His heart isn’t in it

Sun, Heart, Autumn, Leaf, BeautifulOdd, the phrases we use, don’t you think?

There I was, telling a mutual friend that, by mutual consent, Will and I had decided to give our weekly remote viewing sessions a rest for the time being.  We’d kept it up just about every week for over two years.  We’d had some spectacular successes and proved to ourselves, without a shadow of doubt, that it is possible to give detailed information on remote locations in the past, present and future, just by focusing on a particular person or location at a given time.  (Many of our adventures are detailed further back in this blog.)

“Yes,” I said.  “We’ve decided to leave it for now.  We’re running out of places and ideas to try and his heart really isn’t in it at the moment.  I’ve noticed, too, that when he feels like that, the success rate falls off sharply, and that, of course, demotivates us even more.”

That was the one thing we hadn’t been able to fathom – why, when on two given occasions, and when he was focusing equally hard both times, he would get an accurate, detailed viewing on one of them and virtually nothing on the other.

My friend, who was clutching a handful of research notes she’d come to share with me, gave a little yelp of delight and rummaged through the papers.
“It’s here somewhere! Hang on – I’ll find it… Yes! This is it: Bioplasma. It’s what some people call the energy field around the body. The field around the heart is masses stronger than it is around the brain.”
She searched her notes for the numbers. “The electrical field around the heart is sixty times stronger than around the brain… but the magnetic field is five thousand times stronger!”

I stared at her.  Yes, I’d read information from the Heart-Math Institute.  I’d seen their diagrams.  I knew that just about every faith and healing modality speaks of the need to connect with the heart.  I even have a good friend here on WordPress who is all ways telling me about the importance of it.

Aurora Borealis, Night, Northern LightsWe read and hear things all the time, but there comes a moment when we are able to actually understand its relevance to our physical life.  What my friend was showing me here was the direct effect of the heart on what we had been doing, particularly with regard to magnetic attraction.  That was the missing puzzle piece!

The following Sunday, I attempted to explain its significance in terms of our remote viewing experiences to Will (via WhatsApp, naturally).  It took him a while to grasp what I was trying – in my halting way – to explain.  Then he got it:

So you’re saying good results are not so much dependent on the conscious intention of it but the motivation for the result emanating from an emotional desire to do it.

Yes.

I couldn’t have put it that succinctly and eloquently, but that was it.  If your ‘heart isn’t in it’ – whatever ‘it’ might be, the results will be nowhere near as good.

Plasma Ball, Plasma, Plasma LampI may not have grasped the full relevance of plasma (bio- or otherwise) and its peculiar electromagnetic qualities.  I’m deeply hazy on what ‘free electrons’ might be and do; I’m a ponderer, not a scientist.  I’m looking now, though, for the truths lurking in our everyday language –

‘I felt a pull to go there’
‘A magnetic attraction towards him’
‘She really spoke from the heart’
‘I felt drawn to do this’
‘His heart wasn’t in it’.

Deep inside we’ve always known all of this.  Being able to utilise the knowledge, though, in a fully conscious way, makes anything possible.

 

Can I Let Go of Objective Reality?

Image result for burrow Mump imagesI remember exactly where I was when I first encountered the idea that reality may not be what it seems.  I was sitting on Burrow Mump (a kind of mini version of Glastonbury Tor – thanks Wiki for the photo), staring over the Somerset Levels on a lovely spring morning with a friend.

I can’t remember what I said, but my friend replied that there is no such thing as imaginary – because if you can imagine it, it exists.

I struggled with that.  The rational mind fought against it.  Metaphorically perhaps… when we say things like, “You can do anything if you put your mind to it.”  But literally?

The idea wasn’t going to go away, though.  Once it had been planted there, it kept on returning.  Here’s an extract from one of the articles my friend Will sent me.  Some of you may remember it from The Words of William:

A universe will be created for every possible outcome of an event.  For example, if one was taking a walk and for whatever reason turned left another universe will be automatically  created where the person did not turn left.  There would be universes where one turned right, one stood still, one carried straight on and for every other possibility.

