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Rhiannon's Healing Touch

22/1/2019

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Rhiannon, Goddess of Self Love and Justice
Claudia Olivos

I've had a long journey of healing with Rhiannon, even though it's not what She is known for through Her mythology. This is a personal story, admittedly full of subjectivity, but I want to share it, so here we go.
I had been consciously honouring Epona for some years when I began praying to Rhiannon at the suggestion of a friend. This friend is a Shaman, or neo-Shaman, if you will. (Yes, I know all the arguments about the use of that word, as well as the full discussion about first world people attempting to do this work.) Whatever we call my friend, I respect him and the work he does enough to have paid attention to this, even though he was talking about things that at the time had no real meaning for me.
He told me that I needed to strengthen my third chakra, and that Rhiannon would help me to do this. Well, I had never given chakras any thought, except one other time when this friend had mentioned them to me. To be honest, I had never given Rhiannon much thought, either. It had been many years since I had read the Mabinogi and probably thought of Rhiannon as more of a character in a story than a goddess. So I resisted a bit, but I thought about how valuable my friend's help had been in the past, and then I "happened" to find the perfect white horse figurine for an altar, and so I read the Mabinogi again . . .  That must have been five or six years ago now.
I like having a personal liturgy of prayers that are meaningful and easy to remember. Most of these I have borrowed from somewhere else, then adapted to suit my personal beliefs and needs so that I am completely comfortable with them. I soon found that I had created a prayer to Rhiannon concerning the seven chakras, which I had by that time studied a little. I always start my prayer with a series of epithets, like the ones I've given here, and the prayer goes like this:

Great and Blessed Rhiannon, Mother of Horses, Queen of the Land, Queen of the Starry Fillies, Great Mare of Sovereignty
Teach me to stand firm on the earth
and to love and honour your body

Teach me to know my will
and to feel the pleasure of life

Teach me to wield my power
to wield it from the belly

Teach me to love your children
and all who share our world

Teach me to speak the truth
with honesty and compassion

Teach me to see the truth
seeing both far and deep

Teach me to commune with you
make me worthy of that honour


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I'm generally not drawn to "new age" things, but once I understood the basics, the chakra system made sense to me. Of course, it is and isn't a new concept, and this article describes its origins and some of the changes it has undergone in the west better than I ever could. Ultimately, I see it this way. Either we have chakras, or we don't. Either they exist, or they don't. Or perhaps they were always intended to be a metaphor. If they do exist, or indeed, if the metaphor works for you, then your cultural orientation isn't an issue.

Then last spring I got a drum, and began using it at my full moon rituals. That is blossoming into something very special, and I believe very healing for me, in which I find myself singing and sometimes dancing. In September, something new happened, and I was shown how to drum the chakras, which I believe is a much more vibrant and effective approach for me, and sometimes leads on to other bits and pieces of self-healing. Sometimes I also hear the voice of Macha and Epona joining in, encouraging me to heal myself. That is something I have been needing to hear.

As with any ritual, saying this prayer is more effective if I put energy and intent into it. I am prone to lapse on anything like this. I call it my "daily practice" - well, it is when I'm doing it! However, every day that I do it adds up to a bit of strength and depth that helps carry me through the lapses. And if I'm a bit short on energy and intent? I think it helps keep the pilot light lit. There is a spark of energy and intent even when I mumble the words with my mind half on other things. It is easier, by far, to light the furnace when the pilot light is working, just as it is easier to build a fire from a live spark than it is to begin by rubbing a couple of damp sticks together.

The other day I was meditating, and I wondered about Rhiannon's healing connection, and I heard Her speaking to me. "I am not as different from Bride as you might think. After all, I love the land and the little healing springs." In my mind's eye I saw the muzzle of a white horse, drinking from the smallest of springs.


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The Fool and His Dancers

3/6/2018

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It occurs to me, before I review a book about Border morris dancing, that some readers may be left wondering what that even is. So, before I start, allow me to offer you a video, in case you need some context, or just like watching videos of morris dancers, like I do.

