The Magical World of Tylluan Penry

Just a quick note - I usually like to write something every day but today I am feeling unwell - nothing serious, just odd. I suspect I've picked up a bug or something, just hope it's not vertigo again! Normally I'm like a pit pony!

Hope to be up and running again soon.

Brightest blessings
Tylluan

Dafter’s post yesterday about children’s parties took me back to my own childhood when parties were almost always held at the child’s own host, or at the very least, the local church hall. They weren’t that common, but you could usually guarantee getting an invite to maybe one or two per year, at least up to age eleven.

One of the great things about children’s parties then was that you got to meet the parents. Your school friends’ boasts that their father was a captain in the navy or mad professor could therefore be easily uncovered. On the other hand, what was really amazing was the stuff you never found out about until you visited their house and discovered The Family for yourself.

Rather than having the resident McDonald’s clown to entertain the party guests, this gruesome task was usually delegated to a reluctant elder brother. Once I remember one particularly warped individual wanting to take the party guests to visit the local chapel of rest at a nearby funeral home, ‘as a treat’.

Some parents were better at parties than others. I well remember the couple who did away with pass the parcel and musical statues and treated us children to several hours of looking at their holiday photographs instead. ‘And this is Aunty Elsie eating an ice cream on the beach at Porthcawl…’ I think one or two children actually threw up out of sheer boredom by the end.

Some must have dreaded it. I remember once turning up to a party just as someone threw a shoe through a (closed) window. The mother, a very smart woman, cigarette holder and glass in hand, just about made it to the door, grabbed hold of my mother, (whom she’d never met before) hugged her and said, ‘Thank God you’ve come! Come on in and have some gin.’

Then there was the family newly returned from the Far East whose idea of party food was bowls of rice and chopsticks. It was the only party where we spent the whole time trying to eat and never got to do any party games at all. The only real diversion was when their cat started swinging on the curtains and howling.

Or the girl whose father used army radios and walkie talkies to communicate with the guests. We didn’t see him at all, just heard his voice ‘Now make your way to the tea table where you will find a selection of jellies, sausage rolls and cakes to eat. DO not drop crumbs on the floor.’

Parties were almost always very small, rather sedate affairs. Girls wore their best dress, the boys almost always had a bow tie. The host mother almost always wore a neat, frilly little apron (apart from mine who had tied a bottle opener and corkscrew on hers to get at the booze when nobody was looking!) If the part was in the local church hall (and I think I only ever went to one of these) then the local vicar or priest put in an appearance and gave a little talk.

I’m not sure whether children actually enjoyed parties. The parents rarely did. But a party did allow for a huge variety of entertainment (often unintended – like watching a grandmother having a sly drink while pretending to supervise the party games).

And looking back, no two parties were ever, ever the same.

Dr Doolittle did it all the time, apparently. But of course it’s just a book (and a film) and most people smile and write it off as fiction. Yet what if we could really talk to animals and they could talk to us? Do we always need language to communicate? Are there other ways such as ESP or telepathy? And if so can these things cross the species divide?

People with pets often say they can communicate with them. Others disagree. Fair enough, there’s no conclusive evidence either way that will satisfy everyone. Besides, there are some human beings I find it hard to communicate with, so I wouldn’t expect to be able to communicate with all animals, no matter how gifted I was in that respect.

Traditionally some animals are thought to be closer to humans than others. Horses, for instance. Also dogs, cats, and curiously, pigs. People who love pigs are always fierce in their defence. I think that it’s easier to communicate with your own pets than it is with someone else’s – unless you have a particular talent in that respect. Most of the time I don’t. Mr Penry, however, apart from getting communications from the spirit world is a dab hand at communicating with other people’s animals.

One of the funniest incidents I can remember in recent years was when we went into an antique shop up in the Welsh border country. There in the shop was a small black collie dog, quietly snoozing and minding its own business. The presence of Mr Penry however, seemed to wake it up, and soon it was bounding all over him and making a great fuss.

Presently my husband turned to the owner and said, ‘Your dog likes television, doesn’t she?’
The woman nodded uncertainly, as though she wasn’t sure she’d like the direction this conversation was taking.
‘Especially horse racing,’ said Mr Penry.
At that the woman’s eyes opened wide. ‘How did you know that? She loves the horse racing, whenever it’s on she gets really excited. Sometimes she even barks at the horses.’
‘She says that next time she barks you should put a bet on the horse. She only barks at the winners.’

Unlikely as it sounds, this was all said quite straight faced. About six months later we returned to the shop and the dog began bounding all over Mr Penry again.
‘I took your advice,’ said the owner, with a big beaming smile, ‘and you were right. Every time she barks, the horse on the screen wins its race. I’ve put a couple of bets on for her like you said, and she’s won a tidy sum now.’

Not proof that people can talk to animals, but an interesting piece of evidence all the same. Unfortunately, our dogs have no interest whatsoever in horses or greyhounds. . If they did, I’d be down the bookies straight away!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

Just when you thought it was safe to venture out into the valley again....

Those of you who read this blog on August 10th may recall that I came home to find the sulphurous yellow shed belonging to Mrs Anubis Evans had been demolished!

Today I can exclusively report from the Land of the Twitching Curtains that there is definitely some activity going on over there, including a young man with rippling muscles who appears to be digging foundations. Also they have just taken delivery of copious amounts of corrugated iron, plastic and 2 x 1 softwood.

A replacement shed therefore appears imminent. The whole village is on red alert.

I’ve mentioned several times on this blog that our house appears to be haunted, and also that psychic activity is more noticeable here around the full moon. So yesterday I thought it might be a good idea to try and photograph those areas where activity was particularly obvious and see if I could capture something – anything – unusual.

Ghosts, spirits, entities, call them what you will, don’t often materialise although people who are psychic see them more easily than the rest of us. Speaking for myself, most (though not all) of my experiences seem to focus on sound and touch. Other people ‘smell’ a presence - quite literally. The most common fragrances appear to be flowers especially roses, and drains or ‘something rotten.’)

One of my photos did indeed seem promising. It was taken through a window into the kitchen and appeared to show two ghostly figures near the table. I then had to spend quite a bit of time trying to replicate it and see if there was any way the effect could have been produced by non supernatural means. Eventually, after much trial and error, I discovered that one figure was probably caused by a distortion of my own reflecton in the window due to the flash, while the other was nothing more spooky than a smudge on the window itself.

In some ways of course, it’s disappointing. But I’d rather be disappointed than deluded. Even though I do believe in ghosts, I’m not so desperate to find proof that I’ll accept everything at face value.

So no, I didn’t photograph a ghost this time. But maybe tomorrow….

Well, as I never tire of saying, August is an autumn month. If you doubt me, consider this : There are twelve months in a year, so each of the four seasons has three months. Midsummer’s Day is June 21st and therefore if June is in the middle, the summer months are May, June and July. Therefore August is the first of the autumn months. And I can really feel it today – although the sun is shining here there’s little real warmth in the air. I hang out a line of washing and it takes all day to dry whereas on a sunny day in July I can dry two lines full.

The blackberries are ripening fast, as are many other fruits. I always loved going blackberrying, even if I only came back with a handful, they were great in blackberry and apple pie. Mushrooms were another treat. There’s nothing like newly gathered mushrooms fried up for breakfast in the morning.

When I was a child a group of us, including uncles and aunts would often go mushrooming, early in the morning when the dew was still wet on the grass. One of my aunts was really deaf and a bit ‘away with the fairies’ as we used to call it. I usually used to walk round the fields with her because she carried toffees in her handbag and would always give me some. Once she spotted some mushrooms in a field with a large bull in it.

‘Come on,’ she said, climbing over the wall and dragging me with her, ‘We’ll get plenty of mushrooms in here.’
‘But there’s a bull over there, aunty-ah.’ (In common with many Welsh children, especially from the valleys, words that end in the letter ‘y’ have a final ‘ah’ added on for good measure.’)
‘No, it’s a cow. Don’t worry about it.’
I stared long and hard at the bull. The bull stared back. ‘Aunty-ah… it don’t look like a cow. There’s nothing there for the milking…’
But my aunt, remember, was deaf as a post. ‘It’ll be fine today I think,’ she announced.
We started picking mushrooms, and I kept an eye on the strange ‘cow’ down the end of the field. It came nearer.

