Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1038

March 16, 2015

Trusting life

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Looking through old poems and writing I am struck by how much the sense of longing pervades them.  A sense of yearning. Yet, when I think about it, look at the dates, I realise that many of these pieces were written when I was settled, when I would have said, at the time, that I was happy.


It makes me wonder how much my expectations for myself in real terms were out of kilter with my innermost needs. For there is a hunger in those pages for something intangible and quite out of reach.


We can all have that nebulous dream, that star beyond our grasp… whether it is the round the world trip we know we will probably never be able to take or the Ferrari (well, Morgan in my case) we will almost certainly not be able to afford. There is nothing wrong with dreaming the impossible or improbable… who knows, if we dream well enough and work towards it, we may make a dream come true. Or we may find something unexpected that satisfies the longing of the innermost heart in ways we could not have contemplated.


Dreams evolve and grow. Some remain with us for a lifetime; others are born as we grow. I have always wanted to travel and see more of the world than I have so far. I haven’t given up on that. It is all very well seeing the world through the camera lens, or hearing about it from those who have been there. But it does not compare with standing in a place yourself, feeling a different wind upon your face and sharing a smile with a stranger.


Over the years there have been many dreams, from complex to simple ones. Many I have seen come true, some were never going to happen.  Yet the focus has shifted so much over the years it is barely recognisable. If I had to say what I wanted from life now, it would simply be to live it.


That may seem an odd thing to say, but I have a feeling many people can relate to this. I seem to have stumbled through life blindly for a long time, defined by others, by my own reactions to events, blinkered by habit. I was a mouse, afraid of life, with absolutely no self-confidence at all. Yet looking back, the thing I was most afraid of was simply myself. I did not know who I could be, might be, should be. Only who I was expected to be. Stepping outside of that was way too scary.


Events, of course, push and stretch us and personal boundaries are given the chance to expand. Big events or small ones, it doesn’t matter. The choice to simply react in the way we expect or are expected to, or to act from the true self, is always there. And when we choose to act we are no longer defined by anything else except ourselves. This idea slowly took root and began to bear fruit.


I remembered the biblical reference to the lilies of the field. There was something in that, I felt, that I was missing. It wasn’t about simply sitting back and letting life happen to you, not trying, or attempting to grow. Nor was it only the traditional interpretation about not worrying too much about the trappings of the world. It was about trust.


We can worry about what might happen till the cows come home. But as the Dalai Lama is quoted as saying, “If there is no solution to the problem then don’t waste time worrying about it. If there is a solution to the problem then don’t waste time worrying about it.”


So how about if I stopped worrying about what ifs and simply trusted that whatever might happen there was something to learn from it? A reason for it that perhaps I could not see? Looking back on some major life events showed me that yes, that worked. I could even see where I had missed the chance for change, through blindness, or moral cowardice, and been led right back to a similar point, over and over again until I ‘got’ the idea and finally learned to act.


Funnily enough, I have never been afraid to act on behalf of others and will fight a corner like a tigress. A small one, admittedly.  I wondered now if this too was a kind of cowardice, for I would accept almost anything for myself… and somehow justify it, regardless of how bad it was. By standing up for others I was hiding my own ability to act for myself. It began to dawn on me that the things I was afraid of were not external, but internal. I was afraid if how I would be perceived, of whether I would be loved, liked or needed. Somehow I seemed to have no value to myself. And that was where the fear lay.


It was no quick fix, the journey of realisation has taken a lifetime so far and no doubt has a long way still to go. But in learning to trust life, I also learned that I too am valuable, no less unique than any other creature, no less necessary to the whole tableau of life. Subtract but a grain of sand from existence and it would be incomplete. I learned too to have confidence in myself. I was no longer afraid of just being me. If I make a mistake, then I can learn from that. If I get things wrong, I can learn from that too. Trust opened a lot of doors within.


It also set me off on another idea, that of purpose. Everything that happens seems to move us immutably closer to who and where we are supposed to be, and we are presented with the crossroads of choice at every step. At any moment we can change direction, at every step we can choose another path. Yet somehow, when we trust that purpose, we are, it seems, led to the place we should be. It is not predestination, it is an intricate dance of possibility and decision and we are the choreographers of our own lives.


March 17, 2013



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Published on March 16, 2015 19:47

Inner Flame

Originally posted on The Silent Eye:


One of the Companions of the Silent Eye has agreed to share a glimpse of her first experience preparing and working with the Amarex, a symbolic light against the darkness that we use as the focal point for the daily meditation.



amarex flame



Many people may wonder what to expect from a school such as ours. If this sharing can draw back the veil and show a glimpse of light beyond then that is a beautiful gift. Thank you, Alethea.



