Lucy measured the Child for the Light “I think I can do it. You are rather small,” she said finally. The Star Child stared at Lucy. “Well, I am quite new.” HOME: Small soul, little light, one bright gem in a myriad of stars, lost in the labyrinth of time, dancing to the tune of the turbulent elements, listen, you who have walked that walk. Remember the earth, that humble sod trodden by gods with feet lighter than the wisps of cobwebs swaying in the wind, wind as warm as soft sands bleeding the warmth from the sun, wind that whispers secrets in the ears of grasses and hears the gentle hearts of seas that talk, wind, that heralds the changes from then to now, and blows through angels’ trumpets in all the lands.

Martyrs, Saints, and Living Angels

Weeping Wren MARTYRS, SAINTS AND LIVING ANGELS Saint Cecilia, Patron Saint of Music, and Musicians. My late husband Robin carried a small stone from Saint Cecilia’s tomb in a tape cassette box in his bag or pocket whenever he was recording music or on tour. Saint Cecilia’s day is on the 22nd of November and Robin and his twin Maurice were born on 22nd of December, (also coincidently my birthday, although a different year) and of course, he was happy that we all had the number 22 in common. Saint Cecilia was, and is, the patron saint of music and musicians.

Quests & Conquests of the Soul and Silence

Quests and Conquests of the Soul on Silence Finding the Child and Sage within. (I am forever grateful for the Raja Yoga teachings of the late Yogini Dadi Janki from her Enlightened Teacher who believed women were the Empress Souls of the world at a time when they were considered not even to be a soul or possess soul consciousness.) I don’t profess to be a physical yoga expert, (far from it) only a perpetual student and practitioner of mind yoga. It is how I understand the word ‘meditation.’ This has been a revelation for me and an aid to living in this world of drama.


After Sean Lynch laid down the full door, Shona McQuaid rushed forward to Mariah. Shona was one of the friendlier dancers. She had rich red hair and a white freckled face, her face speckled like the bird’s egg. “Mariah! But you’re the champion of the half-door! I’ve never seen you dance a full door, ever!” “Decided to spread my wings a bit,” said Mariah with a wry grin. “But your foot and ankle-work in the small space is what we’re used to!” Shona’s lips made a perfect pursed ‘O’ long after the surprise left her eyes. In fact, there was a subtle change in her grey eyes, a hint of wistfulness, maybe that she might have a chance at the ‘half-door’ now that Mariah had changed over. Shona was tall and a good high stepper.


PART ONE Tír na nÓg: The Otherworld Just before dawn, when the dim light dances blue and the moon sits still in the sky, the large grey stones stand vigil in the ancient stone circle, sentinel to the sleeping Woman of Beara. She stirs, drawing the shawl back from her face, and watches as the day begins to break, the stars become invisible, and the moon fades when the sun stretches golden fingers across the tips of the stones.


POETS, BLIND BARDS, and IRISH HARPERS For: Yatsuhashi Kengyo, and ‘Farewell To Music’ Turlough O’Carolan. “The Harp Is Reserved For The Soul, Not The Body Or The Bones.” My father told me of a blind bard way-back-when in our family and so I decided to learn to play the harp in my twenties, but alas, it soon became obvious that I should have chosen this instrument at an earlier age… four, perhaps? However, I soldiered on and managed to play a couple of airs, composed, I was told, by a blind harpist, Turlough O’Carolan.


IN THE HIDDEN EYE In the hidden eye of the Exalted One, I seek a humble place, blind from restraints of human bonds, gentle in heart and sweet of cause, only to belong in the stillness of creative might, that I may face the Truth, fearless in being, imbued with light, my destiny with the angel muse, to span that rite of passage that prevails to bring power to word and word to power. May this command be such converse to delight the world, the tongues of saints dancing with the sacred nectar, untainted, pure, and invisibly divine, to transcend the weak and torn virtues that taint the souls in mortal chains. Within the vast portals of eternal halls,


CHLANN BEAG (Little Clan) and MOTHER EARTH All the little and lost, come to Her, Foundlings of the world, errant and stray souls, Take heart from the Mother of the Earth, Leave the poison of sorrow And remember the sap of happiness to be savoured That pours forth from her noble breast. Take comfort in her healing and calmness from her ‘seeing’, Be content. She is the Seer of the Great Tomorrow, The One whose faith in all the changes from bliss to discontent, To rest and back to bliss again, has never wavered. All the young and dismayed, come to Her, Orphans of the lands, lonely and broken ones,