I was kind of happy with that, just as long as all those other universes kept a respectful distance and didn’t interfere with mine.  The thing that bothered me, though, was that if I was the person turning left, who would be the ‘me’ in all those other universes?  Did I have an infinite number of stunt doubles, ready to leap into action each time I made a choice; each time I imagined anything?  It all felt very unwieldy, to say the least.  And how me-like were these other versions of myself?  Were they as real and valid as I felt myself to be, or rather shadowy and wraith-like?  Part of me wanted them not to be too real.  I felt vaguely disturbed by them.

Globe, Earth, Country, Continents, ManyWhatever I did, though, they wouldn’t go away.  Not only were these infinite alternate me’s busy having their subtly or massively different lives, it seemed there were intersections along the way where I could jump from being ‘this’ me, to one of the others.  I found it in Seth, in Conversations with God, in Ask the Council, in Abraham Hicks, in Ask Higgins…  Reality, they all seemed to be saying, is not fixed or objective.  It’s fluid, it’s subjective, it depends completely on how we are feeling it, seeing it, imagining it and – ultimately – creating it.

OK, yes, that’s just what I was saying in my last post.  The world is different to every one of us, because of the way we feel about it.  I suspect, though, that I’m not the only one here struggling to drop the belief that there’s a definite, solid, indisputable world there and we all just perceive it slightly differently.

They prove it, don’t they – those scientists with the measuring implements and the calculations and tests and so forth?  Well admittedly, the observer does, it seems, influence results, and there are often anomalies, but basically, those careful meticulous people in lab coats know what the world is like.

And they’re right.

Because that’s the way they see it.

Flat, Earth, Myth, Rocks, World, EdgeAnd when humanity believed the earth was flat, they were right too. (WHAT???)  Because that’s the way they saw it, so that’s the way they created it. (See this amazing post from Ask the Council to understand where I got that one from.)

Seth says the same:

Your many civilisations, historically speaking, each with its own fields of activity, its own sciences, religions, politics and art – these all represent various ways that man has used imagination and reason to form a framework through which a more or less cohesive reality is experienced.

So can I let go?  Can I head off into a world where every possibility exists simultaneously and nothing – no matter how solid and unyielding it appears to be – is set.  Am I ready to believe that I’m really creating my reality, in a completely literal sense, with my every thought, action and idea?

Are you?

 

Inspired to see

Not for the first time, I find myself inspired by a post from Cheryl and the wonderfully wise Higgins.

Their short yet profound post can be found here: https://askhiggins.com/2017/02/15/tell-me-my-future/  and is well worth reading.

One sentence particularly drew my attention:

Everything you see around you is a metaphor for your own expectations about your life and this is how the Universe notifies you continually about what’s coming.

In a sense, it’s the usual Law of Attraction stuff – you get whatever you give your attention to – but it goes further, and it has the deepest of messages for us in these times of news, fake news and confusion.

It made me stop in my tracks and think hard about what I give my attention to – what I ‘see around’ me.

Crowd Of People, Crowd, People, BlurYou could place one hundred people in the same department store, mosque, sports centre or field, but they’d all ‘see’ something different around them.  What we see is far more than the built or natural structures. We interpret them, and the people, objects and creatures within them, the temperature and light levels, the humidity, sounds and smells through the screen of our own – very personal – expectations.

Do we feel comfortable and at ease here, or threatened and anxious?  Do we feel excited or bored?  Are we filled with awe or revulsion?  None of that (or the myriad possibilities between those extremes) is a product of the location itself; it is a product of each person’s way of viewing it.

Digital, Zeros, Ones, Woman, StylishSome people are particularly sensitive to the feelings and thoughts of others.  They can ‘catch’ fear or anger.  As it grows stronger and passes from person to person in this subliminal way, such a feeling can grow in intensity, so that even the least sensitive individuals begin to pick it up.  We’ve all seen examples of how terror, fury or hostility can spread through a mob.  I suspect that is as true for social media as for people in a physical location.

