Little moments of wonder…

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When winter is an idea and home is where the central heating is; when frost holds no fear for the English wanderer; take the snow and make it your plaything. Forget the empty, useless roads and take joy in being stuck at home. This was as far as we got in the snow- just to the end of the estate, and though it was no far flung adventure our intrepid explorer loved every minute. We’ve all (sensibly) taken a day off work tomorrow and looking at the flakes flying past the window it doesn’t look like we’ll be traveling too far again. But for Nathan, the slightest journey is a walk of wonder in this white and weirdly silent world.

Modern Seer

This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, A Modern Celt, from the chapter examining how prophecy, a theme popular in Celtic stories, is still alive in varying forms today.

“…Does having guidance as to what may be around the corner actually aid us in anyway? Or is it better to deal with things as and when they happen; to react to each situation without any forethought other than that which is given to us by every day events? I spoke to my friend Emma, who is unusual in that she experiences what can only be described as premonitions. For most of her life she has felt changes in herself and her own moods whenever something has been upcoming either in her life or the lives of those close to her or connected to her, but she has little or no control over it. We got together to chat about her unique situation, and I ask her to try and describe what it’s like when she feels something, then that feeling is subsequently followed by an event or occurrence. I immediately realise I am massively simplifying this for Emma; as this conversation progresses, you will see what I mean. This level of connection to a prophetic talent is so subtle yet enormous at the same time, it’s difficult to describe, and having only ever had prophetic dreams myself, and not very often, it’s a feeling I can only experience as an outsider looking in. Emma is thoughtful as I ask her to give me some examples of when this has happened to her, and I feel like I am asking her to use finger paints to show me the Mona Lisa…”

I hope this leaves you wanting more, big thanks to Emma for giving an extremely personal insight into her unique talent; you may have to wait for the book to learn more!

Copyright 2013 Mabh Savage

Might snow this weekend…

Why do we say it’s brisk when it’s cold outside?
Brisk; fast, quick, sharp movements. Lively; with vigor.
Is the cold vigorous? Perhaps it more describes us:
Rushing out of the icy air into warm abodes
Breath like fog and eyes sparkling diamonds
In mines of glowing red;
Or speed shuffling shoes sliding over
Slick puddles frozen into deathtraps
That cannot be avoided, only dealt with
Like the krypton factor of winter!
Brisk; panting at the effort
Of climbing the glass mountain
One step forward, two steps not only backwards
But sideways, upwards and all over the place.
Brisk; the hands that shake at 500 hertz
And placed under jumpers next to warm hearts.
But cold makes us slow, makes us clumsy,
And when ice gives way to snow
The whole world seems to dwindle like a tape
Set on to slow-mo; frame by frame
As the soft and dangerous white
conquers all.

Thirty Circles

Thirty circles

Bold and bright

Ancient days and

Timeless night

Wasted moments

Treasured slice

Of life eternal

Entered thrice

As child, as maid

As mother fair.

As soul so heavy

Limp with care.

Dragging onward,

Cutting ruts

And dusty trails

In gore and guts;

The viscera of life’s true trials

The lies and laughs

The way and wiles

Of those who tempt

And those you trust

Of what you need

And what you lust.

Now that rut it cuts both ways

A path you built through shining days

A light beside, a glow before: Lead on and find your core.

(c) Mabh Savage 2012

Red

Streaming red

Cloak of hair

Like yarn spun wild

For a coat of dreams

Of war and time

To pass the line

The blood along

Like velvet wine

Lady great and fierce of heart

Builds you up then tears apart

Protect thyself but know her if you can.

(c) Mabh Savage 2012

Endings and beginnings

I write my ending at the beginning; not as pretentious as it sounds, I promise. As we move into a new year (according to the Gregorian calendar) I am in the final stages of my book, A Modern Celt, with a promise to myself and more importantly my publisher to have the beast whipped by Imbolc. Why did I choose this day? Well, Imbolc is all about new beginnings; fresh new starts; fresh young shoots bursting tumescent and hopeful from moist earth; pale, youthful sun hovering over a cloudy horizon; rain and wind cleansing the land and reducing the last of autumn’s fall to compost, ready to feed the new season. I will pass on my offering at this time; my sacrifice of hours and brain power and stiff back and aching eyes and I will give it to the world and wait for it to blossom in the warm sunshine of the beloved reader. Of course I will also be out in the garden tidying and digging, getting ready for the new season in a much more physical and vital way; weeds to banish, seeds to sow; paths to sweep clear. But some paths are ready to be walked upon- may you find your path in 2013, and I wish us all the strength to continue putting one foot in front of the other, as the wheel turns with every spin of our beautiful earth.

Solstice

So this is the pause: as far as the Earth’s tilt is concerned, here in the Northern hemisphere we’re as far from the sun as can be. The sun set at about 15.30 on a damp but not freezing day, full of consumption and speed and aggravation- in the cities at least. I left this behind. I went to the woods and remembered magic. I touched the oak and felt the sap beating through its wooden veins in anticipation of the returning sun. I felt the birch’s paper bark; scrolls that tell the story of many generations. I sat in front of a tree so old it looks now like a great open hand; like the earth itself is reaching up to join the sky. I closed my eyes and felt the rain trickle down my neck like tiny living creatures; listened to it roll around the bare branches and muddy rocks. I touched the soil and the dead leaves and became winter incarnate. I smelled the motionless air full of the promise of longer days and became the turning earth suddenly stilled. I took a deep breath- and remembered magic.