Enchanted Wood

The Three Fates spin, weave and cut the Light for the Star Child’s journey to Earth. ENCHANTED WOOD Lost in the silence of the woods, under dappled canopy of rain-fresh leaves, Seeing the shivered stance of a roe deer shy in greenwood shade, And my mind not there at all, but lost in the dripping quiet of another place: The Cave of Aine is mine, sheltered in the arms of the land of another time, The eaves of hugging cliffs and the echo of smashing seas that will not fade, And I am reminded of the inlet and breathless majesty of that cavern space, The unseen cradle that lent shelter in the ebbing days of warring clans.


I bind to you with golden chord the song of your content, I bind to me with shivered silk the woven threads of your lament, I bind to you with plaited flowers the eightfold might of all your powers: The might of granting wishes be your desire and mine. The might of greatest cloaking to protect and make divine, The might of wings for flying to detach from the entwined, The might of changing shapes..


Juggling, not Smuggling, and a Satellite. I remember climbing the wire fence at the back of our house so I could see the train travelling beside the river a few fields away, the same fence my mother bade us climb one night, waking us up, to see the Northern Lights, a rare sighting, that was bright over the North of Ireland.


The Yeats Society, off into the depths of Sligo again, on a pilgrimage to meet there with your man Seamus, that rare Maestro of the Quill, whose words stir hearts, and pluck on spines, his deep voice traipsing poems off the tongue to make minds go still. A hero of mine, born and bred in County Derry, and I next door in Tyrone. I am in awe, and pine to hear him read from Door In The Dark, The Haw Lantern or Sweeney Astray.


To serve with words is an easy task When the tongue is unleashed and the world unmasked But the greatest voice of all is that of the stilled mind When light arises and bathes humankind The soul laps up silence and peace reigns supreme Those who serve with an elevated stage Will calm all tears, fears and rage To cast away the blame and bury the shame.


There’s a bit of a mystery about County Sligo and that old wild west of Ireland. It has stayed with me across continents, moments prized. Nooks, caves and crannies never to be forgotten and sweeping mountains of impending size overlooking it all, especially the great table top of Benbulben that I admired but never climbed and Knocknarea that I struggled up a few times in my life. Never anything more magical, the strain and the strife, and then the roar of pleasure and searing happiness that, all told, overwhelms the soul.

An Invocation

I invoke the love that surmounts the agony of love itself, And yearn for the learning that makes minds bright from dull, I invoke the silence that culls and soothes all chattering anger, And makes hearts beat more with goodness from the core. I invoke the lonely to find safe solitude in their exile, And pray for piety and affection to offer kind protection for the weak, I invoke all seekers to find the knowledge they desire and seek, And urge the treasure of skill to fall upon Godly doings, To seal the measure of all arts with mirth and pleasure.


See the breath of the Earth blow through the jewelled leaves of trees, And coloured gems of death fall freely down to coat the land, See the bride of the world entranced, showered with the confetti dance, Her heart now swelling with the sacred blessing from Manannan’s hand. Implore that the pounding seas will slow enough to merely lap her shores, And that every dwelling can withstand the unleashed sweeps of Cailleach’s broom, Beg that every creature in the wild find a room and stay within the very core.

The Power To Face

The Power To Face

How to Tolerate My spiritual thoughts from teachings of the late Dadi Janki and her Divine Teacher. To face anger in life, it is better not to fight as this fuels negativity and puts us into the defensive mode right away. To strike, we must have the ability to shield and the thought to shield comes afterwards, too late when anger is fuelled in retaliation. To face anger, then anger reflected to the perpetrator leads to battle and prolongs the force of anger. In terms of war, it could last for decades. The first power of the soul to use is to tolerate and the second is to transform. If something bad is done or must be faced, the will to transform from a place of tolerance means to return with goodness. This reverses the power structure immediately. To transform any situation, three qualities are needed:

The Borrowers

THE BORROWERS MRS.P: It’s a strange thing, Mabel, all this superstition in Ireland. I would say I had no time for it, but I’d be afraid to do that. You never know what might befall you if they got wind of you not believing in it all. MABEL: Isn’t that the truth? I never walk under ladders, though for the life of me, I know not why. The bad luck would be the falling of tools or paint on the top of the head I suppose. That wouldn’t be pleasant.