In these times of high density living and high impact digital interaction, it seems to me, it’s doubly important to step back and to take a careful look at everything we see around us, and HOW we see it.  If we can view it as a metaphor for our expectations about life – and consequently what we are about to create as our ‘future’ – we may want to think about altering our perspective somewhat, both as individuals and en masse.

 

Not very

Mural, Girl, Balloon, Heart, GraffitiI can’t remember when our last meeting was.  If you don’t know it’s going to be the last time, you don’t take particular note of it, I suppose.

I remember my last meeting with his mother.  It was in the hospice.  That meeting is easy to recall, because we were both all too aware that she’d have moved beyond her body within a few days.  We had a rather surreal conversation about this and that – mostly her plans for the funeral and what she wanted me to do to help care for her little boy.  I kept asking whether she was tired and would prefer me to leave and she kept saying, ‘No.  I don’t want you to go yet.’  But eventually she was tired and she did need to sleep and we hugged and cried a bit and said none of the things people usually say when they are parting: ‘See you soon’, ‘Keep in touch’, ‘Take care of yourself’.  It was an adieu moment, not an au revoir.

When I last saw her son – the little boy who had grown up to be a man and who had become just like one of my own children to me – he DID say, ‘See you soon.’  I distinctly remember that part, although I can’t quite remember where we were.  He was waving me off on a bus or a train or something.  He’d been anxious, awkward, twitchy – more so that I’d seen him before.  He’d kept wheeling around and looking suspiciously about him, as if he expected an assassin to come lurching out of the crowd.  He’d looked awful.  There was an unhealthy pallor to his skin and much of his hair had fallen out in untidy clumps.  Alopecia, he told me.  Stress, the doctor had told him.  It might grow back or it might not.

He didn’t see me soon, nor I him.  The months became years – probably six or seven.  I feel I should be able to remember.  Each time I suggested meeting, there was a flat ‘No.’  If I pestered for a reason, I’d get, ‘Can’t do it’ or ‘Too stressful.’

Last week, I suggested it again.  He’s been coming out, I feel, agonisingly slowly, of the deepest slough of despair, social anxiety and depression.  His texts and emails have been far more chatty and even shown flashes of the old sense of humour.  He accused me of being paranoid about something, adding, ‘And yes, I know that’s rich, coming from me.’

He didn’t say ‘No’.

True, he didn’t come anywhere close to saying ‘Yes’, but he was far more concerned that he wouldn’t be able to commit to a meeting until the day itself, and that as we live far apart, I might have a wasted journey to London.

I told him I love London – in small doses – and that I’d enjoy a day trip there in any case.  I told him I’d plan a trip to the British Museum, another old and much-loved friend.  I told him that if he felt able to join me, that would be great, but I’d have a great day in any case.

You don’t get sighs in texts, unless they’re intentionally written in those silly little arrow things (<sighs>) but I could feel his as he replied, ‘That’s up to you but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’
London, Lantern, Big Ben, RiverSo my coach ticket is booked.  Next Saturday I’ll begin the 3 hour trek to London.  I’ll be caught (as happened so often, when his mental state waxed and waned throughout his teens) somewhere between assuring myself that he’ll be there, in order to manifest the reality, and stoically preparing for a pleasant day wandering through the delights of the museum, just in case.

Whatever happens, though, I’m jubilant.  When I asked how likely he was to be there, he replied, ‘Not very.’  That’s a long way past ‘Not at all’.  There will be other chances, other days.  Just as his mother begged me, all those years ago, I’ve never given up on him, never thrown in the towel, and nor has he.  I’m proud of us both for that.

Meant to Be

wp_20161014_13_31_43_proLife throws up challenges every so often.  You’d noticed, obviously.  How we deal with those challenges is what matters, though.  Today I want to tell you a story of someone who dealt with his in the best way.