A book review of some very dark morris

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For someone who has divided their life between Scotland and the US, I spend an inexplicably large amount of time thinking about Morris dancing. I can't explain this. It just is -- and I don't even know when it started. I especially like the way Border morris has exploded in the past decade or so. It's vibrant, dark, edgy and sometimes overtly Pagan. I was pretty excited, then, to discover that someone who's been on the inside of Border morris, even in at the beginning of its revival, had written a book about it.

Turns out the book is pretty good. Rob Elliott is a witty writer, and he strikes a good balance here between serious thoughts and funny stories about morris dancers drinking too much. I like the way he acknowledges the scholarly work done by others, and knows the historical references, but isn't limited by them. He's willing to talk about what feels right, and what feels true, and that's important when working within a tradition that is also a living thing.
They had lost the essence of dance and moved into something labelled 'traditional folk dance display', an embodiment of nostalgia recreating a perceived aspect of life long ago, diminishing these displays to little more than mobile museum pieces. By contrast, Silurian acknowledged the roots and history of morris dancing but were creating something original - a new version of an old principle. We needed to be relevant, to have power over the hearts of the crowd, to bewitch them. If we didn't cast a spell over them, we saw ourselves as having failed. We didn't want to project the two dimensional quality of a film.
What fascinates me about morris is its matter-of-fact public-ness, and the way that the public, and many of the dancers, think of it as an "ancient (Pagan) fertility rite", and are perfectly happy with it taking place in front of the pub on a Saturday afternoon. The extent to which it actually is any of that in the historical sense, has long ago ceased to be the point. And perhaps, if it looks like a duck....
We gave them White Ladies Aston stick dance, which was implemented with such energy that the dancers were blurred by a kind of snowstorm flurry of wood chips as the sticks began to split, feather and disintegrate. This was morris with attitude and woodsmoke and the crowd couldn't get enough. They'd never seen anything like it. We had the audience in our spell, a spell we hadn't knowingly expected to weave.

We began to think about what it must have been like to dance a fertility dance all those millennia ago. Highly speculative of course, because we had no real way of knowing but we just pictured ourselves as twentieth-century torchbearers for something very ancient. After this performance, it was certainly easy to imagine that dancers in pre-Christian communities might have put themselves on a higher plane, and out of reach of ordinary mortals, by clothing themselves in a particular way, introducing a de-humanising disguise and creating some wild dance routines. We understood in that moment how an enigmatic appearance might create mystery, how mystery touches people and moves energy and how energy might conjure magic.
This book tells the story of the first revival Border morris side, Silurian Border Morris, and how it evolved from a white-clad group of hanky wavers, into a blacked-up, tail coated, bunch of hellions. As is always the case when a group is breaking new ground within a tradition, Silurean enjoyed the shock and occasional outrage they inspired, and this aspect adds to the hilarity of some parts of the book. The author does a good job of telling these tales in a way that makes them funny without the reader needing to have been there to get it. If there is a certain amount of self-congratulation involved in some of this, it's not that hard to forgive.

Some of the funniest stories in the book, for my money, are the ones recounting the sheer absurdity of walking around in public in Border morris kit. From punks idling in town squares to German tourists at motorway rest stops, this is likely to get a reaction.

Punk: Why are you dressed like that?
Silurian: Why are you dressed like that?
Punk: I like dressing like this!
Silurean: Well, I like dressing like this!
Punk goes back to friends: He likes dressing like that!
Elliott is very particular to talk about blacking the face as a ritual disguise in this book, and I hope people are listening. Blacked up morris dancers have come in for some flack from people who think that this tradition is somehow racist or relates in some way to black and white minstrel shows. This simply isn't the case. Blacking up is a form of ritual disguise, not of racial impersonation. It has always been a cheap and available way to hide one's identity, using soot from the fire, and to turn the known person into an unknown and potent entity.
Since we had 'gone Border', which carried the same implications as 'gone native' or 'gone feral', we of course blacked up every time we made an appearance. The blacking was not simply part of the kit, it was the essential means by which we exchanged our human form for something altogether more intangible. There was an unspoken acknowledgement amongst us that to make an appearance in kit but without the blacking would be inconceivable.

