomit.

John players fags from the shop and jug of stout from the outdoor.
Rapping her door shouting through the letter box.

Naaaaaaaanny

laughing when she would tell me to bugger off home.

Stop bloody mitherin me!
Corned beef hot pot.
massive egg custard tarts.
bacon ribs and pea soup.

Lying with my head on her lap the smell of Sunday roast on her pinny.
her orange lip stick from the Avon woman with the blue bag.
boxes of old black and white photographs telling stories of her life. rhubarb onions, and spuds from her garden
pop soxs and polka dots.
string shopping bags and the football pools. silver hair
Always protecting me I loved being around this tiny woman .
I think this is the only photo that I have of her.
That’s all I need.
the rest I carry with me Nan.

http://www.ravensretreat.wales

Don’t look back

I’m never really unwell. Possibly because I don’t have time.

Some weeks I work 40 hours in my paid job n.h.s community mental health.

Then another 30+ hours at our retreat and working with my soul midwife patients.

When I see it written down its madness.

But it’s my life and I have no other option at the moment.

My paid job pays my mortgage on the retreat. Puts fuel in my car, food on my table.

Allows me to provide free breaks and free soul midwife service and therapies .

I’m trusting the universe and I know that eventually I will be in a position to give up my job and devote all my time to cancer patients.

Anyway I digress I’m I’ll.

Not part of the plan but hey ho

I swear it’s when I stop.

My body goes yay.. she’s still and I get a cold or virus.

I’m crap at nursing myself every one else just not myself.

Nurses make crap patients.

So good friend of mine offers me shamanic healing today

I lie on the couch surrounded by aroma of sage and without trying I’m totally relaxed.

I’m vaugly aware of Chris at the head of the table

I’m immediately taken to the beach.

My guide Richard is there waiting we fall into step.

Where are we going I ask.

You already know he says.

In that riddle sort of way I hate.

I sigh and walk. The wind blows gently the sun is warm

Then we step into the familiar cave with the carved seat in cold smooth stone I sit down and he sits beside me

I’m aware of my breathing

Then as we both stand up I feel detached .

I’m walking behind Richard and myself.

On my back I can see a huge moth

With purple wings. Wait aren’t they purple curtains?

There before me is the window I looked out of so may times as a child.

My bedroom window.

I look through it the view is the same

Old oak tree.

Green fence

Old shed.

My bike leaning on the gate.

The porch roof under my window covered in green

Lead pealing off.

I pick at the chipped paint on the window sill.

I glance around

Old record player one knob missing pile of 45 records from Woolworths.

Humpty Dumpty poster holding glass of beer on the wall.

Dressing gown on back of the door.

Old black wool coat with red lining on my bed no duvets here sheets and coats.

Purple curtains.

The house of death has me again

Moth wings

I’m now aware of a pain.

In my root chakra.

Ouch I bend my legs up.

Why are we back here I ask Richard?

You never really left he says.

The pain comes again stronger.

Like a contraction.

I’m back in my body beside Richard.

He holds my hand.

As I turn away from the window the moth wings go back to being purple curtains.

You don’t belong here says Richard.

I hesitate.

He smiles waiting .

I walk towards him and don’t look back.

The weight had left me

I hear chris chanting the pain lessens

I sit up.snd I’m back in the room .

The water is cool.and fresh

I’m home in our cottage

Where I belong.

Thoughtful.

Reflecting.

Thank you my friend.

For guiding me home. ❤️

http://www.ravensretreat.wales