Queen Hornet

http://www.bwars.com/ ~ Queen, In woodland below the Wrekin, Shropshire, 2005 by Nigel Jones

In 2 weeks I have seen 2 Queen Hornets. 1st in Hungary. 2nd nr Yeoford Devon. Both times I was completely transfixed. Amber Gold red colour. Such powerful confidence. Strong. I remember how the mention of Hornets people quake and shake.
So why was I so at ease? What was I missing? Or were other's missing something?
Tigers on wing. To be respected. Their beauty admired.

Some species of Queen Hornet apparently have enough lethal venom to kill a human. Hornets can kill bees and wasps. So everything including us has a place. Us who are at the top of the food chain.

The Queen and her female workers maintain the nest. Shamanically a Hornet would connect with female warrior energy, sisterhood and understanding female societies and communal living. I am very excited that I am meeting Hornet.
And with this {shamanic/spirit} medicine I experience working on befriending my shadow side which is fiercely protective. So many insects and animals have had so much shadow projected onto them do we see who/what they are?
I wonder at the misleading shadow we cast onto them. I wonder that I am connecting with ancient as my dear friend said today Hornets are mostly to be found in ancient woodland. She also told me an amazing story of when she first saw a Hornet she did not know they existed and watched with awe as she heard it's jaws crunching eating a wasp! And I wonder whether as man has reduced ancient wilderness so maybe the Hornet is coming into more domesticated spheres...Would that affect the medicine of the Hornet...Would many more meet that medicine?...
With this thought of my need my desire to meet wilderness of my heart. This year I have been faced with what I would have assumed as other's similar desire, has been at times glamour in service to the ego. At worst this has a dangerous echo of colonialism. Misunderstanding and misusing other oppressed people's life/culture/being which is inter-connected with the land.
I refer to many westerners after apparently seeking out indigenous shamanic teachers, using their experience to sell and promote themselves. Some ask whether you have trained with an aboriginal/indigenous shaman or 'their' shaman~ there by clearly defining the 'pecking order' and offering something which you can only get from them.
When I have met indigenous healers/shamans which I have learned a lot from; they have been very down to earth, average person/every day people. They have a job. They earn respect. And do not separate out their job/role from life and other people. I experience them of having studied bloody hard with open hearted and open eyed curiosity. Like our wonderful British naturalists who sit hours on end watching and observing nature. Tired and aching. On their own. They are rewarded by such amazing knowledge and I believe in time gifted with wisdom.
What I am describing is being in service. Full of love and therefore full of power. And I think that westerners have much to learn about what power is. Power not connected with ego.
I am hearing too often western people describing themselves as Shamans when I am not clear what their intention is.
It has been a journey for me to witness women within the alternative spiritual subcultures promoting themselves as a business. We trip into not only the tricky area of £ for spirituality but also the tricky area of the previously oppressed, marginalised and misunderstood ~ women's power and spirituality.

For me my journey this year has been about reclaiming my authentic spiritual woman self. I have been working with not giving my power away to other female figures in my desire to heal the wounded daughter that comes from a line of mothers and daughters who have been abondoned. My journey has been to see this ancestral thread. A woman's wound. That thread, that blood which longs to bleed into the earth and belong.
This journey of healing the woman's wound has connected me with a desire to connect with the Divine feminine. That which is woven inside my womb, vulva and heart. In my blood. That vibrant hot red energy. That song.
And so I have been meeting Queen Hornet. A truly humbling experience.
And with that, dare I connect with that power. Not distort. Not demonise ~ internally or externally. Be that either an unclaimed part of my self or another woman.

For we are all mirrors and 'our worst teachers are our best teachers'

I am reminded that to connect with Divine it is that volcano that burning star that burning sting. Fire. Red. Orange. Yellow. Sun. Hot.

I am reminded of the wonder, diversity, power and beauty of Her Divinity.

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For an interesting read on a related subject ~ "Personality" by W.E.Butler

http://www.servantsofthelight.org/knowledge/butler-personality.html

Dancing with muddied Feet

Himself ~ by Brian Froud

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"The living bond between all life, Himself is

the breath that moves, the atom that dances,

and his magic is in pure being~living Loving.

He has the magic of procreation , of dancing

the spark into being. He is the one who dances

the great dance of life and death.

Dances upon the gate between the worlds

so that the dead may pass beyond.

It is also he who is willing to sacrifice himself

when that is necessary, for the sake of those whom he protects.

Even as our hearts beat within us,

we learn to mediate the life force through

Joyful being and action.

Expressing the power through healing

and love and trust,

we become more like Himself"

P84~85 The Faeries Oracle by Brian Froud and Jessica Macbeth

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A friend shared that yesterday she went to a posh party in shoes that she had bought after not trying them on. She had been to shoe shop after shoe shop trying countless shoes. None of them would fit. On arriving at the party she lost her shoes in the mud and went with muddied feet.

I exclaimed that she was a living faery tale.

Where upon I remembered a dream i had when I was in my twenties where I arrived at a posh party and was introduced to Pan who was dressed very smartly like everyone else ~ accept he had not trousers. He was not hiding his fur legs and hooves!