It was difficult to recognise us individually with our matt black bearded faces, now crowned with black bowler hats. Most people really had no idea what we were all about. It seemed we captivated them and frightened them in equal measure, which helped to create the mystique. We became strongly unified, an effect no one could have predicted.

Only  with a performance immanent, would we dress up and black our faces. We would all stick together during this 'ceremony' until the last man was ready and then, completely attired -- bells, hats and all -- we would go...
Interspersed among the tales of lost morris weekends and moments of Silurean triumph, Elliott weaves an interesting thread of the social history of the British folk scene of the late 20th century. If you happen to have been a part of that, you will recognise the draughtsman-like accuracy of his sketches of that time and place. Some of which might evoke a self-directed cringe or two, if you really were there in your corduroy trousers or floral frock.

This is a really good book, and a much funnier book than I have really let on in this review. If you are interested in what public ritual, with a small r, really means, what tradition means, and why it's worth rewilding it, rather than preserving it, you will enjoy this.


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Green and Gold

22/9/2013

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This morning the alarm woke me before sunrise -- and I actually got up! Maybe I was energised by a trip to a group of sacred springs yesterday. The moon is just a few days past full, and was silver, high in the sky. I went to my grove of trees. I took with me some sage, incense, homemade bread, water I collected from a spring yesterday, a candle, and a copy of this poem - which I wrote a few days ago. As I crossed the pasture, the horses came to say hello.

I felt happy. Summer is not my favourite season and I'm looking forward to the cooler weather ahead. In my mind, the moon, still visible as I walked, although it was now light, represented the coming longer nights, while the sun, not yet quite up, represented the summer we are leaving behind. The pastures, and the wider landscape are a mixture of green and gold.  We have been in drought for several years, but it broke in July and has rained quite a bit. July and August are the most common months for rain here, which means that autumn often sees a growth of green grasses and forbs among the already mature and dried-off stands of grass. Maybe that was in my mind as I wrote the poem below. I was really longing for the broad leaf forests of Britain when I wrote it.

My little grove of cottonwood trees are very dear to me. They are huge and gnarled, and there is a lateral irrigation ditch running beside them. My boundary fence, the grove and the ditch are all oriented east-west, with the trees between the ditch and the fence. They actually straddle the property line between my neighbour's land and mine. It makes the space feel all the more liminal...

Green and Gold

Lead me
Into the forest
Into the half light

Oh, how the trees
Hint at the past
Hint at the coming winter

Your light
Light of the forest
Half light of the year

Light through the trees
Leaves on the soil
Ancestor-shared

Green Man
Spirit of change
Ever alive

Deer Woman
Scout the path
Show the way

Stag Father
Force of creation
Giving in love

Half light
Balance of seasons
Calm and still

Out of the forest
Winds blow
Over the grasses

Green and gold
Turning to autumn
Calling me home

    - Kris Hughes
        September 2013

sunflower
cottonwood trees, autumn equinox, moon
Looking west to my grove just after sunrise, with the moon hovering above.

willow, equinox, sunrise
Looking east, the sun rises behind this squat old willow.

autumn, southeast colorado
A view from the grove.


You can read more of my poetry in my latest collection.
Land Songs
A collection of eleven poems each touching on the spirit of the land. Enjoyable and challenging by turns. Love letters, eulogies, rants . . .


8.5" x 5.5"


17 pages


See product page for more information.
$
8.00    

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This morning, on Lughnasadh

1/8/2013

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I went to bed last night not really knowing how I would celebrate Lughnasadh, but I awoke this morning before sunrise with a feeling of urgency and a sense of what I would do. Looking at the clock I could see that I only had a few minutes until sun up, so I hopped out of bed and pulled on my work clothes, since they were handy. Instead of lighting my candle and filling my quaich as usual, I put them in my bag along with matches, and spring water. On my way through the house I picked up the notebook which contains the "What I Could Do" exercise I had written a few days ago, which tells of some of my skills, where I got them and who I've passed them on to. I cut a slice of the bread I baked yesterday evening, and stepped into the garden to pick a lovely red tomato. (And I forgot the incense, darn!)

