My Caw

Before I explain my caw, I’d better give a little background to the metaphysics behind it…

English: QWERTY keyboard, on 2007 Sony Vaio la...

About 15 years ago, I learned how to communicate with, let’s call them ‘others’ via my computer keyboard.  Don’t we all?  The difference being, these ‘others’ are not necessarily present in the physical world.

It started when I used my dowsing pendulum to receive simple yes/no/kind of messages from a dear friend who had reason to contact me but happened to have departed this earthly life a few years before.

Yes, when I need to – and it isn’t often – I can communicate with the ‘dead’.

Playing some psychic form of 20 questions was fairly limiting, so I moved on to using pictures, symbols and later the alphabet laid out in an arc – a sort of personalised ouija board.  I’d hold the pendulum in the centre and it would swing from one letter to the next, circling to tell me when a word was finished.  It was a short step from there to using the keyboard.  This had the advantage that I could use one hand to dowse and the other to type the incoming message, letter by letter, into a word-processing program.  A second advantage was that I could enter a light trance state, which meant I wasn’t so likely to distort the message by guessing what would come next.

Delonge01

Mediumship per se doesn’t interest me.  I need no proof of an afterlife; I know it’s there.  That particular friend had a specific reason for contacting me.  We worked together for a while to protect one of her children from a member of his household who meant him harm and to help him break a drug habit.

However once the genie was out of the bottle, so to speak, I had a workable system for communicating with guides/angels/elders or whatever you prefer them to be called.  Usually such guidance comes to us through intuition or synchronous events.  Just sometimes, though, I’ve found it helpful to contact my guides in this more direct way for help with particular issues.  There’s a danger in becoming over-reliant on such guidance.  We are here to make our own choices and decisions.  Used wisely, though, such channelled messages can be a source of great wisdom and inspiration.

My messages usually come from an entity who identifies him/her/themselves to me as Koimul.  Koimul has, over the years we have been working together, become a dear, infinitely wise friend.  I’m aware, though, that this entity has aspects I am presently unable to tune into.  When the pupil is ready, the teacher will appear.  My teacher will only display that part of him/her Self I can currently understand.  There’s far more.  I work towards greater understanding of Koimul’s mysteries.

So, back to my ‘caw’:

Usually, the messages I receive are in perfect English.  A few words, though, are in some deeper, conceptual language.  Caw is one of these.  Caw means many things.

English: Western Jackdaw (Coeleus monedula) in...

Caw is the rough croak of a bird - a crow, raven, rook or jackdaw.  At that level I hear it constantly, since these birds wheel around my cottage, nest in my chimney and leave black feathers in my garden.  No such thing as coincidence - are they here to remind me?

Chess rook 0967.jpg

The rook is, for me, a magical piece on the chessboard – useless when locked in its corner, but powerful and effective once it takes its place at the centre of the game.  Caw links to that, too.  It’s a reminder to place my caw/core in the centre of my life.

So caw is also core – that deepest part of me which links to a higher knowing, a gnosis, an understanding of my true cosmic, universal nature, beyond time, space and physical being.  It is soul-awareness and much more.  It is my essence, my truth.

Last night, I contacted Koimul.  I asked for the true meaning behind the sciatica which has been plaguing me for several weeks – causing constant pain and limiting mobility.  I knew, of course, what medics would say and which tablets and exercises they would diagnose.  This was no attempt to jump waiting-room queues.  It was a desire to understand why the condition had shown up at this point in my life – and what it had to teach me.  My wise and gentle guide explained, and went on to give me a step by step lesson in self-healing:

BECAUSE YOU NEED TO REMEMBER YOUR CREATIVE ABILITY
You mean I need to recall how to create a pain-free body?
HOW TO FIND YOUR CAW
Yes, I have lost it rather. Can you give me some guidance, please?
BRING YOUR SELF INTO ALIGNMENT WITH ONENESS   YOU ARE VAW*
Ok. I can do that.
WARM YOUR BODY
Tingling and warm now
NEXT CHANNEL THE WARMTH INTO YOUR LEG
Wow! That felt just like Reiki
IT IS
So if I continue that, I can heal myself completely?
YES
Thank you. I will work with that.

*Vaw is another concept-word – All-That-Is; the Vastness; Source.