My dear friend also had shared how like me she has felt at odds since a child. Different. I have had dreams of trying in vain to force myself into ill fitting shoes. And as I write this I cannot pass on without being reminded of thousands of women who have had their feet bound...

This is an old poem I wrote in my twenties when I recalled a time I held memories of the Old Ways when I was in a Convent from 7 - 9 years old. I was young and so closer in my memory of the gateway between life and death. I remembered living as a daughter of Himself. Needless to say I did not fit into the Convent way. And this was not the last time I was told by a Christian authority figure that I was under the influence of the devil.

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Miraculous Transformation of Our Lady

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Stone reclusive, built for ten foot giants.

Hidden behind thickly interwoven ivy

Creeping cunning plant with

dark evergreen leaves

*

Seeping supernatural shine.

No light between the gnarled arms

bending into mouths

tasting of deep red earth.

*

A tunnel of conifer and yew smelling thickly

of red fluorescent berries

touching tantalizing the tip of my tongue

Screaming stomach pain and death.

*

"Come along girls'' is lifted from

billowing stiff black skirts.

A chain of grey bobbing hats are

led to a ghostly circle of

*

Silver birch, ash and beech

Sheltering a small crumbling arched wall.

Crouched, solitary a female figure with

pearl white hollow eyes

*

Thin silenced mouth hovers over

stone drapes. Fingers shimmering

then sighing in the silence

I gasp She "Queen of the Faeries"!

silver fox

*

Up turned beatle, I lie down to relax my legs swimming.
Its a secret but I'll tell you,
this shell is just a coat with strings.
Time to shed.
silver fox

Leaving Home

Wearing tawny colours
shining gold
Walking into the sun

Sharply turn
eye to eye with a sparrow
Deep in conversation with me

{Must brush up on my sparrow speak}

Coming home

Bleeding belly pulling me
down to earth

I troll up hill
bags of shopping
elongating my swaying arms

Growling into the golden sun setting
Dreaming of steaming sweetcorn and green avoocado

{Today is not such a bad day after all for this sometimes vegetarian troll}

silver fox

The Adventures of Miss Smith

"You are never too old for adventure" declared Miss Smith

When I was in Glastonbury I stayed in a Bed & Breakfast of Diana Milstein who has done a series of paintgings ~'The Adventures of Miss Smith'. They are delightful, funny, moving and profound.

"I am an artist living & working in Somerset, England. "The Extraordinary Adventures of Miss Smith" is a series of paintings / prints (70 in all) about a little old lady whose life is transformed by her belief in the power of magic."

This is the link http://www.misssmithart.co.uk/

This Wild Love

As I travelled back into London I was bringing the dislocated parts of myself together. Where would I find my Secret Garden in this city?

I arrive to the grand Arch and gateway of Paddington train Station. Made of metal, stone, wood. Fuelled with water and fire filled with sweat, steam and burning coal.

I remember my lost garden where upon plunging my hands into the black earth I was stung by a sleeping bumble bee. The devil had stolen my hands and I longed to feel the earth in my hands. Smell the soil under my nails seeking the crevasses, lines, creases, cracks and sores.

I smile to myself as I wish to find another platform 9 and 3/4. Perhaps if I squeeze myself small. Bound tight forgetting my full woman's body with her feet size 8 and her hands full and hairy [if seen on certain nights if lucky!] I say to myself ~ No that won't work. Never did work. Trying to believe those false words that pushed my skin and bones into a shape convenient. Manageable and tamed. Hair neatly shaved, cut, bleached and trimmed. A wild mad woman me...nah...that wasn't me....

I walk the concrete and stone ground unaware of whose bones lie underneath my feet. The skulls buried that once held life flowing with moment after moment after.

I remember the caresses of my lost love. As his fingers traced my contours that tracked pathways inside this heavy head.

The landscape of London constantly changing. Buildings going replaced with new. But the roads, streets, paths, lanes remain the same. They follow the same map. They keep the same names.

I feel lost. Landmarks holding memories going. A city of ghosts.

Yesterday I walked paths with a new friend - paths thick from shared laughter, tears, arguments, hello's and goodbyes, screams of joy and sorrow, songs sung with gusto from bellies full and strained from throats torn with liquid fire.

We walk over the bridge from the north to south. Deep in conversation. My words building hands lost to the devil.
My words grow to a new rhythm. My words build life. Creeping, running, stamping, tip toeing, jumping, leaping, crawling over the eyes, ears, mouth of London.

As I write this a group of young men/boys and women/girls are screaming, shouting and running, some with bikes, some with hoods up have chosen to bang my dustbin. It is an old style metal dustbin bright shiny and new and makes a wonderful loud sound. Crashing into the night. They have sharpened the sleepy dark night and man lit street. They reclaim this street as their own. The darkness creeping closer.

In their screams I hear a desire and longing to share the excitement of being alive. Bare and naked. No wonder ~ I think ~ they sometimes hide their faces. Theirs is a sound of hope. Singing with tongues that don't lie. The river runs loud in their veins. Some may call this ugly but I call this beauty. This wild love. These are forked tongues that cannot lie.

Now the street is empty and quiet. I understand the desire to walk bare foot in the city.