We picked all the mushrooms from the first fairy ring, then the second, then my aunt spotted yet another and took off in the direction of the bull.
‘Aunty-ah! Come back! The bull’s coming!’
My aunt, heaven help us, had started to sing. ‘Oh, how we danced, on that night, we were wed…’
‘Aunty-ah! It’s pawing at the ground!’
We were really into cartoon territory now, like something out of Tom and Jerry. The bull, head down, had steam coming out of its nostrils and was pawing the ground like something demented. My aunt looked up briefly, quite unconcerned. ‘No, it’s just dancing.’
Dancing? The rest of the family were in other fields, so there was nobody else to appeal to for some sense. ‘Aunty-ah! We’ve gotta go!’ I grabbed her arm and started pulling her towards the wall where we’d come in. ‘It’s going to run at us!’

We got to the wall just as the bull began its charge. I swear I felt the ground shaking. White faced, my aunt threw her mushrooms in the air, seized my arm and somehow got us both back over the wall. We landed in a patch of nettles, but nobody was complaining about that.

And my aunt went off down the lane singing ‘The sun has got his hat on.’

Happy Days....

'Seeking the Green' by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info, please watch this space!

Normally I have posted my blog by this time of the day - but today, mea culpa, I am late. Should be back in an hour or two with a proper posting!

Well, here we are, almost at the full moon – 94% of full, as my moon phase calendar tells it. As a pagan I follow the moon’s cycle in the same way as I notice the season’s coming round – it’s a part of life, and it affects the way I live.

And if you follow the moon regularly enough, you eventually notice yourself getting caught up in her cycle. I don’t mean you go checking the moon phase slavishly every day but you find yourself, from time to time, greeting her as an old friend. And in time you come to realise that we all are – whether we realise it or not – also caught up in a cycle unique to each of us – our Life Cycle, which begins the day we’re born.

When I look back to myself in childhood, I realise I’m still basically the same person. I see the world through the same eyes; hear the same sounds. I still love to see the moon through the trees and the sun on the water. I still get pleasure from snow and frost, the sweet taste of wild strawberries, hearing the waves crashing on a beach.

All that’s really changed is how much – or how little – I’ve integrated into the society around me. We all move through the different stages in life, beginning as small helpless babies, growing through childhood, adolescence, maturity and maybe parenthood and then what? It’s a bit like the moon, growing from the thinnest sliver into the glorious orb that lights up our darkness. But whereas the moon then gracefully wanes and recedes, human beings seem to struggle to remain young forever.

Why should this be? Well, I can only offer my own point of view here. What holds true from my observation may be quite different from yours. I suspect that so much of our lives is spent looking ahead that when we actually arrive at our destination it’s something of an anticlimax. We’re never shown how to grow old, only given endless, unrealistic expectations of prolonged youth.

But while face lifts and botox may iron out a few wrinkles, they don’t address the real problem within, which is how our essential self reacts to this latest change in our cycle of life. And rather than celebrate what we are, and what we have yet to be, we fight against it.

‘Nobody wants to listen to us,’ we tell ourselves (and maybe others tell us the same thing, too.) But maybe that’s our fault. If all we’ve done over the past few years is plonk ourselves in front of the TV and watch soaps, what exactly do we have to say anyway? No amount of plastic surgery is going to make us interesting people. The saddest thing of all, I feel, is that many people – young and old - are quite literally boring themselves to death.

Some people will tell you there is no respect for the elderly in our society. And they’re quite right. Nor is there much respect for the young, who need discipline and guidance yet often receive neither, nor is there much respect for the middle aged who have much to offer the workplace but all too often face redundancy instead. Nothing is respected. Nothing is loved. Everything is an easy target for the vicious, the snide, the sarcastic and the downright malevolent.

Well, I’m not playing this game. Like the moon, I have grown to maturity, and like her I will wane towards whatever end lies in store. I will pass on the knowledge of my years, which is why I write books on paganism. And most of all I will pass on something I have held dear for most of this life:

Nothing's ever really lost, and love goes on forever.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

There was a lot of psychic activity in the house yesterday. It began with my necklace. I always put it back in its box, even if I’m not all that tidy about it. But today I went to wear it only to find the chain (and it’s a thick, flat one) had been knotted near the hasp. Not loosely knotted, either, but pulled quite tight, so I had a job to undo it. An impossibility if all you’re doing is putting the chain back in its box. I know – I tried it several times to see if I could even come close to achieving it.

So why and how did this happen. I mentioned in this blog back on the 2nd August that I am pretty certain we have a house brownie, and I’ve noticed sometimes my jewellery goes missing from its box. In other words, I’ll wear a pair of earrings, put them away at night, only to find one is missing a few days later. Since Mr Penry doesn’t wear long dangly earrings (I think I’d notice if he did) and since the box I put them in is shut up tight, I don’t understand how one of them will go missing.

I know there’s probably a correlation here with missing socks in the laundry, but earrings are usually harder to lose (at least in my experience) and it’s only happened to me since moving here.

The other bit of psychic activity was also in the bedroom yesterday, later in the afternoon. I often hang glass ‘crystal’ type ornaments in my window to catch the colours of the rainbow when the sun shines on them. My bedroom window was open yesterday, and we were down in the garden when I heard this loud, persistent knocking sound – the crystal was banging on the window. There was nobody in the bedroom at the time.

Now the obvious first thought to spring to mind is that (a) it was the wind from outside or (b) because some other open window in the house had created a draught within the house. But the objection to it being the wind outside was that there was no wind. I had a line of washing out and it wasn’t moving. As for the second option, if there had been a draught in the house, the curtains in my bedroom would have moved, if only a little. They were closed behind the crystal anyway, which would have lessened any draught, but there was no sign of the curtains moving.

Another thing was that once the crystal stopped banging the window, it began rotating quite quickly, something I’ve not noticed before. Later on in the day, I looked up to check what the crystal was doing and it was just swaying very gently, as it usually does.

I’m not trying to convert anyone to my way of thinking here, just telling what happened. They were odd little events, and I suspect they may have had a psychic explanation, although I'll always keep checking for more natural ways to reproduce these things.

It looks like being another hot day. The garden isn’t going to cope by itself, I shall have to do some watering I think, especially since I sowed grass seed a few days ago.

Then I shall find any excuse possible to sit in the garden for much of the day. I firmly believe that although it’s important to keep busy and active, it’s also important not to fear being still. Making time for stillness is one of the most important things we can do in a day, and yet all too often I find myself making excuses not to: I’ve got meals to cook, washing to do, research for my book, writing up notes, blogging…. Oh, you name it and I’ve probably used it at least once for an excuse!

Yet these ‘quiet times’ are vital to preserve our sanity. Everything moves so quickly, people (even in my neck of the woods) are always in a hurry. And of course modern life contrives to make a bad situation worse. Gadgets, gismos, noise – I can guarantee that no hour in the garden passes without someone getting out their Black and Decker and getting stuck into their latest DIY project.

We need to learn to screen these distractions out. Some people do it better than others. Some learn at an early age that maybe everything isn’t perfect, but if you get six out of ten things right in any given situation it’s probably bearable (depending on the nature and intensity of the remaining four.) Some however seem to think that having everything perfect is their right – they must have ten out of ten things right, even if that means imposing restrictions on others so that their quality of life flies out of the window.

When my children were small I brought them up to enjoy quiet times. Life wasn’t a long merry go round of entertainment. Sometimes the summer holidays could seem boring. One year I got an allotment and they spent weeks just digging holes. We didn’t get to grow much but the other gardeners were such a kind hearted bunch I think they felt sorry for a woman with a bunch of children and gave us loads of their own produce.

Another year we each made a club. One daughter ran ‘The Comic Strip Club’ where everyone had to read comics, talk about them and try to draw comic strips. I ran a Folklore Club which involved talking them on long walks and talking about plants and legends. Mr Penry ran a Moonlight Walk club – on hot summer nights they were allowed to stay up late and we all (including the dogs) went out walking in the fields, looking out for the moon, stars, bats, bunnies and poachers (only we took care to keep a safe distance from them!)

Where I live, children are still mostly children. You see groups of them with a sleeping bag and a bottle of pop going off to the park to sleep out under the night sky. But more and more they are changing – girls of about six routinely wearing high heels (where do they get them that size?), fancy hairstyles and expensive designer clothes don’t fare well by sleeping in the open. And once that changes, they’ll lose the magic to pass on to their own children when the time comes.

It looks like being another lovely day today, but I shall have to discipline myself and get on with my writing at some point. When I’m feeling really lively I get up early to work, feeling that I can somehow ‘stretch’ the day by making a few more hours available.

I like to think I am pretty organised with my writing. At the moment I am in the process of researching my latest book and in spite of the fact that there are some great views from our house, I usually do this with my back to the window so I avoid unnecessary distraction. Or as Stephen King once described it, ‘Write with the door closed and edit with it open.’ In other words, until you have at least the first draft, it’s a lonely process. You shouldn’t show others your work until you at least have something substantial to show them.