I walked across the pastures toward my grove of cottonwood trees. We've recently had quite a bit of rain (after a very long drought) so I was noting the progress of different stands of grass, calculating how many months of grazing I think we'll get, relieved and thankful that things are finally green and growing! I had snatches of the traditional song "The Keeper" in my mind as I walked. "Sing ye well? Very well! Hey down, ho down derry-derry down! Among the leaves so green-o!" Except I sang "Among the grass so green-o".  Meanwhile a small bank of clouds in the northeast delayed the visible sunrise a little.
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My grove of old cottonwoods, seen in autumn.

At the trees I unpacked my things. These cottonwoods are huge and old and twisted, with bark covered roots above the level of the soil. There is ample evidence that cattle spend a month or two here each year, and an irrigation ditch runs along behind the trees. There's no water in it most of the time - certainly not this year. I unpacked my things and struggled a bit to get the candle lit (it was firmly encased in glass, I'm careful with fire outdoors). I took my boots off and enjoyed the feeling of the cool, damp, sandy soil. Not having really prepared anything I went ahead and said my usual morning devotional prayer, with just a few additions, then blethered on for a bit, thanking the gods, ancestors and spirits of nature for various things. I opened my notebook and read out my "skills list" and gave thanks for them and those who taught me.

I offered a bit of the bread to the four directions, and then went around the grove offering a bit to each tree. I noted that across the ditch there is a little sapling in the neighbour's field. It looked like he had ploughed and planted around it. Nice! I finished by offering my tomato, and singing a few verses of John Barleycorn that I could remember. Then it was boots on, pack up my things and walk back to the house.

Sometimes, rituals like this feel very good. I would enjoy more community ritual, but keeping it personal and making it up as you go along also has its charms.

Blessed Lughnasadh!

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Paying My Rent

18/6/2013

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Honouring Manannán at Midsummer

Midsummer is days away, and I'm having trouble mustering enthusiasm. I don't like the heat, and summers are very hot here is SE Colorado. However, I really want to "pay my rent" this year.

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As you may know, there is an old tradition in the Isle of Man, of paying rent to Manannán mac Lir on Midsummer Eve. The rent? Just a bundle of rushes. That's the traditional rent he requires. I've spotted plenty of rushes growing along the road on the way into the local village, and I am planning to cut some and do something meaningful  with them. I wondered about visiting one of the local lakes, but they are all reservoirs and there is a drought on. It might be a little depressing. We'll see. I might just go to my little "grove" here on the farm.

Barrule hill fort, Manannan, Midsummer
Barrule hill fort on the Isle of Man. A site associated with the rent paying tradition.

As I was poking around the internet looking for information about Manannán's Midsummer rites on the Isle of Man -- looking for inspiration, really -- I came across this wonderful poem on a blog called Stone of Destiny. It's by a fellow called Shaun Paul, who lives in Texas, and it expresses much in common with how I'm feeling. He has kindly allowed me to share it here.
   
...and the rent is due

I would bring him bundles of rushes from the waters edge.
Carry them by hand to the high place, stony Barrule, overlooking the sea.
For Midsummer Eve has come and Manannán awaits his payment.

Only, I am far from those shores.
Arid winds bend prairie grass like waves on an earthen sea,
I am stranded here, landlocked — and the rent is due.

Standing on the very brink of thundering wave and stone,
I have opened my arms, buoyed by winds sweeping from far Emain Ablach.
Lifted a moment, from the rocky cliff, like the Heron King taking flight.

I cling to memories of a rugged coast,
As I choke on the fumes of engines going nowhere.
I am stranded here, landlocked — and the rent is due.

As the rising tide sends plumes of white foam into the air,
The sea god’s wife approaches, her soothing kiss, lingering upon my cheek.
They call her Fand, which means “teardrop”, and she tastes like the sea.

We carry the ocean, like a memory, flowing within us.
Weeping, we give it back again, carried home on the Summer breeze.
I am stranded here, landlocked — and the rent is due.

                  - Shaun Paul

lake, rushes
If you enjoyed this post you might also like The Hills of the Sky.