 



The creation of the Amarex was symbolic for me in so many ways. Memories surfaced as I walked the aisle of the fabric shop, along with anxiety about whether I would find what I needed, and build the foundation of this journey in the “correct” way. Fittingly I started sewing on the 11th, the doorway date, and that night I dreamed of entering the “Magic Kingdom,” but magic comes at a…

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Published on March 16, 2015 17:03

Grá mo Chroí – Celebrate St Patrick’s day… Free on Kindle!

GMC13 Grá mo Chroí

Love Stories from Irish Myth


Ali Isaac & Jane Dougherty


I would like to thank Sue Vincent for inviting us (Jane Dougherty and Ali Isaac) to talk about Grá mo Chroí. So here goes, in time for the Saint Patrick’s Day binge.


For the tiny handful who are not fluent Irish speakers, the title means ‘Love of my Heart’: the collection of retellings Ali Isaac and I put together being of some of the great love stories from Irish myth.


Why did we do it? Because we love the rhythm and the language of these stories, written, or rather told, so long ago, in the pre-Christian era before the shadow of Christian purity fell upon Irish culture and expunged many of the legends of inappropriate material. Women, of course, being anathema to the Christian Church, ended up with the short straw in many of the later versions of these stories. Ali and I wanted to give our versions of what we believe to be the original stories, where the women were not wicked temptresses, whores, or pure as the driven snow. Too pure to even…


But I didn’t come here to rant about Christian hagiography. Irish myth is a wonderful pagan romp. Its heroes and heroines are beautiful and warlike, endowed with magic powers, incredible strength, great wisdom, or beautiful singing voices, quick to laugh, to cry, and of course to fight. They will stop a war the time to play a board game, for the queen and general to deal with her period, or simply because the other side asked nicely. The women choose their own husbands for love and force their lovers to elope with them, a king kills his rival and is abandoned by all his men because they think it was a mean thing to do, and great warriors cry when their favourite hound dies. Little of what they get up to seems ‘sensible’ to modern readers, and certainly there is none of the Christian morality we are used to reading in literature from the Middle Ages onwards.


Both Ali and I have been very affected by our delving into the workings of Irish myth, which has produced dozens of poems and more stories as a result. I hope to publish some more retellings, and I think Ali has one or two projects up her sleeve too. As a Saint Patrick’s Day special (he has to be good for something!) Grá mo Chroí will be free on March 16th, 17th and 18th.


Here is a short excerpt from the first story in the collection, The tragedy of Bailé and Aillinn.


Bailé, the soft-spoken, left Emain Macha in the north to meet Aillinn, his betrothed. Rare was such a wedding host, and uncommonly joyful. For the king of Ulster’s only son and the daughter of the king of Leinster had made a love match. Even the sun shone bright on Bailé’s journey, the hounds danced and milled about the horses’ legs, fancy bridle bits sang silver songs in the wind, and the company was filled with joy.


Bailé left behind his own lands of Ulster, the blue lochs and gorse-yellow hills where the eagles cried. Before him, beyond the purple peaks of home, lay the low, wooded hills and the rich plains of Leinster. He saw his Aillinn in the contours of the hills, in the white plumage of the swans on the river. She was soft as new grass and spring foals, wild as the March wind, and generous as the blackbird singing to the world. His heart was full of joy that soon they would be wed and their union would bind together her rich beauty of soft hills and birdsong, and his wild majesty of the eagle and the red deer.


You can get a copy of Grá mo Chroí here:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk


myauthorpicYou can find out everything of any interest there is to know about Ali Isaac by visiting her blog http://aliisaacstoryteller.com/ You can email her at:  ali@aliisaacstoryteller.com mail to: aliisaacstoryteller.com@gmail.com. Her books are available on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.


IMGP4852 3And Jane Dougherty is to be found on her blog https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/ . She is also on Goodreads, and all her books are available on Amazon.com, and Amazon.co.uk.


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Published on March 16, 2015 00:28

March 15, 2015

Dear Don XX

hardwick (35)Dear Don,


Well, Jonah is an interesting story in its own right, and of course ties in with the whole ‘devouring beast’ affair. Devoured or eaten… either way, an interesting consummation, you might say. Especially when you bring the star-beasts into play.



The animal connections seem to run through all our myths and stories, don’t they? I just looked through a load of images of the stained glass bible at Addington and it is surprising just how frequently beasts feature… and each of them a symbolic story in themselves that we immediately interpret and understand.


14 sept 377

I was actually looking for the Jonah window we had seen. My usual method for the Buckinghamshire windows was fool proof… there is a site that lists every one by subject and location so all that needs to be done to locate a picture in my files is nip over there. Trouble is, they’ve taken the site down, so I am relying on memory until I can get in and catalogue every picture… if that ever happens! Can you imagine a more Herculean task and how much time that would take?