The final straw was when the meat safe broke.  My son was a chef there.  He went to management to check that they were happy for him to throw the meat out.  They said no.  They said it would be fine as long as everyone kept the door shut as much as possible.  He protested.  He wasn’t prepared to serve the customers meat that hadn’t been stored at the correct temperature.  There had been a few such battles, with him arguing for quality and them for profit.  Tempers were frayed.  They ordered him to carry on using the meat.  He quit.

So there he was, suddenly, out of work.  His partner was having to pick up all the bills, he wasn’t having any luck finding other jobs.  Things seemed bad.  This was a challenge.

On a bright spring morning, we set out together.  I’d arrived to stay for a few days and he’d offered to show me around the town they’d fairly recently moved to.  To both of us, it felt that something good was about to happen.

“Would you like to see the museum?” he asked.  “It’s pretty good.”

Obviously we’d been chatting about work and the sort of things he could turn his hand to, but it wasn’t until he paused in that museum and stared in pure delight at a gorgeously detailed model of an old city gate from the Middle Ages, complete with carts and horses, market stalls and all manner of tiny details, that the germ of a plan began to form.

“That’s what I’d really love to do,” he said, longingly.  “I bet there’s only one or two people in the whole country who are commissioned to make those models, but wouldn’t it be a fantastic job?”

I laughed.  “That’s exactly what I always wanted to do, when I was a kid,” I told him.  “Yes, that would be the perfect job for you.”

So that’s how it begins, isn’t it?  We put the idea out there.  We coat it generously with positive wishes and intention.  Then we wait for the Universe to start swinging into action.  The Law of Attraction may sound a bit of a New Age cliché, but it works…

“Not sure where else to show you,” he said, as we came out of the museum and rain started to fall.  “Oh, that building over there has just been converted into little workshops and craft outlets.  Do you want to take a look?”

We went inside.

“There’s not much on the ground floor yet,” he told me.  “We’re probably better going upstairs.”

But I’d noticed a sign to a dolls’ house shop, and I’ve always loved dolls’ houses…

It was shut.  Reluctantly, I turned away, but at that very moment the owner arrived and opened the door.  The tiny shop was crammed with all manner of miniatures and both of us were entranced.  We were the only customers, so a chat to the owner was almost inevitable.  We told him how we loved the things he’d made himself.  We asked about who his suppliers were and how he found them.  We explained my son’s predicament and I spoke of his talent for creating tiny models.

“Go to trade fairs,” he said, shortly.  “Talk to stallholders.  Find what they’re not making and do it.”

We thanked him and continued looking around.  Eventually I chose a few minuscule treasures to take home.  As I went to pay, the owner said, “Been thinking.  Steampunk.  No one’s doing that.  It would sell.”

And so the Universe was starting to spill the beans.  Matt and I looked at each other.  Why not?

So that (in case you were wondering) is how my new hobby of making 1/12 size Steampunk figures came about.  Matt, meanwhile, set to work creating room settings for them, filled with cogs, chains and devious devices.  We toured the trade shows, scoured the internet and charity shops for interesting items to use and re-purpose.  He stocked up on wood, while I bought up a selection of little porcelain dolls, and a cottage industry was born.

Today our online shop went live.  A few of the figures are ready for sale.  My son is busy photographing and listing the rest of the items.

I know all will be well.  The synchronicities of that day made it inevitable that it would.  I’ve put a photo of one of his rooms at the top of this post, and various figures appear in the last post I wrote.

Oh, and if you’d care to visit the store, or know anyone else who would, here’s the link: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/SteampunkDollsHouse?ref=hdr_shop_menu

 

The Words of William

This year, William, my young aspie friend, turned 25.

It really isn’t my place to talk much about his life now; he’d prefer not to share personal information and I feel I must respect that wish.

Graffitti, Goal, Colorful, ColorHe lodges with relatives in a rather run-down area to the east side of London.  He holds down a job where his intrinsic aptitude and preference for routine and regulations serve him well.