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Sacred Stewardship 

18/1/2013

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For me, cattle are a symbol of sacred stewardship.

cattle oracle meaning
image: Jim Champion

People often joke about horsewomen, that their barns are tidier than their houses. I suppose that has described me, at times, but it took on a new level of truth after I made a shrine to the goddess Epona in my feed room. Somehow, creating a sacred space there created a desire in me to make things a little more beautiful. Beautiful might only be a well swept floor and tidy corners in a lowly barn, but it feels good to make it so. It feels good, at the full moon, to enter a clean space, to see the concrete floor gleam a little in the moonlight.
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For a variety of reasons, I have had difficulty creating sacred space in my house. I've lived here something like four years now, and haven't been able to figure out where to put an altar. When I lived in Scotland I had a fire (gas) with a nice marble hearth. Without really planning it, that became my altar. It just had a couple of nice statues and candles. In the evenings when I was alone I often sat by the warmth, on the nice rug, and felt close to my gods. Later, when I renovated another room in the house, I made another, similar hearth and did the same.
When I moved back to Colorado I tried hard to find a nice place for an altar in my new house. I really disliked the corner where the wood stove is. I don't have much money to fix it up, and it's very ugly, and although I don't really know anything about Feng Shui - I'm sure that somehow the energy in that corner is very blocked, the heavy stove is at a bad angle, etc. So - no nice alter/hearth anymore. For several years I have tried to figure out where to put the altar, and I can't seem to find it! There is one corner of my bedroom I kept considering, but took no action. So sometimes I just create one somewhere for an hour, and sometimes I go outdoors under some big trees...sometimes I go to the feed room.
Epona shrine
sacred cottonwood trees
Just recently I began doing a short morning devotion, and I wanted to NOT have to go the the barn. Brrrrrr! Of course, now the corner of the bedroom that I was thinking of had a stack of boxes of books in it. I neatly covered them with a nice cloth and I have been using this as a morning altar. So things have evolved nicely, and I think I can soon graduate to some nice piece of furniture there instead of the boxes!
simple home altar
So what has this got to do with the Cattle card, and it's definition? The other morning, having done my little devotion, I drew a card for meditation, and it was Cattle. Several things connected to sacred space came up for me. I noticed that having created the altar in my bedroom, and using it daily had encouraged me to clean and tidy up in there, and to deal with a long-standing problem of dust blowing in around the old wooden sash windows (which I dearly love). It led me to ponder the questions of sacred space and respect of the sacred self, and if all that I am is connected to all that exists, then in a sense all is sacred and exists in sacred space. This is actually quite hard for me to accept, because I struggle with resistance to my current environment. (Perhaps, in noticing that, I am noticing a key to unlock the thing I am really struggling with!)
When I consciously create a space as sacred, or consciously choose to see all that surrounds me as sacred, I am more likely to be inspired to steward it well. I don't currently have much money to throw at things like this, but when I take a little trouble to clean/repair/paint things that need it - not for the sake of impressing the neighbours, but in an acknowledgement of the sacred - I will always feel better, and those who enter that space will feel better, too. For some readers, I will be stating the obvious, I know. I didn't have the benefit of being raised to think like this, and it doesn't come naturally. For me - it's very exciting to think of it in this way.
Understand that everything is your conspicuous wealth. Your stuff, your health, your family, your friendships. To hold it in sacred space is to steward it. To steward it is a very practical act of honour.

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Guided Meditation Using Cards?

2/11/2012

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Can I just admit, upfront, that I find it hard to explain the things I have to offer? I don't like to be pushy, but on the other hand, I need people to buy things - and these cards are only $3 each. So here is my very own "info-mercial", because if you don't know what I'm offering, and you don't know whether it's something you might like, we both lose.

Meditation and other spiritual practice should be a joy, not a duty. These cards can really help you get into the habit of doing a little meditation on a regular basis. They were a joy to create, and I really want to share them with people. That's why it was important to me to make them affordable.


