The Last Alternative

When there is a calling, when the path is defined ahead of us, the struggling is constant. For me, events and proofs had to pile up until I could no longer deny or doubt. It had to bring me to the verge of tears – the verge of sanity where I couldn’t take it anymore, so that I could no longer hesitate.

The last alternative : go mad or accept who/what you are.

I think it really won’t be easy anyway, but each time that I will struggle, I’ll remind myself of all these difficulties : if you don’t think you are mad, then accept.


A Song For Heimdall

You are the silent God

You arrive, you turn your head
I see your eyes, I see you’ve seen
You see me, your eyes tell so much
But you say nothing

It seems your voice has been lost in space and time
Did you lose it to the Void when you made the sacrifice ?
For it is the depth of the Void that I feel in you

There is only your eyes, your eyes that tell so much
I look at you, and you at me, and I see
I see through you, it seems I hear
But I know I don’t

Your eyes are like the well of Mimir
I can lose myself into them
I feel the depth without end
I feel the knowledge supreme

But where does your heart lay ?
Inside the water of the well
I feel the darkness and the ache
I feel a shell that has been emptied

What is this suffering ?
Where is the center of your being ?
I feel a lament from the sea
The melancholia and the ache

It is enclosed in your being
Heimdall, silent God,
Is there no cure to your wounds ?

But I feel the wave rolling,
A last look full of meaning,
A door that closes as your turn back
And the vision fades away


Equinox Tour To The Père Lachaise, IV

Oh I was so disappointed that I forgot my camera. There were really nice moments. I took some poor shots with my phone just in case, I’ll check them later.

It was a shorter and  simpler tour this time, because we were both somewhat sick. But we truly wanted to go for the Equinox. And we were right to go because we had a wonderful moment. Going during the week is great because there are fewer people despite tourists. But as it keeps happening, I think I even prefer the cemetery when it rains. People flee and you have the place for yourself and the spirits. It completely changes mood and atmosphere. The plants, the trees (the yews), the graves do not vibrate in the same way. Maybe this is just me, but the water is like the door to the World of Spirit.

We took the shortest way up to find both Sarah’s grave again for my friend (who was with me the time we missed it) and Richard Wright’s. I hadn’t plan it but I thought it might be interesting to see what had happened to my offerings, before we go to the far end of the cemetery to see Oscar Wilde. My surprise was full and it warmed my heart like nothing else. The Cemetery was full of devotion and honor.  I suspect there are groups of people who tend the grave and care for the dead. As we went to Sarah’s grave, I had the touching surprise to see that my candle for the anonynous dead which I had put quickly on the side (also in order that it would not be stolen) had been … moved to the center place, up in the pot of (dead) flower that is in front of the grave. Did anyone know this person ? this grave which has no one, no nothing ? Or do some people actually care ? I was really taken aback and then glad. A joy that is of a different nature. A kind of communion through the distance, with unknown people, because we share the same… religious spirit ? devotion ? understanding ? caring ? It is a marvellous experience to make and it didn’t stop there.

So we turned round to commune before Sarah’s grave, and it had been totally renewed in the days ! The candle I had seen last time was lit ! And despite the rain, in this little shelter, it was burning… it had beeb burning for a little while since it was all liquid. You ask yourself then, who went there ? when ? Was it just before us ? And my candle was there, I wonder if it had been in fact lit and put out by other people. New stones where there, new flowers…. The quietness of the cemetery and those offerings, the place resonated like a temple. We really could have been in a church or something. And it didn’t stop there ! As we went to the Columbarium, I was totally shocked (in a good way) : the walls were covered by flowers ! Everywhere, the pots had been refilled, with true flowers and false ones, but the walls were colorful like a painting. I wonder if it is from the cemetery guardians or if some people did it. There were also a LOT of candles and incense ! So as we came close to Richard Wright’s grave, I had the delight to see that my candle had been moved, to be put not on the flower but in the corner on the wall. And my note is still there ! So everyone that went to the grave between the 4th and today had witnessed and wondered and myabe had a thought about the life and birthday of Richard Wright… and my candle looked burnt a little. So we turned back with joy, looking for a moment at the rain and the shelter of the Columbarium, with all those flowers and bouquets. It was delicious. We also passed in front of Zavatta, and I has memories of my childhood coming back.

We finished our walk in the alleys as we went to Oscar Wilde’s grave. There are really powerful and nice tombs and vaults in this area. We lit a candle at the feet of a marvellous grave with two hooded figures huddled together. And then we could observe the damage down at Wilde’s, as always. The glass that surrounds the grave is really dirty, and the officials have been obliged to extend the barrier, just like at Morrison’s. People had climbed the stone cross on the side tomb to manage to kiss the tomb and the angel on the top… and the cross has collapsed entirely. Well, unlinke Morrison, I never understood the crazyness around this author, but I witness the power of his words and personality through time anyway.

Here it was ! Happy equinox to everybody.

Hel’s Story

This tale brought me to tears, revealing a subconscious comprehension I had not spotted before. I needed to share it. Thank you Raan (you should visit her blog).