He has created a cocoon of familiarity around himself and, within its confines, once again feels able to chat to me freely via texts and emails.  Regular readers of this blog may remember our remote viewing experiments, which still continue every weekend and are as wonderful and puzzling as ever.  See here if you’d like to read about it.

As you may have gathered, William has some unusual skills and what he terms ‘knowing’.  I suppose it’s an enhanced version of the intuition and occasional flashes of insight we all get from time to time.  He tells me that people with autistic perception ‘receive and process information differently’.

As I mentioned in my last post, William has told and sent me many of his thoughts through the years.  Whether it was a masterclass in moving objects through space using the mind or a detailed account of how ‘atom strings’ form the universe/s, I’ve always been impressed by his ideas and explanations.

E-book CoverI decided that, for his birthday, I would collect together all these conversations, random thoughts and articles, from childhood to the present, into a single file and  send them to him, so that he had a record of the development of his ideas.

I asked him whether he shows them to anyone apart from me.  He said he didn’t.  That seemed a waste.  So a further thought came to me.  What if I formatted them as an e-book?  He could then – if he chose – publish them and allow others to share his ideas and musings.

It took him six days to come to a decision.  I’ve learned to work with his way of dealing with the world.  I was texted a few times in the week and told ‘I’m still thinking’.  Pressing him for a decision or offering further information or suggestions would have slowed things still further and caused him additional stress.  He needed that time to work through all the repercussions of having his words OUT THERE.   Finally, late in the evening of the sixth day, the message came: ‘Publish it.’

So I have.

The Words of William are now available – for the cost of a cup of coffee – on Amazon Kindle.  The text is short – some 5500 words, and priced accordingly.

This shy but delightful young man spent many years struggling to find a voice for his thoughts.  I’d love him to discover that there are those who share his passion for all things metaphysical, multidimensional and magnificent in this cosmos of ours, so if your interests tend that way, please do consider taking a look and maybe downloading a copy or sharing the link with others who might enjoy it.

Amazon UK link

Amazon US link

Also available on Amazon worldwide.

Thank you ❤

 

Back to Belief

More musings about ‘reality’ – whatever that is…

IMG_20150915_220735Sitting on the desk in front of me here as I write is a crystal.  I believe in it.  I can even post a photo of it, so that you will believe in it too.  There.

The thing is, I don’t know where it came from.  I’m not even sure what the possibilities are, because they range from the ridiculous outwards into that fuzzy place where nothing works the way we expect it to.

 

Monday morning:  A heating engineer was coming to measure up for my new wood burner, so I made sure to give the fireplace a thorough clean.  This fireplace has been used over the last year to light countless fires.  The brick surround has been rendered and painted.  The chimney was swept a couple of weeks ago and I had just vacuumed the whole fireplace with my very powerful little cordless cleaner.

The engineer duly arrived.  He was on his knees measuring the fireplace.  I was sitting on the sofa watching.  Then, quite suddenly, he reached down to the tiles in front of the hearth – the just-cleaned tiles that had been empty a moment before – picked something up and said, “Oh!  What’s this?  You’ve got a crystal or something here.”

He handed me the crystal that’s now sitting on my desk.

So let’s start with rational possibilities.

  • I own quite a few crystals, so it was one of mine that had fallen there.  –No.  I know all my crystals and this wasn’t one I recognised.  In any case, it would not have evaded my mega-powerful Dyson.  It’s sucked up quite a few crystals in its time, which I’ve had a messy time retrieving.

Chimney sweep in the 1850s

  • Someone who lived here before me had lodged it in the chimney and it had just fallen out.  –Highly unlikely.  It was so clear and clean – no soot, no tar, no cobwebs, no fingermarks even.  It was pristine.  In any case, surely the chimney sweep would have dislodged it.
  • The heating engineer had been carrying it in his pocket and it had fallen out.  –He really didn’t seem to be a crystal-carrying type.  Anyhow, he seemed as surprised by it as I was and assumed it was mine.
  • A passing magpie or jackdaw dropped it down the chimney at that precise moment.  –Believe it or not, that’s the closest I can get to a rational explanation.  Odd that the engineer didn’t see it fall and neither of us heard it clink as it hit the tile, but still.

