Saturday, November 14, 2020

Danelys Valcarcel: Intuitive Living as a Spiritual Path

Danelys Valcarcel, an incredibly articulate woman, describes, through a theosophical lens, the usefulness of intuition towards living an artful life full of meaning. 

Wednesday, November 11, 2020

The Ancestors Are Us

Remembering those, on November 11, 2020, this image came to mind, as I went deeper into remembering those who gave their lives, not only in the last two world wars, but all those who came before us.

Of course they knew, the ancestors, they knew very well who they were. They knew they were both the foundation and the frontier of conscious awareness. I believe they set this up, like Bonnita Roy says in her ‘The Hollow’ series of talks at the Stoa, via dispatches to the future.
I see the figure on the Gundestrup cauldron sitting with a torc and a snake in his hand, horns coming from his head. That is a message. A message that says something, not in words, but in mythic imagery, the meaning behind the symbols. He is saying something along the lines of growing minds - the antlers, emotion, movement - the snake, and a gold torc which generally is worn around the neck made of twisted metal. The fact that he is holding it, as well as wearing it, points to its significance. He wants us to pay attention to it. On the cauldron the gold colour is not apparent, but as artifacts they were often made of twisted gold. Gold is not just valuable, its long lasting, its endurance reminiscent of the nourishing radiance of the sun, of warmth and expansion. It’s like they wore it around their necks as a talisman, an indication of their intention to grow their minds. That is their message to the future, to their future selves. Us.
I’ve said this before, but perhaps never written it down. I feel like I’ve been underground for three thousand years and I’m now being recalled to the surface because I’m needed. Because the ancestors are calling to me from long ago through the images on the cauldron and through my DNA, the historic memory I carry in my architecture. I put my past together with the present using my imagination, both sides of my brain articulating together in thought and word, in language, the depiction of flowing form, something like the snake.
The cauldron itself is the container, the body. The intentions of it are depicted in the images on the surface. The whole thing is a metaphor for ourselves.

Thursday, December 12, 2019

Burial Ground

I woke up this morning to my brain telling me it was Clyde. I'm assuming it was my left brain, since my right brain doesn't talk to me in words, only images and sensations, but it was definitely referring to my right brain.
So I started thinking about Clyde as a brain and that led me to horses; the Clydesdale.
Then I thought, what in Hel is a Clyde? And what on earth is a dale?

So I 'googled' those terms.

The River Clyde flows past the Isle of Arran into the Firth of Clyde towards Loch Lomand & The Trossacks National Park in Scotland. It flows from the southwest towards the northeast. This is a northwest flow. This is often the direction of the prevailing winds here at the edge of the world. Perhaps my thoughts, as they travel down into my body, then flow northwest through my song towards Scotland. The song of my body as it sings to the world.

There is a long cove there, called Loch Long. I too live in a long cove, here in the west. Hmmm... food for my soul.

So this led me to look for similarities in my own physical surroundings of the Mi'kma'ki and that brought me to looking at the small island off the west coast of the larger island of Bute, of which the Sound of Bute flows between. Hmmm... a song reference, perhaps?

There are ruins there from medieval times. The outline of an old monastary in a place that is only named on the google sky view map only named Midpark.

Turns out it is named Marnock after St. Ernán. Earnán, is of Irish origin and many saints are named after him. The name itself means 'knowing.' There are many saints named for the those ruins. An archealogical project has revealed stone slabs bearing early Christian and Norse runic markings.

To cut this story short because my brain needs to go elsewhere for a while. All this led me to Fingals' Cave in the Isle of Staffa. The Isle of Staffa is a series of hexagonal rock columns formed by volcanic eruption millions of years ago.

I will wish to sea myself there, while I ponder dale, which means the plains in a river valley.

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

They Hold No Quarter

Listening to one of my all time favourite bands from childhood Led Zepplin. All through the 70's & 80's I listened to this and had no idea what the lyrics meant, nor why I loved them so much. No I do. They hold a piece of my heart.