Click here to buy cards.
Beautiful meditation cards
One of these could look great on your desk, your fridge door or your bedside table. So is it just like a postcard? Oh, no no no! The front of the card is just the beginning...The back of each meditation card has a simple, short and clear meditation that you can easily do. There are two with nature themes (one is designed to do while going for a walk), another is great for worry and anxiety, there's one with repetitive phrases that's helpful if your mind tends to wander when you meditate, and one to do at the end of the day - to help you create a better tomorrow.

simple, short, clear meditations
There are also prayer cards. One is a bedtime blessing of the household, taken directly from the Carmina Gadelica (a collection of traditions from the Scottish highlands) and the other is a charm for the protection of horses, which I adapted from the same source. The backs of these cards feature a little cultural background material, and some thoughts for bringing them into the modern lifestyle. The bedtime prayer is addressed to "The Sacred Three" which could mean the Triple Goddess or the Holy Trinity. It could easily be changed to suit your beliefs. The protection charm is addressed to Epona, the Celtic goddess of horses. If you love horses, you will love the beauty of the poetry in this one.

Click any picture to enlarge.
Celtic prayer cards
Did I mention that these cards are only $3 each?
Flat rate shipping ($3 US/$5 elsewhere) - no surprises at the checkout!
The cards are even less expensive if you buy them in sets.


Even if you only find time to meditate occasionally, these cards should help and encourage you. However, regular practice has its benefits. Several of these cards are well suited to the end of the day, and if that's the only time you can find, it's definitely worth it. You will sleep better, if nothing else! These are short enough to complete when you are tired, without it feeling like a chore.
bedtime meditations

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Walking Away 

23/10/2012

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I did a lot of thinking and preparation in trying to understand whether offering special readings for Samhuinn was the right thing. Dealing with my most recent ancestors was just part of it.

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As Samhuinn approaches (that's the Scottish Gaelic spelling) we are encouraged to think about our departed loved ones, and our ancestors - and I do. I think about them often, anyway. However, I've never been a visitor of graves. My strong belief is that this is probably the last place I am going to find my departed loved ones. I've lived about five miles from my parents graves for the past few years, but I never went there - until yesterday.

I suddenly took a notion. I showered and put on clean clothes. I gathered up some bread I'd baked, some spring water, some fruit juice and a poem I'd written, got in the truck and went.  Finding the cemetery was easy but I had no idea where to find the grave. I remembered my father saying more than once that he didn't want to be buried on this dry, lonely and desolate hill. My cousin said there was a "simple stone, nothing fancy". Fortunately, it's a small place. I thought I would find it by instinct, but that didn't work, so I started methodically up and down the rows. I grew up in this tiny town. There were a lot of names I knew, quite a lot of people I knew as a child, too. I'd stop and try to picture them in my mind. The place was a bit overgrown and I was a little anxious about missing the stone. My socks got full of prickly tumbleweed thorns. I walked and walked, up and down the rows of the dead. Not another living soul was about, which suited me fine.

Some of the graves were well tended, some less so. A few were quirky. Some were overgrown and others were absolute shrines to what seemed like a prideful grief. I pondered on the question of whether a well-tended grave honoured the dead or merely served as a statement of propriety by the living. If the dead live on, I believe it is in telling their stories to future generations or in making use of the legacy of wisdom, love and material possessions they leave us.

Finally, I turned a corner and there it was. Now what? I had planned a simple ritual in my mind. I said an informal hello and chatted briefly. I read my poem. There was no applause. I took out the bread, broke some off and put it near the stone - which turned out to be fairly substantial and "fancy" by my standards. I poured some juice into the quaich I'd brought with me, splashed some out, drank some, and again with the water. I ate some bread, too, and cast some to the four directions. I asked to be given more wisdom. I tried to think suitable thoughts. One stone, one grave, for the two of them. How did I feel about that? They didn't really get along too well, but they stayed together - so why not?

I hung around for awhile. The view was magnificent, in spite of my father's remarks. I knew that he would have preferred to have been buried next to his kin, back in the green, rolling hills of eastern Kansas. Would it have mattered? I had a little twinge of longing to go to that place and see it. I imagined the road trip that would be! Well, time to go. To be honest, I hadn't felt much. Maybe a little pompous at my own ritual. My family. It was what it was, and I've learned to appreciate it for the good and understand the not-so-good as best I can.

It was only as I was getting back near my car that I felt a bit emotional. Walking away was hard. Then I realised - walking away from a grave is nothing, when the person lives on in your thoughts.

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    Kris Hughes - writer, hedge teacher,  pony lover, cartomancer,
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