Now let’s try the irrational.  That evening I consulted a few of my crystal books.  The first one I opened said something like this:

Crystals will reach their owners when they are needed.  Most commonly, people are drawn to buy a particular crystal in a shop.  However they can be received as gifts, found or they may just appear in the owner’s house.

IMG_20150915_220944Several of the other books and many internet articles spoke of crystals simply appearing and disappearing, as if this is really quite commonplace.  Certainly I’ve had crystals that have mysteriously disappeared, but then that happens with socks, books, notes…

I look again at my crystal.  Which is more unbelievable – the thieving magpie or the spontaneously quantum-type appearance from somewhere, um, non-local?

Whichever I choose to believe, this crystal has suddenly and strangely manifested in my life and I’ll treasure it, for as long as it chooses to stay around.

 

 

Reality is … where, exactly?

English: East Backwater Rhyne, Somerset site o...

A little over a hundred years ago, a man called Arthur Bulleid lived here in Glastonbury.  Arthur’s story has always fascinated me, so let me share it with you.

Arthur was a well educated young man from a wealthy family who had always had a passion for archaeology.  He went on a trip to Switzerland, where he was able to visit the remains of prehistoric lake villages, built on timber rafts with causeways to the mainland.

Arthur had a moment.  What would you call it – inspiration, intuition, remote viewing, hunch…?  Whatever it was, Arthur Bulleid ‘knew’ there would be villages like this close to his native town, so he came home and began searching for them.

Glastonbury Lake Village site - geograph.org.u...

I should explain that Glastonbury is a former island (the Isle of Avalon), since it was once all but surrounded by watery marshland which has since been drained to form the Somerset Levels.  That is really the only vague similarity to the topography he was seeing in Switzerland, yet, as I’ve said, he knew a similar village would be found here.

He set about excavating the slightly bumpy but otherwise unpromising field shown in these two pictures, which is a mile or two out of the town.  The finds soon began to appear – dugout canoes, cooking pots, jewellery, animal bones, knives and spears, weights from weaving looms… in fact every type of artefact to prove that a thriving community lived on the site, along with the remains of the wooden raft bases and the stakes they rested on.  Arthur had discovered exactly what he expected to find.

Strange, don’t you think?

Somewhere – I wish I could remember where – I heard a quote from a British archaeologist who had noticed a strange phenomenon.  He said that when they began a dig expecting to find Roman remains, that’s what they found.  When they expected Viking finds, these duly turned up, as did Saxon, mediaeval, Celtic and so forth.  He insisted that this was not because they already knew what was there, but seemed to link in some way to their expectations.

Perhaps you will have heard the strange and wonderful recent story of Philippa Langley, who King Richard III, by unknown artist. See sourc...‘knew’ that the bones of King Richard III would be found buried beneath a car park in Leicester.  Her story can be found here.  Once again we have a person with a passion for history and a conviction that somehow she knows the truth.

The first trench put into that car park revealed human bones.  Their dating fitted.  DNA tests linked these very bones conclusively to Richard’s remaining relatives and a curvature of the spine was noted which would have given rise to Shakespeare’s (somewhat biased – he knew which side his bread was buttered) depiction of Richard as a hunchback.  The facial reconstruction made using the skull’s measurements was eerily similar to this portrait.

There’s another Glastonbury story that fits here.  Most people dismiss it as a scam invented by the monks of Glastonbury Abbey to generate huge amounts of income, but I’m not so sure…  In 1191 a group of monks digging in the grounds discovered an oak casket – ancient even then – containing the bones of two people, along with this little cross bearing an inscription which reads:

Here lies interred in the Isle of Avalon the renowned King Arthur.