You might think that writing books on paganism doesn’t require much by way of research. Just the occasional wave of my wand and a few magic words and all will be well. Oh, if only! I really don’t like making sweeping statement without any real effort to explain where the information has come from. I don’t mean writing a book with copious footnotes (although actually I quite enjoy these!) but at least a sentence or two of explanation sometimes wouldn’t come amiss! It’s what I wanted when I was setting out on my path.

If what I’m writing is largely based on personal experience, then the person reading it deserves to be told how you came to the conclusions you did. It’s no good writing ‘The colour of money is green’ for example if you’re not willing (or able) to explain why. Anyway, for those of us who remember ten shilling (50p) notes, the colour of money was usually brown!

It’s particularly bad with many of the pagan writers who target young people. Some seem to think that youngsters are an ‘easier’ audience who don’t deserve much consideration. The effect of this is that those who remain interested in paganism past their teens often come out with some very odd ideas which they proceed to quote as a ‘well known fact.’ It isn’t. It’s opinion. Just as this blog is an opinion. And so is much of what passes for newspaper journalism these days.

So I pride myself on my research. It takes time, it’s isolating, it’s also very interesting. Besides, it’s a matter of pride. There’s so much, magically speaking, that I’ve done and experienced that I want to pass it on in full, not as some gardbled version for others to decipher after me.

If I don’t, it’s going to be the pagans of tomorrow who will suffer!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info, watch this space!

Well, I’m coming to the end of a lovely day. It’s been hot enough to work in the garden without needing a cardigan, and I’ve planted more bulbs and generally tidied and done my best to get the garden ready for the winter to come. Fantastic!

Truly Shakespeare must have been thinking of a day like today when he first wrote the line, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’

And on that note, the end of a perfect day, I am going to get some sleep... zzzzzzzzzz

Took photos of the moon last night… still haven’t got the moonphase to work on my website but live in hopes

The photos were a bit blurry (due to lack of tripod I suspect!) but quite magical in their own way. For me at least they caught the essence of what it feels like to be balanced half out of the window aiming a camera at the sky.

All my songs are love songs,
All my lyrics sigh,
All my dreams take flight now
Soaring in the sky.

Doggerel, maybe, but it’s my doggerel. And I felt it at the time, which was what mattered to me.

Painting (another of my hobbies) is a bit like that. Rather than reproduce a photographic likeness it’s nice sometimes to try and get the feel of something. Done properly it touches something deep inside, a primeval need and longing. And of course, that’s how magic should reach out to us too.

Magic isn’t about rhyming (though some spells can and do rhyme.) It isn’t poetry (although some spells can take the form of poems, not all poems are spells). Done properly it touches something at our very core, making something stir and dance within. This is the same whether you are doing a spell for a good or bad intention. Of course the ‘something’ at our core will be quite different according to intention, but the overall effect will be very similar.

Sometimes the greatest spells can be done just by sitting still and breathing. You literally breathe life into your magic. Sounds incredible I know, but it’s true. And some of the spells are really wacky – there’s no other word – including things like glamour and even invisibility spells.

The sceptics out there will shake their heads and write me off as a nutter. If I hadn’t experienced the things I have, I would probably be inclined to agree with them. I might be a nutter anyway, albeit one who has witnessed some pretty amazing things. It’s the old conflict between proof and evidence. When does evidence become accepted as proof? I don’t know. Perhaps we each have different answers to that.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info watch this space!

It’s surprising how cold it is at the moment. I could even see my breath out of doors yesterday morning. However I must admit I haven’t noticed any real anomalies in the way the plants and birds are behaving in my part of the world. Even if there were, these aberrations are far from unique, and folklore is full of references to it. An apple tree with both blossoms and fruit on the same branch, for example, foretold disaster. Exactly what type of disaster wasn’t always specified, but most ‘unlucky’ plants seem to have foretold death – presumably that being considered the most unlucky thing for most people.

Most people, as they get older, seem to hark back to the days of their childhood and remember only long, hot, glorious summers. Not me. Mine were always cold, wet and miserable. My mother always talked about the long hot glorious summers of her youth – she might as well have been describing a childhood spent on the far side of the planet, not fifty yards away in the same street.

Perception of Winters brought more of the same. My winters were cold and damp, there was ice inside the windows, and the season was marked by coughs, chilblains (oh, the pain of those bloody things, I can feel them still!). I remember snow but it was always an ‘event’ somehow… and even when it came the adults did nothing but moan about it. My parents’ generation however remembered all winters as cold and crisp, with fresh falls of snow every morning and icicles dripping off the rooftops. When the thaw came it was never wet and dirty, but seemed to melt away overnight.

I really cannot believe that the seasons changed so much in such a short time. Maybe their memories were selective – and maybe mine were too. Maybe the whole world is living in different realities, all chosen selectively.

This is a little (true) story I promised I would write up for Usksider. It’s not terribly spooky, but perhaps it illustrates how odd things can happen when you’re not expecting them, things you never really explain. It all happened a very long time ago, but I shall try and keep the details to bare minimum without embellishment.

Many years ago when I was young, my family went up to Ross on Wye for a day trip. I think we just went to see the place, we certainly didn’t have any relatives there or anything like that. There were about six of us altogether, although on this particular day I remember there was just my father, myself and one of my brothers walking down one of the narrow little streets in the town.

It was the afternoon, and I strongly remember that there was a small row of houses (I thought of them as cottages, and looking at pictures of Ross now I think they could have been the Rudhall Almshouses, but obviously I can’t swear to that.) My father always walked quickly, it was a job to keep up with him, and I was always a bit of a dawdler anyway (and truth be told, I still am.)

I remember noticing that the cottages had maroon coloured front doors, and that the paint was ‘flat’ or matt looking. I looked in at the tiny window of one and it was lit by candlelight. I’m not that old, so this was unusual even then! Also there was a dusty, cobwebby look to the place as though I was looking at it through net curtains.

Nobody else remarked on the house and I didn’t mention it. Even now I am prepared to accept that this may have been the house of some eccentric who dwelt by candlelight.

Then my father, who had slowed down his walk considerably suddenly said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s get out of here! This place feels like the plague!’ and he hurried us all away.

Later, he began asking around (he’d talk to anyone and everyone, my father – it’s probably where I get it from) and discovered the place he had taken exception to had at one time been known as the plague cottages. Now I can’t vouch for this last bit being true, but I’ve searched on the net and discovered that near to the Rudhall Almshouses is the Plague Cross which marks the burial site of over three hundred plague victims who died in 1637.

I can’t offer any explanation. If I’d been older I would have asked my father (and others!) a lot more questions and probably written up the account. Maybe he was just particularly sensitive and picked up on the sadness of those times.

Most amazing of all, I’ve found that almost everyone I’ve ever known can tell me a similar story…. Is it really paranormal – or just another facet of reality?

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann, for more details watch this space!

When I was young, I really, really didn’t like school. And few things put hell into me more than hearing some well meaning adult say that schooldays were the happiest days of one’s life. They weren’t – not for me, not for Mr Penry, and not for our children, by and large, either.

The only thing I really enjoyed about school was the learning. I really did like finding out things – and I still do. In fact, the more I learn, the more I realise how much I didn’t know in the first place. My father always said this was the true essence of education; only the ignorant think they know it all already.

Of course, school isn’t the only place where we learn things. Life teaches us a great deal. So does falling in love – for better or worse! My father had an excellent library of occult books which I found fascinating; some had previously belong to a defrocked priest. And I have been buying books on virtually any subject that interests me ever since I first had pocket money. Sometimes I have to find new homes for them (danger signs are when they are piled up on the floor in front of the bookcases) and then it’s like saying goodbye to an old friend. But it has to be done otherwise I’d go mad. I’ve always promised myself that if I ever win the lottery I will have a house with its own library!

It’s raining here today. So no gardening for the moment. On the other hand, the garden gets thirsty, so I can’t begrudge it. And Nature is still doing her gardening, regardless of the weather. If it eases off later I’ll pop out for a few minutes and see what’s been going on.

Meanwhile, I’ve always got plenty of books to read….

My first attempt at the 'new look' blog.... not quite as I intended it, but I've a little more confidence to play around now.
Have tried several times to insert the code for the moonphase but it doesn't seem to work.

Never mind, I'll keep trying!

I have been playing around with the design of my blog and think I have found something workable but I would very mch appreciate some advice....

1. I have now one 'activated' blog and one which isn't (but I would like to try.) Do I just press 'Activate' to use this new design?

2.Is there any way of previewing it?