14 sept 414

Have you noticed that the whole ‘time’ thing seems to be cropping up a lot lately? Time, death, rebirth… the spiralling patterns at the portals of life. Something or other is hovering on the brink of realisation there…


14 sept 423

You could look at the devouring beast as a symbol of the incarnation of the soul, you know; the higher being passing through the belly of the beast and being transformed by the organic life process into the fuel of Life itself. That isn’t phrased at all right, the idea is nascent… but there is a possibility there.


Image source

Image source


You know there is a solar eclipse on March 20th?Well, I was thinking about that too… the face of the sun is devoured by the moon… and if you look at the footage of it, the sun appears to become the moon, travelling through its phases as the shadow passes. Now, most cultures have a devouring myth associated with solar eclipses… bears, giant frogs, dragons… even the floating head of an escaping god are said the swallow the sun. Or perhaps it is Crow trying to steal it :)


From 'Mister Fox:The Legend'

From ‘Mister Fox:The Legend’


books 019The Beast, however, is simply busy devouring the recycling… so I may have to go and put a stop to that.



Love,



Wen and Anu x


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Published on March 15, 2015 20:17

Hedgerow

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Published on March 15, 2015 17:01

Listening to the wind

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Sleepless, I lay listening to the wind, wondering what it whispered and whence it came. It moved around the house, insinuating itself through the half open window, stealing across the bed to rattle the door; a silent intruder.


Where had it come from… where does it begin? Where will it expire in a final sigh? What had its blind breath seen since its birth and what secrets would it carry to its ending. How far, how long had it come before it touched my face? Perhaps it had caressed the cheek of a stranger before me, or a love far away or even a long ago almost forgotten. Did it carry the whisper of a name within its heart, longed for in the dark? The murmuring of lovers, of the sobs of silent grief? How many stories does it know and is its voice made of whispers or the prayers of a child?


How many breaths does it take to make the wind? And who is breathing? Is it the breath of earth or the sighing of dragons that bends the grass and plucks the petals from the cherry trees, showering children with spring’s confetti? Is it born of the butterfly or the wings of birds in the morning?


It carries the perfume of a thousand roses and the taint of as many deaths, it holds life from beginning to end with insubstantial arms, gathering all into itself, becoming one with it, echoing it in its moods. In winter it howls… vulpine and feral, tearing at brittle fingers of dying wood, stripping away the effete. Scavenger of the gods, picking clean the skeletal remains of autumn.


In summer it is a welcome caress, laughing softly in the canopy of dancing light, waltzing with dust devils in the sunshine, cooling the blushing cheeks of a first love, or the tears of a last. As the trees turn golden and weep for summer’s end it breathes upon the gravestones, revealing forgotten names and iridescent beetles, piling leaves for childlike feet to play in.


Does it ever stop, or only sleep, resting awhile in a quiet valley? Does it carry the wish of the heart in its own? Or do we inspire its inspiration?


Or is it just the ghost of a dream.


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Published on March 15, 2015 02:37

Twinned Flame

Sue Vincent:

A Companion of the Silent Eye shares the start of her journey…


Originally posted on The Silent Eye:


candle 001



Twinned flame



I unfolded the black body

of night to find light

in the center. Warmth

spun a silk cocoon

around my heart, uniting

the orange fire we share



Twin soul, I see you

mirrored in flame. Me.

You. Black. White. Yin.

Yang. Darkness. Light.

The half of a whole

that is me. You, though,

are the side that wavers,

too light for solid form



Intangible, switching sides

I see you best unfocused

The light within, now without

until I bring the hood atop

our flame and solitude falls

like a brick, crashing

density into this body

called life.



Written by Alethea, as she begins her journey as a Companion with the School and reproduced with kind permission.


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Published on March 15, 2015 02:24

March 14, 2015

Mist

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Published on March 14, 2015 17:01

KAI Presents… Sue Vincent!

Sue Vincent:

Thank you for having me, Kev :)


Originally posted on Great Indie Authors:


Kev’s Author Interviews Presents:

Sue Vincent

prof pic



England

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 A Short Bio



Sue Vincent is a Yorkshire born writer currently living in the south of England, largely due to an unfortunate incident with a map, a pin and a blindfold. Raised in a spiritually eclectic family she has always had an unorthodox view on life, particularly the inner life, which is often reflected in her writing, poetry and paintings.



She is currently owned by a small dog who also blogs and whose own book, “Notes from a Small Dog,” is a bid to raise funds to buy an automatic tennis ball launcher.



Sue lived in France for several years, sharing a Bohemian lifestyle and writing songs before returning to England where the youngest of her two sons was born. She began writing and teaching online several years ago and has since written a number of books.



***


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Published on March 14, 2015 13:02