Led Zeppelin - No Quarter (Live at Madison Square Garden 1973)

[Verse 1]
Close the door, put out the light
You know they won't be home tonight
The snow falls hard and don't you know?
The winds of Thor are blowing cold
They're wearing steel that's bright and true
They carry news that must get through

They choose the path where no-one goes
They hold no quarter
They hold no quarter

[Guitar Solo]

[Verse 2]
Walking side by side with death
The devil mocks their every step
The snow drives back the foot that's slow
The dogs of doom are howling more
They carry news that must get through
To build a dream for me and you

They choose the path where no-one goes
They hold no quarter
They ask no quarter
They hold no quarter
They ask no quarter
The pain, the pain without quarter
They ask no quarter
The dogs of doom are howling more!

Saturday, November 30, 2019

Ritual and Law in 17th Century Britain - Wife Swapping

How absurd a thought, yet here it is Devonshire Characters and Strange S. Baring-Gould.
‘There is no myth relative to the manners and customs of the English that in my experience is more tenaciously held by the ordinary Frenchman than that the sale of a wife in the market place is an habitual and an accepted fact in English Life.’ SBG, 1908

If you'll notice in the image, she looks like a pink piggy with a rope around her neck being eyed by three gentleman at the Smithfield Market by Laurie & Whittle 1796.

A more sinister image of the practice depicts women being sold as actual property in the following less colorful image from Harper's magazine, 1876.

The misogyny of women has progressed from comedy to property in under 100 years; and this, more than 100 years ago.

Read more about this origins and direction of this darkly tragic story written deep in the bones of who we are at The Cornish Bird Blog.


Friday, November 22, 2019

Her Story

Herstory - a beginning; in words and images.

"She has arrived" writes Cathy Newman, author of a National Geographic article The World Through The Eyes of Women published on November 15, 2019. She is citing photographer Sisse Brimberg's response to being mistaken for a photographer's pack mule, instead of the photographer, when arriving to a 1980's photo-shoot. Out of respect to National Geographic's copyright protection policy, I will not post any of those amazing photographs here, but you can look at them via the link above, which tells the story of women photographers in a 'that was then, this is now' motif.
“the universal language of the photograph upon which this publication (and others) depended was solely a contribution of the male eye and mind.”
Those are the words of Naomi Rosenblum, a photograpy historian. More important words there have never been Naomi, thank you. And these by the author of that article.
"We are beyond the days of women depicted as decorative objects dressed in waterfalls of silk (the predictable debutante ball shot) and the assumption that the creator of the image was a man."
It's such a difficult story to tell, her story. But it is happening all around us, in fact its gushing out. It started out as a squeak, then became a hoarse whisper, and is now quite audible, even for those who can barely hear it.
There are many many more stories, images, and songs, of women, their children, their hardships, their neglect, abuse, shame, loneliness and mystery. There are so many stories poring out now that soon it will be hard not to hear them.

I myself have just been re-born into my own image, not his. Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry at him, or Him, or Her, or any of them. But some will be. And that's okay too. My story includes all the stories of women, men, and children of any colour, shape or form, of varying gender, or no gender at all, as well as of the multiplex creatures and cultures that remain intact, and of the many that have been buried, destroyed, or lost throughout history. Most importantly, I wish to tell the general story of the earth, of which I am embodying. If you have a mother, this is your story too. 

I may be arriving late in the game of feminism, but I believe there is a reason for this. It is the way of the mother. And in the way of the mother, I will tell the story slowly, in small digestible increments.

Mind over matter may be the way it appears to you now, but understanding is to know that it is you. I may be only one pair of eyes in a body, with one voice, but I am not alone. Together, we are the story. It's a tangled story, but our aim is to undo that mess, and clear the way to becoming more than the mess we are in.

And thank you Cathy, for a wonderful beginning to this story, my story, herstory.