3. Can I change back if I don't like it?

4. Will anything dire happen?

5. I have an html code I would like to use for moonphases - but how do I insert this?

Thanks in advance - I appreciate the help!

It's just gone 3 o'Clock and I have just got in from the garden. I had a bad fall a few years ago and today my knee feels as though it's caught fire. However, I've managed to plant up two hanging baskets, a load of autumn croci, narcissi and tulips. I've also cleared a large tub, planted up some geranium cuttings and reseeded the lawn. I still have some more to plant but to be honest I am just knackered. Old age comes at a bad time, as they say.

On a practical level gardening with nature, for me, involves a great deal of thinking. Just standing, looking, thinking, shifting over a bit, thinking, listening.... you get the picture. I've never been able to just dive into things and get on with it. I have to stand around waiting for something to come at me out of the ether and then I will get on with it.

It was like that today. A very slow start, wandering here and there, wondering which bulbs to plant in which spot - what would they like? Added to which, gardening while you have four dogs bounding around trying to help isn't easy.

Homer started it. He pitched into a rose bush and bit off a shoot. Thorns don't seem to bother him. Then he got himself on top of a staddle stone and got stuck and since he weighs a good 30kg (if not more) he's heavy to shift. Then Barney went and widdled all over my bag of compost. And Ben followed.

Yet I always feel the presence of Something in my garden. I try to explain that I'm sorry about cutting things back but it has to be done. Otherwise all that would grow in the garden is brambles and creeping buttercup. Although I like a certain amount of wildness in a garden, gardening with nature isn't totally laissez faire - it's about trying to collaborate to bring out the best in the earth and the green.

I'm really tired now so I am going to rest and hopefully catch up with your blogs later. Please bear with me!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

I am off into the garden to do some bulb planting, grass sowing and general odd jobs while the weather is dry enough. Shall post more later!

Years ago, if you lived (as I did) in a family with a fairly active line in occult activity, you learned a most of the Craft as you went along. Actually I am not too fond of that word Craft, but I’m not really sure what else to call it. The Skill? The Ability? The Enterprise? (No, that last one sounds like something from the Mafia.)

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that it was a bit like an apprenticeship. You watched, you learned (both what to do and what NOT to do) and you gradually built up a store of knowledge of your own. Nowadays it’s very different. I sometimes write on the occult and paganism for magazines and it always amazes me how some of them want something ‘Hands on’ which appears to be simply a euphemism for ‘cut the crap and just give us a spell.’ A short cut, in other words.

Well, unfortunately, (or maybe fortunately!) Nature is not a magazine editor. She works to her own deadlines in her own good way. Think of her as an old fashioned teacher, the ‘chalk and talk’ type, who stood at the blackboard and imparted knowledge. You could learn – provided you listened.

So when you start gardening with nature spirits, it pays to get into the habit of listening. Admittedly it’s easier in a flower strewn meadow than it is on the edge of an urban car park, but it CAN be done. Just sit there. Don’t do anything. Be.

In our modern and hectic world, the idea of doing nothing fills many people with a sense of guilt. It shouldn’t. There are times when you should be busy and industrious – and times when you need rest. And there are times when you should just sit quiet and see what comes.

Think back to a time when you were ill. When the world shrank to the size of your pillow. We know the world didn’t really decrease in size –it just felt as though it did. Sometimes illnesses force us to take a turning we might otherwise have missed. A few years ago I lost the sight in one eye – quite suddenly really. One moment it was fine, the next there was a large purple splodge across my vision, and from then on it was downhill all the way. Never mind reading the letters on the optician’s chart, I couldn’t even be certain where the wall was!

I was lucky that eventually most of the sight did return. It took a long time and made me face up to my own frailties, my sudden need to rely on others. When I did finally regain my independence, I would like to think I was a somewhat chastened by my experience.

This fits in well with working with nature spirits. I can’t tell you ‘Sit out in the garden and say XYZ and the fairies will come and do all the work for you,’ because clearly that’s nonsense. What I can say is, ‘Sit and listen. See what comes.’ Because something will come. You’ve just got to learn to tune in to it.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

Today looks like being reasonable weather. Not really sunny, not really warm, but reasonable. I’m happy to settle for that. It’s time to get out into the garden with the secateurs and gardening gloves. I’ve got bluebells, croci, daffodils etc. to plant. And things to cut down.

Normally I am not a great one for pruning things. Normally I like a bit of benign neglect in a garden – let’s face it with four great dogs lolloping around I don’t actually have a lot of choice. Last winter my lawn looked like the Somme. But today I know I have to be a bit drastic. The Rowan tree needs pruning, it looks as though it’s trying to get into the house, and the rhododendrons are about twelve feet high and rising. They need a bit of a trim. So it’s into the garage to find a saw.

I always feel guilty when I have to use the saw. I don’t like doing it. I’m sure the tree doesn’t like me doing it either. But it’s got to be done. And afterwards, when the garden is covered in bits and bobs and I’ve got a demented Bassett Hound running amok in the middle of it, I’ve got to cut it all up and get rid of it. Some will be cut into nice little logs for Halloween and Bonfire night. Mr Penry, like so many Valley’s Boys, is very fond of his bonfires. It fulfils some deep primeval need, I think.

Mr Penry yesterday bought me a bench for down in the garden; it’s tucked away near the hedge so it’s nice and secluded. I love sitting out there in the garden and now that I’ve got a couple of benches I can move around as the mood takes me. I’m busy writing at the moment, which is lonely at the best of times and I don’t like being indoors for too long, so the benches are ideal.

Being in the garden isn’t just ideal for writing, however. If you want to start gardening with the nature spirits, this is the way to start. Forget reading a book (or a blog!) and get outside. In a park, in the garden, anywhere you can see a bit of greenery. In medieval times the monastery cloister was believed to be conducive to learning and meditation because of the colour green. It’s the same for us. We need to see a bit of green too.

When we first moved here some years ago, the garden was a wilderness. I mean really, really overgrown. It was unbelievable. There were brambles as thick as my wrist, I half expected them to reach out and attack me. When we turned up with the removal van I had a pair of secateurs and a pruning knife hanging from my belt!

Our neighbour, Mrs Anubis Evans was determined to offer advice. ‘Use weed killer!’ she yelled. ‘Cut down that hedge a bit!’ (so she could better nose into my garden, I suspect.) ‘Put down plenty of slug pellets!’ But I had no desire to enrol in her Slash and Burn School of Gardening, so I just waited, knowing that the garden itself would tell me what it needed, what it wanted.

For this place had once been loved. And Something loved it still. This is important. No matter how overgrown and unkempt a place looks, Something still loves it. The main garden (where the dogs play) was buzzing with insects and birds, and all that drowsy sweetness that autumn brings in its wake. Whenever the weather permitted (which wasn’t often) I would wander outside and sit there. Sometimes I would just stand there in the middle of what had once been a lawn but was now a jungle and say aloud, ‘Where the hell do I start?’

But this wasn’t a cry of despair. It was an appeal for help. And one thing about working with Nature is that if you ask for help, She answers.

So bit by bit I started getting messages. Communications. Advice. Trim this back, it’s strong, it’ll grow again. Go easy with that, it’s fragile. Cut away here, look beneath, there are plants struggling to grow….It was astonishing. The following summer the garden was a riot of colour and activity and I had hardly planted anything, just allowed it to be itself.

In the years since I have planted many things. Some work, some don’t. I don’t like to cut back unless I have to. I try to plant what the garden needs and wants. Because we live on a mountainside the garden is on several different levels, each with its own likes and dislikes. There are parts where Nature takes charge, parts where I am given a little more control. And there is one past, the waste ground, which I have so far left well alone. ‘Someone’ likes it there.

I upgraded to Pro today (basically because I'd like to post some more pictures). I may well eventually fathom out how to make the Blog look more visually interesting (but given that it's taken weeks for me to put smilicons into my comments replies, I may be in for a long wait.)

I have a few pictures I would like to post (when I get the scanner to work) which are definitely of the supernatural variety. So hopefully these will feature in the blog before too long.

Apart from that it's been a busy day but fun. Well, apart from the fact the car's radiator seems to have sprung a leak...

Here he is.... our little Bassett, he just couldn't wait another day! The youngest of the family, he is just over a year old and quite a character.

Despite his small stature (well, compared to a St Bernard, anyway) this little fellow is a giant in every other way. Named Homer (after the poet)he has some very big ideas and sees himself as the Mr Big of the puppy world. He bosses Ben and Barney around shamelessly, and Florence thinks he's wonderful. So do we.

This is Florence, who at nine years of age is a venerable St Bernard.