I’m not claiming a miraculous recovery here.  This is not an ‘I was lame and now I can walk’ scenario.  The improvement was slight, subtle, gentle.  As I continue to work with the tools Koimul has given me, I will restore my ‘caw’ at the centre of my Game, where it can be most effective, and at that point the sciatica will have served its purpose and will move away.

Wish you were here…

On the 17th July last year, I spent my first night in my cottage.  There was nothing much here – just me and an ancient futon (long since free-cycled).

The studio, with damp. peeling wallpaper removed

The studio, with damp. peeling wallpaper removed

The furniture didn’t arrive until the next day. I can’t say I slept much that night, but still it was a momentous time for me.

The studio now

The studio now

I never managed a house warming party.  The place was full of workmen until well into the autumn, and by then I was so exhausted and crushed by the whole adventure that parties were the last thing on my mind.

So, I decided, this first anniversary would be the perfect time to celebrate.

Upstairs landing.  Note the large hole in the ceiling!

Upstairs landing. Note that large hole in the ceiling!

Obviously, I’d invite friends – people who helped me with the move, people who took me out for a coffee or a meal when all became too challenging, people who made encouraging comments about the changes and kept me going when miracles seemed a little thin on the ground.

Replastered landing, with my knitted enchanted forest leading down to the tutoring study

Replastered landing, with my knitted enchanted forest leading down to the tutoring study

Then I decided to invite all the neighbours.  They’d put up with months of scaffolding, yelling, banging and clanging without a single complaint.  They must have been curious to know what was going on inside but with typical British reserve, few called round to look.

Next, I wanted to invite back the tradesmen who had made such incredible changes.  After all, such people rarely get to see the finished article.  A room is plastered or a shower plumbed in, but to see those rooms decorated and finished would perhaps be of interest.

The kitchen when I moved in

The kitchen when I moved in

And last but not least, although you’re scattered around the world, I’d love to have invited you, my dear supportive WordPress followers.

The kitchen - now

The kitchen – now

Your likes and comments have been a source of such great pleasure and encouragement since the very start of my LIME story.  I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for a virtual tour of the place, and  you won’t get to meet all the wonderful, warm-hearted friends and neighbours who joined me last Friday, but thank you so much for staying with me on my journey through time to reach the point where I can say the cottage is (mostly) in a fit state to enjoy.

I heard some fascinating stories from neighbours…

There was the time the Chalice Well stream, which still flows beneath the front of the building, suddenly overflowed in the middle of the night.  An elderly couple lived here then and were woken to the sound of rushing water filling the living room.  Apparently the water board engineer was unwilling to do anything at first, since it wasn’t his company’s water.  The neighbour who told me the story described how, in very forthright language, he told the engineer that since his van bore the word ‘water’ and this was indeed that substance, he should put these good people out of their misery and fix the leak at once.  Apparently there have been no problems since.

I was told that the little rubble stone garage that lies in a tiny lane of colour-washed cottages just behind my garden used to be a betting office, while the cottage opposite it once sold paraffin.

The downstairs bathroom then

I discovered that badgers have a huge sett in the garden of the house opposite and can often be seen padding past my fence at night.

Same bathroom now

Same bathroom now

Visitors arrived with jars of home-made jam, cordials and honey, plants and flowers, along with friendship, congratulations and kind words about the renovations.

It was a glorious day and I felt so grateful to have such kind and caring people gathered around me.

Now that I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that miracles can and should be expected, and more-or-less finished my repairs and decorating, I’m free to focus on the other passions in my life – the writing, the metaphysics, the teaching and the living of this glorious physical reality I find myself in at this point in my consciousness.

The alcove now

The alcove now

The alcove in the iving room - then

The alcove in the iving room – then

Stone Mullions

2014-02-28 11.01.26A lovely word – mullions – don’t you think? And the sheer romance of having stone mullions (window frames) was one of the factors that induced me to buy LIME Cottage.

Of course they’d been painted and were yellowing and peeling when I first saw the house, but my meticulous builder and his lads cleaned the outside windows back to the original stonework, even going to the local quarry at Doulting (from where the original stone came, all those centuries ago) and bringing back stone dust to mix with the filler for any cracks that needed repair.

The results were fantastic.  I was delighted.

IMG_20150708_100309Then I began decorating the upstairs front room.  Without a thought I started removing the flaking paint on the window frame, expecting to sand it down and paint over it.  That was when I discovered that with minimal effort, I was revealing the stone on the inside too.

Exciting!

I beavered away with the paint scraper – some parts were easier than others, and had soon exposed a decent sized chunk of stone.