“Write” She whispers to me. “Write, tell my story from your heart, not from the ice cold pens of men long gone. Tell my story as a woman, as a shaman, as a devotee. Tell the words, put them to the page, let them grow.”

“The stories tell of a hidden birth, of fear and pain and death and banishment, as if I had no part, no say in my destiny. But that is the story written from the followers of others. That is the story written from those who need to follow a winner, regardless of the many faceted truth.

Yes, my birth and my brothers’ births were hidden. Ancient power was invoked when we were conceived, power that was formed from the blood of giants. When we were born, our fates were already sealed. Death had passed to the eternal and the balance was thrown. Only sacrifice, blood sacrifice, would bring the world back into balance. I will not speak of my father, his tale is well known. My mother, the daughter of warriors, magicians and seers, had the blood passed down through the ages. She knew before she ever met my father that this was Wyrd, she could not escape the tangled weave. She knew she could not keep this God, that theirs was not a life of bliss. She saw in him his wyrd and his heart and loved him all the more for the burdens he accepted without question. And she knew that her destiny was to bear 3 children who would bring the end of the world.

Do not think that she accepted this blindly. She wept and raged and tried to bargain for her love and her children. But none of us can escape the call, so when the time came, she and Loki went to the Ironwood of their ancestors and conceived, in love, us 3.  And through our births, a blood sacrifice.

The tale speaks of Odin murdering my mother and kidnapping my brothers and banishing me. But its never that simple, politics, even amongst the Gods. Odin has his choices, we have ours.

They say I was a child when my mother died. I was 13, old enough to hear the call of blood and make my own choices. All my life I had heard the whispers of the dead. They had shared secrets, cried out for me. I had spent my time in silence, listening to their magic and tales. I had learned how to be as cold as the snow, as still as the Iron that ran through my veins. I had learned how to taste the shifting winds on the air and capture the light that spills through the trees as cold as ice.  And my mother watched me grow and knew that the time for change had come.

She went to the halls knowing her fate, yet still a mothers heart bade her plead her case. She went to her death having seen our lives stretched out on a table. She took the form of a crow and flew to the halls to face her death. It is not only Gods who can sacrifice. It is also mothers. Her blood became my first blood and I knew.

They say I wandered out into the cold and snow and sat to wait for my mother. But that is not true. This was not a passive act but a deliberate choice. I was called to the path just as strongly as any other spirit-walker. I was called and I answered. I sat in the snow for nine moons and in that time Death came and taught me the secrets and the magic. And I knew my wyrd, red as blood in the snow. I gave of myself to become myself.

And when my father of fire came and offered to take me home, I was a woman and a Goddess and a seeress and a Shaman and I refused. I accepted my path and my mother’s blood sacrifice was not for naught and she was reborn from the blood of her kinsmen and my father. And I walked the twisting path.”

When Lady Hela first painted this tale in my head, I balked. Why had I never heard this, Lady Death walking the shaman’s path? But then I realized people are afraid of death and afraid to talk about it, discuss it, invite it in. Is Hela a goddess of shamans? I would love to have other spirit-walkers input here.

T.S. Eliot

The great mystery to me. His writing is always bewildering, on the verge of non-sense. But in his writing I find deep spiritual echoes to my experiences….

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.

Four Quartets, “Burnt Norton”

Well, this is what it is to work on memory and wyrd…

Happy Birthday D.H.Lawrence

“It’s not art for art’s sake, it’s art for my sake. ”
― D.H. Lawrence

Hail ! D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Lawrence) was born today in 1885; he died in 1930.

You made my life anew with your painting-writing. Your Sons and Lovers marked my soul with it’s poetic stamp. You’ll be my inspiration from now and ever.

I really need to find you some quotes…


So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cushions the children loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That afternoon Mrs. Morel was ironing. She listened to the small, restless noise the boy made in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her heart the old, almost weary feeling towards him. She had never expected him to live. And yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would have been a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture of anguish in her love for him.

He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter of the iron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing-board. Once roused, he opened his eyes to see his mother standing on the hearthrug with the hot iron near her cheek, listening, as it were, to the heat. Her still face, with the mouth closed tight from suffering and disillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, and her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract with love. When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life, but as if she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly, this feeling about her that she had never had her life’s fulfilment: and his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense of impotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childish aim.

She spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded, raced off the dark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the sack lining of the hearthrug vigorously. She was warm in the ruddy firelight. Paul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one side. Her movements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure to watch her. Nothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, could have been found fault with by her children. The room was warm and full of the scent of hot linen. Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her.

Paul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did not mind much. What happened happened, and it was no good kicking against the pricks. He loved the evenings, after eight o’clock, when the light was put out, and he could watch the fire-flames spring over the darkness of the walls and ceiling; could watch huge shadows waving and tossing, till the room seemed full of men who battled silently.

On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom. He was always very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed the atmosphere for the boy.

Sons and Lovers