She likes to be known as The Dowager Duchess Florence. We had her as a rescue at eight months old - she had been badly treated and was considered out of control. If the truth be known she was just considerably more intelligent than her owners.

Florence is adorable. She has a huge character - is bossy, funny, kind, naughty... and even now (because nine is pretty old for the breed) can give the others a run for their money around the garden. She doesn't like men - apart from Mr Penry whom she positively idolises. If she were a woman (or I a St Bernard) I would be extremely jealous.

She has been a remarkable Mama to the puppies, keeping them in order, teaching them to bark at the postman, showing them how to be great warriors. She likes literature, fashion, and all the elves in Lord of the Rings Part II. Florence's talents are simply endless and without parallel. (Oh, and she also dictated the text of this post! )

Here is another one of my dogs, Ben. He is a bit older than Barney and the two are great friends. He too is Welsh, allegedly bi-lingual but all he's actually interested in is the language of Love. According to Ben he was put on the planet for one purpose only - to love and be loved. He has the softest coat I have ever known on an adult dog, and he spends a lot of time standing on a chair so he can put his head on my shoulder and one arm on my waist. He also sings a lot.

Ben is a dear little boy, not as tall or heavily built as Barney and he gets a bit bullied by the others who sometimes think he's a bit wet. But as he tells them, 'All you need is love....'

Just as the year moves in seasons, so our lives seem to move in cycles and tides. Sometimes we find ourselves passionately interested in something, then leave that and move on to something else, only to return to the original interest a few years later.

It’s a lot like that with paganism (and probably other beliefs too, but I’m just writing about what I know from personal experience.) You may be really keen on the idea for a few months or even years, then it will move out of focus and other things may become more important in your life. Then suddenly paganism seems to move back into view again.

I think these cycles are good for us although some people will tell you to fight against them because it helps you stay focused. I don’t agree – find a good path in life is all about keeping a sensible balance. Too much reality and our lives become spiritually bereft. Too much spirituality and we risk losing touch with the world around us.

This is probably the reason why I’ve never been keen on the idea of going and looking for converts. The best conversions are self motivated, where we begin by seeking and end (hopefully) by finding. Some people will tell you that pagans never go looking for converts – well, maybe in an ideal world that’s true, but some certainly do. Basically it’s all about power, about making others believe what you want them to.

There’s a big difference between sharing and converting. Here on this blog I like to share what I’ve experienced and I like to discuss these things with like minded (and some not-so-like minded!) souls. But I’m just not interested in trying to persuade anyone that my way is better than someone else’s. In my view a spiritual pathway is a bit like a map – leave it hanging around and maybe someone else can use it.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

Here is a photo of Barney who was stung by a bee on the weekend. His face swelled up and he looked rather strange for a day or so, but I'm pleased to report he is back to his old self. He is a very sweet little boy (almost two years old now), and bilingual (he says he prefers Welsh however).

Phillip over at Life’s Lessons sent me a fascinating link yesterday, which I will reproduce here:

http://www.duirwaighgallery.com/inspiration_duirwaighfilms.php?section=172#

Scroll down that page and click on the little film, it’s quite lovely. It also set me thinking – what is it about modern life that makes so many people turn towards these mythical worlds? Yes, I know there's always been a longing towards a 'Golden Age' a time in the past when life was supposed to be so much better, but this is slightly different, - an Age that we have never known in a world few of us visit.

The idea of being called towards an identity isn't specific to paganism. I think it can be found in social sciences too, the idea of being 'interpellated' by an image of the self that we aspire to. My own call came when I was very young, and I was sitting on a hillside. I remember it quite clearly and even if the sceptics out there don't accept that the voice I heard came from another world, the social scientists among them might accept that in some way I was interpellated and then hastened towards a self image I found attractive.

I had always, for as long as I can remember inhabited these dual worlds of fantasy and reality, a bit like you see in the film on the link above. As far as I was concerned it was all quite normal and at first I thought it was the same for everyone. It was quite a shock to the system to realise that no, most people didn’t have conversations with trees or wander into enchanted landscapes. I was quite definitely on my own there!

I tried very hard to conform as I grew older, but the green world always called me. (And by 'green' I'm not talking about saving the planet, or recycling or cutting down on carbon footprints. I mean the green, living world, which mankind is permitted to enter but not control.) Sometimes the call was insistent, at other times it seemed to come from far, far away. But it was always there, no matter where I travelled or what I did. In the end I just went with the flow and returned to my magical green world because it seemed the most natural place for me to be.

I often took my family with me too. Children in particular can accept these green worlds quite easily. Instead of questioning, ‘Is this real? Am I seeing things?’ they just seem to accept it and get on with the experience. I never tried to force it on anyone – you can’t. All you can do is invite others to the gateway and then it’s up to them whether they want to enter.

I’m not the ‘fluffybunny’ type (though I love rabbits!) I’m too cynical, sceptical, and a fully paid up member of the Awkward Brigade much of the time. I know I have to live most of my life in this world because that’s the way things are. I also know that the green world is only a whisper away.

Those images that you will see if you look at the film mentioned above are literally there with you – if you want them. The world is a more mysterious place than most of us could possibly imagine. As children we know this. We accept it. It’s only as we grow older that we become too embarrassed to live by the truths that were once so important to us.

It’s sad really. As children we find the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow. As adults we throw it away and settle for a plastic bucket full of ashes instead.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

It’s surprising how psychic activity seems to pick up around the time of a new or full moon. I’m not sure why this should be, but I’ve noticed there seems to be something in it.

At the moment our clocks are going wild. They are stopping and starting, skipping an hour or two, gaining and losing time. It’s weird. They do this for a few days and then calm down again. The centre of most of this activity is our front room, although it does happen all over the house. But the front room is particularly ‘busy.’

When we first moved here we had a noticeable cold spot at the foot of the stairs. It was just like passing through a bath of iced water. But strangest of all was the way entities seemed to come and go through this area. It was some sort of gateway between worlds – there is another out in the garden. These gateways can be areas of intense psychic activity on times.

Now I know there are going to be people reading this who do not believe in ghosts, and I don’t have a problem with that. It may be, after all, that they haven’t had the sort of experiences with the supernatural that I have. I certainly am not the sort of person to jump to the conclusion that something has been caused by the supernatural unless I’ve thoroughly investigated every other option I can think of.

Sometimes this means trying to replicate sounds or events. For example, at one time we used to hear a bell ringing somewhere downstairs in the house. This should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever been in my house, for there are bells everywhere. Large, small, nautical, even a great chapel bell for serious purification work.

So my first task when we heard a bell ringing for no apparent reason was to go round the house and try to find out which bell it was. None of them were ringing. None were vibrating. None were at the same pitch as the bell that had rung. There were several of us in the house at the time; we wrote up an account of the event for my journal and left it at that. Often supernatural events have no clear reasoning behind them – sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.

Just as some people don’t believe in ghosts, there are also many who don’t believe in what mediums do. I have to admit that some mediums really do seem to stretch the limits of my belief. What they say is so vague and nebulous it can probably apply to 70% of the audience at any given time. But what am I to make of my husband, who is one of the most accurate mediums I have ever seen?

I mean, when he does a reading he not only gives a first name but middle names and surnames too. The only time I’ve ever seen him a bit tentative was with a foreign name he had never encountered before – but he still managed to come up with a name that the relative recognised.

For us these magical happenings are fairly commonplace. For others they may be a novelty and I accept that for some people they are a complete unknown. There IS a lot more to life than meets the eye – and there are also, unfortunately a lot of charlatans and rogues who want to rip people off.

The greatest defence we have against these latter is common sense. Keep an open mind – and keep your eyes open too!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

A few days ago I wrote describing my own experience of being hexed. It was a nasty experience, but I think the greatest shock to me was that although I knew my mother could and did hex others, I really didn’t think she would do it to her own daughter – particularly considering that I was nine months pregnant at the time.

But this is to underestimate the nature of hexing. It renders you powerful… and power itself can be very unsettling. Power in the hands of people who are simply not ready for it – whether such power be magical, religious or temporal – is dangerous. Normally we have to undergo lengthy training before any amount of power comes our way. We need this preparation in order to use power properly.

Years ago it wasn’t all that easy to find out such things unless you happened to come from a family or know someone who already had such knowledge and was happy to pass it on to you. Nowadays there are hundreds of books out there, all purporting to tell you exactly what you need to know.

Well, yes and no. Some books undoubtedly do give you a great deal of useful information. But they cannot give you the discipline you need to make good use of it. So much in magic revolves around intention – I don’t personally believe in ‘black’ or ‘white’ magic as such. You can use virtually any type of magic for either good or evil purposes depending on your intention. If the friend or family member who was teaching you was responsible, they measured what they taught against how you handled it. A book cannot do this.