My Man Monday arrived the next day.  LIME Cottage and I like our Man Monday.  He’s a wonderful, intuitive odd-job man who adores old buildings and knows exactly how to treat them.  He comes on Mondays because that’s his day off from running his organic wholefood restaurant.  He was as thrilled as I was to see the stonework and agreed that it had to be cleared.  He showed me how to use various parts of a chisel to remove the paint and buff up the surface.  IMG_20150708_100316A YouTube video taught me how to re-putty the glass (surprisingly easy and fun – like playing with Plasticine) and I was happy.

I suspect the stone had remained untouched for centuries.  Then someone – probably in the 1950s, judging by the materials used, had skimmed a layer of plaster over the stone and covered it with a thick golden lacquer of some sort.  I remember the front door of my parents’ new-build house, in 1956, being covered with this same material, and my father’s deep delight and pride at having this new state-of-the-art finish applied to it.  Maybe whoever was the cottage’s custodian back in those days was equally proud of their work.

The next layer – in the sixties perhaps – was a very pretty pale turquoise – just the colour I probably would have chosen myself, had the mullions not decided it was their time to breathe again.  A few coats of ‘brilliant white’ gloss topped things off, but sun and many years of neglect had worked their magic, providing cracks and crannies for my chisel to get a hold.

IMG_20150711_172246I’ve left flecks of the earlier coats here and there.  They are, after all, part of the cottage’s rich history, as are the dents and chips in the stone.

Sometime in the future, no doubt someone will decide to cover the stone again, with some new technological breakthrough.  That’s fine, and as it should be.  History doesn’t stop.  The cottage will do as it’s always done, adapt and change with the ages.

The stone mullions will continue to look out on the road below, The camper vans and hatchbacks, delivery lorries and tankers, tourists and neo-pagans added to their store of memories.

I love to imagine black-clad puritans and straw-chewing ploughmen passing beneath them; earnest men with pitchforks and muskets rallying to Monmouth’s rebellion; gents in curly wigs, smoking long clay pipes; ladies in lace and sprigged muslin frocks; farm carts and haywains; ponies and traps; horse-drawn coaches filled with journeying Victorians, keen to view the Abbey’s ruins; Dion Fortune and her retinue heading to secret ceremonies at her house, just down the road; eager young farm boys hurrying to sign up to fight in the Great War; heartbroken parents heading to church to mourn for them; hippies with flowers in their hair off to climb the Tor…

My beautiful stone mullion windows have seen all that and more, and caked as I am in stone dust and lead paint chippings, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my intimate encounter with their story.

 

Feeling the Music

These are my main headphones that have been wi...

Mother and son.  They got on the bus just after me.  He was somewhere between 18 and 25, I’d guess, wearing headphones and holding the tiniest MP3 player I’d ever seen.

She was anxious.

They’d been deep in conversation – negotiation, by the sound of it.
“Fine,” she was saying, “But don’t wave your arms about and no making faces.”
“Making faces!” he exclaimed, in the way sons talk to over-anxious mums the world over.  “As if I’d make faces!”

Having got his way, the young man sat at the front of the bus, while his mother perched a few seats back.

I love people-watching.  I enjoy trying to fill in the background to the gestures and snatches of conversation around me.  High-functioning autistic lad, I surmised.  Mother’s worried that if he doesn’t sit with her he’ll behave in ways that will make others stare – or worse.  She’s on a knife-edge between wanting to give him some independence and wanting to protect him from hurtful comments.  He just wants to lose himself in his music.

I watched him.  I couldn’t help it.  It felt good to see someone that happy – freely, openly, ecstatically happy and absorbed in his pleasure.  Yes, he swayed about, waved his hands from time to time, and the rapturous expressions that chased one another across his face could be classed as ‘making faces’.  He looked the way any of us might look if we were listening to music at home, alone and unobserved or at a festival, where it’s fine to dispense with inhibitions.

We – the rest of us – the neuro-typicals – have learned, from our mothers perhaps, that normally we should mask our feelings in public.  We stare straight ahead or bury our head in a book on public transport.  Showing our emotions is not acceptable.

What a dull, grey world we create.

I had enormous sympathy and respect for the boy’s mother.  I could imagine what a struggle her life was and how hard she was trying to help her child.  But regardless of that, I felt privileged to have shared that journey with him, remembering how it felt to be uninhibited and free to feel the music.