Arthur and Guinevere!  Obviously this caused massive interest.  The English King and Queen attended an elaborate re-interment ceremony and pilgrims flocked to the Abbey, making it one of the richest in the country.  Just before Henry VIII’s thugs sacked the Abbey, the tomb, bones and cross mysteriously disappeared.  No one, presumably, wanted Arthur’s remains getting into his hands.

I’m sure you can see the thread running through these stories.  It all comes down to cause and effect.

It sounds a ridiculous thing to say, I know, but I have an intriguing question to ask.  What came first – the desire and determination to make these discoveries or the remains themselves?  Were Arthur and Philippa, the thoughtful archaeologist and the mediaeval monks, the creators of this reality or the discoverers?  Did they somehow cause the objects of their intention to be found right there, right then, or was it some instinct and knowing beyond time which drew them to the correct sites?  Or both at once?

I have a personal reason for musing upon this; one which I may share at some future date…

From ‘What the Bleep?’, to The Secret, to the less hyped-up but nonetheless brilliant and revealing words of The Council  and Higgins, we are told that we create what we wish to have in our lives.  I believe that the examples above are a kind of chicken-and-egg scenario.  Neither came ‘first’.  The remains and the creator-discoverers simply came together as a result of a powerful emotional desire sent out by these individuals.  I’m not sure that I believe any more in an objective reality.

A few years ago, I was inspired to write a book based on this idea.  It was called Life: A Player’s Guide.  I’d like to finish this post with a paragraph from the final page of that book, which, I feel, links rather neatly back to Arthur Bulleid – and the rest of us:

Be The Creator. Be all-powerful and create your own life. Getting rid of the doubts and fears and the million and one reasons why you can’t follow your dreams takes patience and determination. But the potential is there. Maybe that’s why your God/self arranged for your character in this particular game to discover this book. Maybe your narrative in this lifetime-game is the story of the hero who ‘comes home’ to find the hidden treasure. You already know how those stories go. Main characters set out on their quest. They travel far and wide, cope with all kinds of trials and tribulations and have all manner of adventures and experiences. Eventually they return home, only to discover that they had what they were seeking in their possession all the time, although they needed all those apparently incidental experiences to enable them to find it. Once they’ve made that discovery, they are able to share the treasure with those around them.

New Year at Lime Cottage

It’s been a while, but it’s time to put the cottage back into the blog, because like the year, it’s turning.

This time last year, owning my own home was no more than a distant dream – and not one I took very seriously.  It was there on the wish list, though – waiting to manifest when I was ready to receive.

Half a year ago I was in a very different space – battling with officials and contractors, packing up my possessions and getting ready to take one of the largest gambles in my life.  I was just about to move into a cracked, leaking, broken-down old building and hoping that somehow I could turn it into a home.

Oh there had been miracles and synchronicities a-plenty, just to get to the stage where I owned it, but whether I’d be able to bring it back into a habitable state was very much in the balance.

cottage scaffoldingSummer happened, but not at Lime Cottage.  The building was encased in scaffolding, so that almost no sunlight reached inside.  The beautiful garden was disappearing under an ever-increasing mound of builders’ junk.  The rosemary bush was almost flattened by the cement mixer; the hollyhocks uprooted and pushed aside by the roofers; the marigolds were cowering under broken tiles and guttering.

As autumn arrived and days shortened, the scaffolding finally went.  So – very gradually – did the workmen.  At last, I had the place to myself and could begin what my builder called, “just the cosmetic stuff” – the process of turning it into a home.

That’s what I’ve been doing this month – transforming the tiny study into a warm, vibrant space where my young students can work and – when he comes visiting – my little grandson can sleep.

 The budget is as tight as the workspace, and the preparation is gruelling – filling cracks in the plaster, sanding, priming the woodwork, painting the ceiling… but finally I could start to make a ‘cosmetic’ difference – painting the walls, whilst watching the most glorious sunset over the Somerset Levels and the Polden Hills beyond.