But my mother and her family grew up in an era without books, when knowledge was passed on by word of mouth only (the whole lot of them had an almost pathological hatred of books). Yet they still managed to be extremely irresponsible in the way they worked. Presumably this was because at some point back in the mists of time the whole ethos became twisted. There was no thought for being responsible, and no boundaries that would make sense to anyone outside the family. Instead of carefully considering all the options they developed an ‘I can do it therefore I will’. This spilled over into their daily lives too, because I don’t believe you can have genuine, strong ethical magical principles while at the same time living a life that denies all these. Don’t tell me to avoid personal gain and to make sure I harm nobody while at the same time pursuing a part time career as an armed robber!

So how can we instil a sense of responsibility along with magical/occult mentality knowledge? I don’t know. A balance has to be found but at the end of the day it’s all down to accountability. You make a mess, magical or otherwise, you clear it up.

If you play with fire you get burned. If you play with hexing – you’ll get hurt eventually.

What is it with secrets? Why do so many people find it impossible to keep them? Why do they feel a need to share a secret having solemnly promised never to divulge it to another living soul?

I don’t pretend to understand this one. To me, a secret is a secret. You only tell if keeping the secret is going to seriously harm someone. If you can’t keep it then you should tell the person who is about to confide in you that –

(a) you cannot keep a secret
(b) you are the most indiscreet person on the planet
(c) while you normally can keep a secret, on this occasion because of the particular circumstances you would rather not.

Huge harm can be done by divulging other people’s secrets. Come to think of it, some pretty gigantic harm can be done by divulging your own, too. Look in the agony aunt’s pages, you will almost always find a letter that reads:
‘I have just slept with my husband’s brother/best man/sister/a hippopotamus; now I am wracked with guilt and wish to confess all. Should I tell my husband?’

The answer, in 99% of all cases should definitely be NO. Not if you think you have a good chance of getting away with it. It’s a secret between you and the best man, brother, sister (or hippopotamus, although they are the least of your worries, being known for their tact and ability to keep secrets.) Stay schtum. If you really are wracked with guilt then don’t do it again.

What you mustn’t do – above all – is to confide your secret to a third party. You cannot expect to tell your friend and swear her to a secrecy you were unable to keep yourself. Think of it – the stakes are nothing like as high for your friend as they are for you. You have that much more to lose.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

Well, it must be one of those days…. I came back from Cardiff and there was Mrs Anubis Evans’ shed – gone!! Those of you familiar with Wenglish (the strange language spoken up in the valleys of South Wales) will regard this as perfectly normally construction. Everybody else will probably think I’m drunk (I’m not. I swear).

I cannot believe it. The sulphurous yellow landmark is no more! What is this world coming to? To make matters even more surreal I have just spotted Mrs Anubis Evans standing on Ground Zero (I swear, it looks like something huge has collapsed in her garden) with a trowel and a bucket. She looks somewhat lost and forlorn.

So the Sixty Four thousand dollar question must be – what is she going to put in its place? So far the local betting is as follows:

100 – 1 : A nice natural wooden shed
50 – 1 : An outdoor toilet
25 – 1 : A border full of plastic flowers
10 – 1 : An underground bunker
5 – 1 : Another bright yellow shed
2 – 1 (favourite) : An amazing technicolour shed with outdoor toilet and plastic flower surround.
I’ll keep you posted….

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

While Mr Sarcophagus Jones vents his considerable spleen on his garden with axe and Astroturf, Mrs Anubis Evans has been clearing out her yellow shed. For six weeks. I know, I’ve counted. Well, this is the Land of the Twitching Curtains…

She has about five sheds of varying degree of decrepitude, but the others have been locked all summer. Only the yellow one merits her attention at present. The local rag and bone men have been out to her house once a week and the rubbish they pull out of that shed is more than the bloody thing could ever have held without collapsing. It’s like the magician’s trick where he keeps pulling rabbits, doves and bouquets of flowers out of a top hat.

Of course it’s none of my business, but The Anubis Evans shed exerts a horrible fascination over me at the moment. Its sulphurous yellow roof acts like a magnet, I swear it even glows in the dark. Maybe she’s got radioactive waste in there or something…. Maybe it’s the entrance to Middle Earth….

At any rate, tear myself away I must this morning, with a trip to Cardiff, the great metrollups. I don’t like cities all that much but it’s a nice day and hopefully I’ll be able to find a parking space without too much trouble.

Right, now to find the car keys.....

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

The last time I was hexed I ended up in hospital. It was probably my own fault for not taking the threat seriously. I should have known better, seeing that the hexer was my mother and I had already seen at close quarters what she could do.

It’s surprising when you say things like this to people just how many have experienced something similar in their own lives. Of course if you haven’t then the very idea of being attack psychically is going to seem faintly ridiculous, if not totally mad. But the fact is that in my experience, an awful lot of people have either had direct experience of it, or know someone who has.

This is where I part company with the‘An it harm none, do as thou wilt’ brigade. Live in the real world. There are people out there doing harm on a physical level and getting away with it, and it doesn’t take a huge leap of imagination to realise some are doing exactly the same on a psychic level.
Also you don’t even need to be fully aware of what you’re doing in order to launch a pretty scary attack on a third party.

But back to the last time I was hexed. I was nine months pregnant and I was preoccupied with the coming baby. Probably I wasn’t paying attention to what was happening around me (normally, believe me, I do). I had gone out for a walk when I felt this terrible burning pain in my back. It was quite incredible, like having a red hot rivet pushed into the spine. I remember looking back and seeing my mother standing in a window staring at me. There was no mistaking that look – I’d seen in many times before and knew what it meant. She was hexing me.

Now at this point I can well understand if the more sceptical among you think that the whole thing was brought on by fear, but I wasn’t afraid of her. I had my own powers but on this occasion these weren’t enough. She had caught me off guard for once, a bit like being ambushed. I was nowhere near her house and hadn’t expected her to see me (she was visiting a friend).

Within three days I was in hospital awaiting emergency surgery on my back – and no, the baby hadn’t been born yet. When she was, she was born with a birthmark on her back (and we aren’t a family that seems to have birthmarks) – in exactly the same place as I had felt the hex on my own back.

Being hexed was a pretty horrible experience. It’s not like simply being ill or needing treatment. There is a dark, violent core within a hex, something utterly malevolent and destructive.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

Why do we always feel so guilty about relaxing? My neighbour Mr Sarcophagus Jones is a good example. He is like the original blue arsed fly – always flitting somewhere, always busy and on the go…. And what does he achieve? Well, his garden is now so over-gardened that virtually nothing will grow there any more. Even the lawn gave up and he has installed some Astroturf this year.

He is now cladding every available area of stonework with plastic. You have never seen anything like it. In this part of the world there is plenty of stone – full of character, great to work with. But this isn’t good enough for Sarcophagus Jones. Oh no. Out comes the two by one battening and he’s off, covering everything in plastic cladding and when there’s nothing left to cover he builds some more walls and covers those.

Our local master wall-builder, Mog the Brick is horrified. Whenever he spots old Sarcophagus nowadays he’s foaming at the mouth. For those of you new to this blog, Mog is the greatest layer of natural stone the planet has probably ever seen. And Sarcophagus Jones learned his trade from a Master of the Dark Arts.

But I digress. The most worrying thing about all this endless activity is the fact that I just cannot see when my neighbour ever relaxes. I don’t know him well enough to ask why this should be. But look around and you will see that many people have the same problem (although not all resort to Astroturf and plastic as a solution.) They simply cannot relax. And when they do, they feel guilty.

My other half is a very laid back sort of bloke and always has been. Every year, his New Year’s Resolution is the same: Take it Easy. And he’s got a point. The opposite of selfish isn’t selfless – it’s doormat. Because selfish is one extreme – the other is the doormat who allows others to trample his or her dreams.

Most of us of a certain age were brought up to think that we should put others first. That it was somehow wrong to ever go after our own desires. Nowadays we are told that society is heading the opposite way, breeding a load of selfish brats who wouldn’t understand altruism if it came up and shoved a wet fish down their cardigan. The trouble is, that the selfish brats don’t take notice of criticism. They are so wrapped up in their own little world, such legends in their own lunchtime that they never think it applies to them.

The doormats however, are horrified. At the opposite end of the spectrum they believe it MUST apply to them, and so hurry to lay down their lives just that little bit more.

Now stop it. This is your life. There’s no dress rehearsal. No matter what we may believe about an afterlife (or lack of it) there’s no way we are supposed to make ourselves invisible just so that others can have what they want. All that talk about it being better to give than to receive – just think about it… if nobody was willing to receive how the heck could anybody give?

So don’t be afraid to relax. To indulge. To take on board W.H. Davies’ words ‘What is this life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?’ Put down what you’re doing. Stop it. Decide to have a few minutes every day that are just for you. It doesn’t matter what you do with them . Do nothing if you like – they’re your minutes.

And in case you’re wondering, here is the rest of the poem:

"LEISURE"

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Okay, sermon over. Go and have fun – and then PLEASE – come back here and tell me what you did!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

I’m not a magus, high priestess or Great Lady of the Greenwood. I don’t dress in black, wear pentacle earrings or exclaim ‘Oh goddess!’ when I drop a brick on my foot. In fact, I’d probably get lost in a crowd of three, and that’s just the way I like it. If you passed me in the street you wouldn’t give me a second look. You certainly wouldn’t think I was a witch or that I had taught magic for several decades.

Now I don’t know what your personal view of magic is. Most people fall into one of the following categories:
1. I believe wholeheartedly.
2. I think it’s possible but I haven’t done magic myself and I don’t intend to.
3. The very idea of magic freaks me out. You shouldn’t dabble.
4. I think it’s a load of rubbish and anyone who believes in it is mentally deficient.
5. Magic doesn’t exist.

All these viewpoints exist – and more. I can only ever write from my own point of view and I believe in magic because (a) I’ve witnessed it happening (b) I’ve done it myself. Believe me, I’ve looked for other explanations. After all, believing in magic wasn’t exactly something you’d admit to until a few years ago. After so long keeping my magical interests confined to those who could be trusted not to laugh or string my up on the nearest gallows, I must say it’s come as a nice surprise.

Over the years my students of magic have come in all shapes and sizes, all ages and backgrounds. But until recently, I’ve always been very reluctant to teach teenagers. It’s not that I feel they’re too immature to understand magical concepts. Not at all. If a teenager can cope with school, juggle exams, a part time job and learning to drive they can cope just as well with elementary magic as someone ten years older. No, my problem is not their understanding nor their maturity. What worries me is their power.

You see, whether we like it or not, children and teenagers are already doing magic under our noses. Older students can take years to get to grips with visualisation, but five year olds have been generating thought forms ever since they could first create an imaginary friend or play games of make believe.

So teaching magic to the average adolescent is a bit like trying to tame a wild horse: exhilarating yes, but also exhausting and occasionally dangerous. Many teenagers are brimming over with so much power that if they start dabbling in magic without proper guidance they could well blow a psychic fuse – theirs or someone else’s!

So for years I refused to teach teens. Even when they asked me nicely. But over the years I realised that I was being unfair. Yes, they were powerful, they were challenging, but without proper guidance they were extremely vulnerable. And proper tuition, geared to their specific needs is not all that easy to come by.

Now it’s a sad fact of life that there are plenty of people who will exploit you. Some garages will exploit you when your car needs vital repairs, politicians will exploit you when they think they’ve got your vote in their pocket. And there are ‘Teachers of Magick’ who will exploit a young person’s desire to learn, knowing they are limited in their choice of teachers.

Despite the grand titles they award themselves, such teachers are often not all that experienced and some have a very unbalanced view of magic. Many see spells as the answer to all life’s problems so the moment they spot something that could be remotely described as a crisis they whip out their Book of Shadows and start looking for an incantation to deal with it. Some even see magical attacks and manufacture ‘witch wars’ where none really exist.

On the other hand, there are those who try and occupy the moral high ground and say that you should never use magic. Some of these are so timid they cast around for other solutions ad nauseum in the hope that something – anything – will suggest itself and they won’t have to do anything magical about it.

Both extremes rather miss the point. If you want to do magic, you have to practice it and you have to learn about it thoroughly, not just play around with wands and athames and pretty crystals. You wouldn’t dream of dabbling with plumbing or rewiring the house afer all. It’s the same with magic; you have to know what you’re doing. But unless you have a family member or close friend willing to train you, you are thrown back on your own resources. Often this means your only option is looking for ‘Teen Wicca’ books in your local library. And that’s always supposing these books are in stock; the head librarian in my local library refuses to display books on paganism (or, weirdly, car maintenance) ‘in case the wrong people read them.’

Even if you do manage to find some basic books on ‘teen magic’ you have to realise their limitations. Most will teach a variety of spells but not the real ‘how and why’ that underpins all good magical practice and almost all of them have a strong bias towards Wicca which is not the be all and end all of magic. There are other, equally valid paths.

What sort of magic can people do? Almost anything, it depends what interests you. I had an aunt who did weather spells. (I don’t know why, it wasn’t as though any of the family went to sea and needed a fair wind to bring them home.) One of my grandmothers could charm warts. Another family member can change traffic lights and I’ve seen people put out street lamps by simply walking under them and ‘thinking them out.’

Before rushing off to try and turn your annoying little brother into a frog, however, remember that although you have power, at the moment it’s an untrained force. Teenagers and magic are a bit like teenagers and powerful cars – a dangerous combination. Psychically you may be powerful, but mentally you could be just as untidy as your bedrooms. Trying to perform magic while your head is full of mental and emotional clutter is like going fishing with high explosives rather than a rod and line!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

While down at the beach yesterday I did a spell with my family and afterwards we noticed a number of portents, signs that seemed to come right up to us and grab our attention. When you follow a pagan path the unusual (and sometimes downright bizarre) often seems to happen around you, but to others the very idea of looking for and interpreting ‘signs’ is very difficult to accept. You need an open mind, yes, but you need a healthy dose of common sense too.

Part of the problem is that paganism is not the united front it likes to pretend. It’s basically an umbrella term covering a huge variety of beliefs, ideas and practices. And in spite of the ‘an it harm none’ and ‘don’t interfere with free will’ maxims, they’re not all that tolerant of each other. What one group believes, another might ridicule. Pretty much like the rest of humanity, really.

In this blog I can only speak for myself and my own path. I look for signs around me as a matter of course, but can appreciate that not everyone does – nor wants to. And sometimes I feel that I walk a tightrope between two extremes – Those who see signs everywhere, and those who never see them at all, or constantly require more proof.

Both extremes have their problems. Those who see signs everywhere, all the time, may well have open minds, but sometimes I think they can be too gullible for their own good. I see signs – but I’ve never left behind my rather crusty nature which hesitates before rushing in to declare something a sign from the gods/nature/whatever. I always think the supernatural can benefit from a healthy dose of scepticism. Look for sensible explanations first, and only when they’ve all been exhausted will I even begin to consider a supernatural one. Indeed my journals are packed with various ‘spooky’ experiences, (some I wouldn’t even print here because the men in white coats might turn up at the door and carry me off! ) These accounts always include how I went about trying to recreate them and find a normal explanation. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. The important thing is that I don’t jump to conclusions – that way lies real paranoia.

At the other extreme are two groups which at first sight appear very similar but are in fact quite different. The first group just won’t accept anything. No matter what proofs you can find, they don’t want to know. Their minds are closed for a variety of reasons and I can accept that. Sometimes it’s simply due to lack of experience. If you haven’t experienced the supernatural for yourself, how can you be expected to accept it? It’s a fair point, I don’t have any problem with it. It’s certainly not up to me (or anyone else) to shove my beliefs (or lack of them) down anyone else’s throat.

The second group is probably the one I have the most trouble with. It’s the group that simply cannot get enough. No matter what proofs appear, they always want more. The problem I have with people like this is that they drain all the energy out of me. One more rune reading, one more sign, one more spell…

This is quite different from those who just don’t believe. This second group wants to be a permanent centre of attention, a legend in their own lunchtime, always demanding more, more, more until sometimes I wonder that the gods don’t deliver their own form of reprimand. And of course, sometimes that’s exactly what happens…

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

I don't normally write more than one post a day, but this is just to say I will be back later since I am off for an early morning swim down the beach.

Any report of a large whale seen floundering off the Welsh coastline should therefore be totally disregarded.....

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

Religion is a funny old thing. Nobody wants to admit to having it. Instead many people, of all religious creeds, claim that theirs is a spiritual path.

Is there any real difference? I’m not sure. I suspect there is, seeing that so many people seem to want to disassociate themselves with religion. What is it though that makes people feel that a spiritual path is preferable?

Well, this is something I can only answer for myself – and I accept that my answer today might be different from my answer last month or my answer next year. For me, a spiritual path implies a certain amount of choice and flexibility. Religion however is often associated with a more fixed set of beliefs. And with a fixed set of beliefs often comes a fixed mindset, something that resists change even when its position has become untenable. I don’t think that we, as human beings, are ever going to have all the questions, let alone all the answers. I don’t trust politicians or religious leaders who claim otherwise.

So a path lets me wander. It lets me go at my own pace and discover for myself what goals I should set myself. Its weak point is that because it is flexible, it is open to manipulation by the unscrupulous. Relativism (which here I basically take to mean everything is equally valid) is great in theory but can lead to ‘1984’ situations. Once you lose your grip on what you believe someone else will step in and tell you that their beliefs are better than yours.

I think this explains the rise in solitary paganism/wicca/witchcraft/whatever. I am a solitary witch because I really prefer it that way. I can go at my own pace, set my own goals, and yes, make my own mistakes. I’m not forced to include a drum in my rituals if I don’t want to, I don’t have to wear fancy robes or go skyclad; I don’t have to do anything I don’t want. In fact, I don’t have to do anything at all. And there of course, is the rub. It’s all up to me at the end of the day. DO I want a spiritual path? Is the one I have worth following? Again – it’s up to me to answer those questions.

Pagans are often criticised for being too vague in their beliefs. Paganism is a huge umbrella term covering many shades of faith. Deep down there is something spiritual in most of us. Although it may never manifest itself as a spiritual path, or as a religion, it’s still there. Think of it as a tiny flame – a heart’s flame. We have the means of fanning that flame into life ourselves, or merely keeping it as it is, if we prefer. Then there are people who barge into your life and promise to ignite the flame for you, stamping on your heart’s flame and trying to light their own in its place. Sometimes all they succeed in doing is destroying the flames altogether.

Whether we consider we’re on a spiritual path or part of a religion is entirely up to us – and so it should be. But this is not a cop out. I firmly believe that if we are on a spiritual path we should be capable of defending it. It’s not good enough to say ‘This is what I believe, you mustn’t question this.’ Indeed, a good spiritual path encourages you to question yourself regularly. If you don’t you run the risk of dancing after the first charlatan that comes along and promises you enlightenment.

Minds are like umbrellas – they work best when they’re open.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

Not all ‘ghosts’ are spirits of the dead and not all the dead come back as ghosts. Sometimes you get poltergeist activity, which is sometimes classed as a ghost, but which actually seems to revolve around one or two individuals. Sometimes what is classed as ‘mischief’ is simply a spirit’s way of getting our attention. After all, if you can’t be seen or heard, what else can you do?

Many people’s first reaction to haunting (however caused) is to want it exorcised or cleansed. Personally I always advise waiting a bit, unless the malevolence is so marked that the situation has become an emergency (and yes, it happens). It’s a bit like keeping your home clean: there’s clean and there’s CLEAN if you get my meaning. If you’re the sort of person who douses the place in disinfectant and bleach, then you’re going to want a spotless psychic environment too. If like me, you can tolerate a certain amount of mess and untidiness, you won’t.

In fact, atmospheres which are totally sterile in a psychic sense aren’t all that good for you. This is because you become careless; you rely on cleanliness when you should be relying on care. You do have to be careful when dealing with ghosts and entities – but you don’t have to be terrified. On the contrary, if you are terrified you attract the mischievous entities like honey attracts wasps, and they can make your life utter hell. There are bullies in the psychic world, just as there are in the physical one.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

I’ve mentioned several times on this blog about living in a haunted house in a haunted area. Actually, I don’t think it’s all that unusual. Almost everyone I’ve ever spoken too has seen or heard something ‘ghostly’ in their home at some time or another.

That said, some houses are more haunted than others. Some are nicely haunted, meaning you don’t feel threatened, others have a real pall of gloom and doom about them. When I first went to view this house I went with one of my daughters and we immediately fell in love with it. Yes, there was ‘something’ here, but it wasn’t unpleasant, in fact it felt quite welcoming.

Then my husband came to view it, with three of our daughters, including the one who had come with me. This time the house seemed positively hostile and darkly malevolent. They said they felt glad to get out of the place in one piece and all sorts of strange spooky phenomena seemed to have followed them home.

We still – for a variety of reasons – moved here. We realised the house had some kind of gateway in it (and two more outside) which meant there was a lot of psychic movement to and fro. There are hostile ghosts just as there are hostile people. We made it clear we didn’t mind the gateway but we expected certain standards of behaviour. Mostly it cleared up – in the sense it was still ‘busy’ but pleasant.

One or two visitors still gave cause for concern. There is the child in the old nursery who will get into bed with anyone sleeping there, and play with ornaments etc. And there is the dark haired man in the front room who feels the house is still his. We’re working on that.

We also – believe it or not – have a house brownie. Look in British folklore and you will see that brownies are very helpful creatures who will gladly do housework etc., in return for some food. Mine isn’t keen on housework but is very good at finding lost items.

Now I can understand some people reading this far will shy away from accepting this sort of statement. If I’d read it twenty years ago I’d probably have felt the same myself. But the truth is, that there really isn’t any other explanation that makes sense. Things disappear, we search high and low for them, then they reappear in the middle of a completely empty table. Nobody else is present and unless I accept that objects are materialising and dematerialising of their own free will, there isn’t really much explanation (unless I’m going mad.)

Also the brownie shows signs of interacting with us. Nowadays when something goes missing we tend to say, ‘House brownie, will you help us find it please?’ and he does. He’s even been known to find things we have lost outside the house and bring them back to us. For example, one day I wrote out a cheque in a shop about fifteen miles away and made a mistake so had to write out another. I forgot to pick up the dud cheque and when I got home I had my handbag and my pockets out – frantically wondering where it had gone. Nowhere. Not a sign. Not even a ripped corner.

And then, in the middle of the kitchen – in the middle of thin air! – it materialised right in front of us, fluttering down to the ground.

I have a theory that there are quite a lot of these helpful beings around – most of the time we don’t recognise them because we don’t expect them to be there. The more you observe and notice, the more there is to see.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!

I call it Lughnasadh but really for me this is the first of the pagan harvests. You can't have a single harvest festival because different fruits and grains ripen at different times. Each harvest is a step in the right direction as the year is changing gear, going downhill towards winter. We shouldn’t be surprised, it happens every year.

Yesterday I spent time in the garden as I’d hoped, with a book of poetry and a blinding headache (the two are not related, I assured you.) Has anyone here read any of John Clare’s poetry? He was an early 19th century writer, known as the Ploughboy Poet, but sadly ended his life in an asylum. I think it was the writer Edward Thomas who said of Clare ‘To read him is to love him.’ And it’s true.

In the evening I went moon-hunting with my camera and got some more photos which I shall try and post up here later today.

And now, this morning, the sun shines bright and asks us to celebrate. Light a candle to the fast departing sun, meditate, think, take time for stillness. My dogs have the right idea – they are meditating in the kitchen as I write. The snoring is almost sending me back to sleep!

I have a shrine to the Green Man and Maiden in my hallway above the fireplace. (Yes, it’s an unusual hallway). Each season I decorate with different flowers, fruits, candles and ribbons. This too is a way of celebrating. It’s way too much fun to be combined to just December!

I love following the festivals of the year. They help me to keep things in perspective. They support my life with a framework of weather, activities and meditations. They bring a sense of order and perspective. At Lughnasadh we can talk all we like about the god departing and the goddess grieving, but it’s also about what we see within our own lives – the things we keep and those we leave behind.

We owe it to ourselves to have a choice, but sometimes that choice can itself be confusing. It’s a bit like going into the supermarket and being confronted with endless boxes of washing powder. If we’re not careful, choice can paralyse us so we end up doing nothing.

I can't tell you the exact meaning of Lughnasadh - nobody can. It means different things to each of us. While many of my beliefs have their roots in the past, I don't want a pagan faith that's little more than a re-enactment society. I want something that will stand by me and see me through. And that means doing work of my own each festival, sometimes embarking on painful voyages of self discovery and self awareness. How else can I make progress?

So, yes, I grieve for the end of summer. It may not seem like autumn yet, but I know it’s on its way. Or as Ted Hughes said of autumn, ‘It’s tail was an icicle.’ Autumn comes because autumn must. Just as we grow old – because we must. We are, after all, growing older from the moment we are born. We seem to be terrified of age nowadays. We try to fight it off with surgery, botox, whatever. And yet at the end of the day we know it’s inevitable. And sometimes the methods of fighting ageing give more unpleasant results than ageing itself.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not planning on growing old (older) gracefully – disgracefully more like! There are still things I want to do, want to see, learn and discover. Just like the soul of the year, it’s our mind that must stay young, the outward casing (the body, the seasons) must follow their course. The seasons will come back again. And so shall we.

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!