The Three Megs

THE THREE MEGS DARK MEG: She’s as contrary as the thick thread against the eye of a thin needle, and that’s the God’s honest truth of it. No amount of probin’ will uncover what she knows. She has a sight of secrets, so she has. FAIR MEG: Everyone is entitled to her own secrets. There’s no harm in that if there’s no harm in them. GREY MEG: A hidden wisdom is like the sealed bud of a wild orchid in Clare. No knowing which way it will open or to whose face it will turn. Depends on the wind or the sun or the kind mind.

The Wooden Legacy

THE WOODEN LEGACY Tilly-Ann slowly wavered up the hill, breathless as a wheezing fish by the time she reached the top, the longest hill in Ulster, especially on a rustic bicycle that had seen better days. The black and white Welsh collie kept up with her and knew that even though she was on a bicycle he had to stay on the ‘heel’. Scoot was his name and scoot his nature but he was an obedient animal and responded to a myriad of whistles, the one for ‘heel’ having been given at the bottom of the hill for, halfway up or near the top, Tilly-Ann could only gasp and pant. A whistle would have been impossible to perform.

The Missing Colours

Once upon a time after time and time again, there lived a special little boy in a very dull and drab world. The flowers had no bright colours. They were all grey. The trees were grey. The houses all had grey walls and grey slate roofs, and there was no grass on any lawn anywhere, only stones. There were big stones and little stones and halfway big stones and halfway small stones. In the distance were grey hills and huge grey mountains. The rivers had grey flowing water like dirty dish water that moved and tumbled over rocky riverbeds.

Kelly's Goldrush

MRS.P: Mabel, what do you think of this business with Sean Kelly and the gold, eh? MABEL: What are you talking about? Sean Kelly came into a fortune, did he? MRS.P: By all accounts, Mabel. It all started at Whisky MacQuaid’s house. Whisky saw Goat’s Hair in the sky about a week ago. MABEL: Was he dreaming, or what? Goat’s hair, Mrs.P.? What was that doing in the sky? MRS.P: Ach, Mabel, you’re not thinking with both pistons. It’s a cloud formation… you know the wee wispy clouds you see all over the place in contrary directions, like the underbelly hair of a goat? Well, when you see it, it’s usually three days before a storm. Whisky pointed it out to the fellas in the pub and they had a bet on whether the storm would hit Saturday night or Sunday night.

Wedding Corns

MABEL: Are you there, Mrs. P? Hello. HELLO! Mrs. P? MRS.P: I’m coming, Mabel! Wait a second! I’m in the scullery. I’m covered in flour! MABEL: Flour? Oh, my goodness, Mrs. P! You weren’t joking either, were you? You look like the abominable snowman. MRS.P: Come in, Mabel, don’t be a scamp, come in. Now, don’t you be making fun of me. I’m baking up a storm here. MABEL: Visitors coming, Mrs. P? MRS.P: Not at all! I’d be buying from Whaley’s Bakery, if I had visitors. This is for the Wedding party, Bridie’s reception. I’m making fairy cakes, and a few loaves of bread.

The Plantin'

I remember a bluebell woods right opposite our house in County Tyrone. What a magical place that was, the sea of blue and green. They say that blue and green should never be seen except on an Irish Queen, and quite rightly so too. To claim ownership of such a phenomenon is a heritage not to be scoffed at in any period of time. I loved that bluebell woods and the ancient trees of the ‘plantation’. We called it The Plantin’. There was an old gnarled very ordinary tree upon which we built a tree house, climbing precariously with sheets of corrugated zinc to lay down a floor and make a ceiling.

The Dinner Party In Dublin

‘Hell is to drift, and Heaven is to steer’… poignant words of George Bernard Shaw, and who are we to argue with the sage? It was any day like any other, not a bother in the world, steering my way from my mother’s, thinking we have the wheels of freedom at any age. Mammy had steered her way across the road and tumbled the car; God help her, not too much Heaven there, but she survived to tell the tale, and now after two weeks of work and nursing I was driving to Dublin through the Pale, from North to South.

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