Things are turning.  Days are imperceptibly starting to lengthen and by the end of the coming year I could be living in a fully decorated and welcoming home.

Warmest thanks to everyone who has read, empathised, sympathised and encouraged me during this year. the journey has been amazing – and you have helped me on my way more than you’ll ever know.

A very happy, peaceful and joy-filled New Year to everyone out there.

 

Living Here

Glastonbury, Somerset, UK seen from the nearby...

“Can you tell us a little about the area where you live?” I was asked by somebody based on the Northwest coast of the United States recently.

So I did, and as I described this place, I was reminded how impossibly lucky I am to live where I do.

“Probably luck had little to do with you ending up there,” a friend remarked, and yes – she’s absolutely right.

From my perspective of belief, it’s the result of a heady combination of manifestation, agonising choices, hard work and the benevolence of an abundant Universe.

I’ve spent many years in, let’s say, less beautiful places.  I had, back in those days, security and comfort.  They came at a price.  I dare say that’s true of all of us.  The job paid well, but as politicians forced my profession down routes I didn’t want to follow, I became rebellious, dissatisfied and disillusioned.  My marriage had its good points, many of them, but here too, there were compromises I wasn’t happy with and the general feeling was far from good.  I told myself I was needed there – by my kids, by those I taught and mentored.  It was only when I found that someone else in my life needed me a whole lot more that the tipping point was reached.

My two youngest were off at university.  My oldest had her own home and life.  As for the school kids, well there would always be more, wherever I was.

Mum was frightened.  She and her encroaching dementia lived alone.  She was usually lucid and bright but there were the confusing times; the times when the ‘other lady’ – the sad, terrified person she tried to comfort, but who wouldn’t talk back or accept any help – would stare at her from the mirror at the top of the stairs.  She could not accept that this person was a facet of herself.  The ‘other lady’ made toast for breakfast seven or eight times a day, but left other food rotting in the fridge.  The ‘other lady’ went for bus rides at two in the morning, to destinations she couldn’t remember and was gone for hours at a time.

That was the tipping point.  I burned my bridges, turned my back on all my comfort and security and moved in with Mum and her other lady.  It was not an easy choice to make.  It was not an easy life to live.

The time came when Mum had all but morphed into her other self.  I wasn’t able to manage the 24/7 care she needed alone and the next choice came.  No point in going back or staying where I was.  It was time to move on again.

“You’re in freefall!” someone commented at that time.  “Where you land is entirely up to you.  What a gift.”

It didn’t feel that way to me, but looking back, I can see that she was completely right.  I followed my heart, came to the place I loved the most and risked all to own LIME Cottage.

So this is where I am:

English: Cutting for silage A farmer cuts gras...

The view from the back of my cottage is to the beautiful Polden Hills.  Usually, as I look out on misty autumn mornings, there is a second, ghostly, grey-purple ridge of hills rising behind them, built of clouds.

The beautiful  near-perfect hemisphere of Chalice Hill rises just behind the cottages across the road from me at the front.

Turn left, and it’s a ten minute walk past the ruins of the abbey to the centre of this quirky, bustling little town, filled with exciting indie shops and larger-than-life characters.

English: Glastonbury Tor from Chalice Well The...

Turn right and within a minute or two you come to a steep, tiny lane, where the waters of Glastonbury’s two famous sacred springs rise.  The white spring to the right and the red spring – supposedly stained that colour by the blood of Christ from the Holy Grail buried beneath it – in the beautiful Chalice Well Gardens to the left.

These two watercourses once ran openly along my road, feeding the abbey and town with fresh water.  Now their waters are piped below the pavement and our drinking water comes from elsewhere, but we’re free to collect bottles of the original supply from the pipes in the lane.

Above all this towers the famous Glastonbury Tor, capped by the tower of St Michael. This brilliant video will show you just how fortunate I am to be here, even if it isn’t down to luck: