Planting Dream Seeds by Soul Sister

It was the night of the New Moon when I took the packet of Dream Seeds from the pouch gifted to me by L’Enchanteur. The time to plant these magical entities had come. The New Moon is the most propitious time in the lunar cycle to plant ones dreams. Before stepping out into the clear, cold night I took out my moon journal and wrote down all I have ever hoped to be, do and become. The list was not long once I realised that everything I had ever wanted was simply to grow into that which each of us are born to be…a true reflection of the face of the Divine. Sitting down in front of my altar for a while I closed my eyes and visualized what such a being would look like. A vision of a light-filled being emerged. Later I planted the seeds in a specially prepared section of my tiny garden.The New Moon passed, changing into first the Crescent Moon, with its emphasis on fertility, growth and committment. Each night I sat awhile re-affirming my committment to inner growth and deep soul work, to that vision of the spark of divinity that lies deep within. How to nurture this dream? Water the seeds regularly with silence, meditation and prayer.

The Crescent moon gave way to the First Quarter moon, followed by the Gibous moon — times of waiting and incubation. Daily I watched over these tiny seeds and rejoiced when the first shoots began to push through the dark, moist earth.

Finally the night of the Full Moon arrived, eagerly anticipated, and with it came illumination and fulfillment, a blossoming of the flowers that had issued forth from the Dream Seeds. On that night I sat up in vigil drinking in the fullness of life that is bequethed to all who live and walk upon the face of the earth.

And yet this time too passes, and so it was that the Full moon gave way in time to the Last Quarter moon and the Balsamic moon, leaving behind decay and death. The flowers were gone. But even though birth is always and necessarily pursued by death, yet renewal is never far behind, and so it was that I searched through the dead petals and leaves and found some new seeds which I held tightly and gratefully, carrying them reverently to my altar where I sat awhile with them in the stillness, quietness and darkness of the long night, allowing the emptiness of that time to fill my soul and inner being, knowing that the more I could empty myself now, then the stronger would be the next cycle of seed planting and dream growing during the coming New Moon.

Life goes on. Dreams never die, they just go underground for a while.

Behold Oera Linda

I would suggest/request that all Lemurians
read various available e-articles on “Oera Linda”
Please notice that thosew riting about Oera Linda and attacking
perceived inaccuracies, contain as many inaccuracies,
and bias as well.

Considered by some to be either completely fictional,
or an exercise in ‘reverse-engineering’ of early history,
recent photographs from space have verified
some of the ‘stories’. Additionally, the excavation
of Kergan burial mounds has provided direct links
to the writers of this book to ‘truths’ revealed.

At least, one might consider that the ‘myths’
contained in this book have as much basis in truth
as other accounts of early history (including the Old Testament).

examples:

The Friesians (Netherlands) originally came from Troy

Their description of Atlantis type events (Lemuria also)
are CORRECTLY set at between 2190-2234 BCE,
though they place the island in the Baltic Sea.

Their description of historic events like the
rise of Attila the Hun are probably more accurate
than other writings. (what you were taught)

The existence of giant craters in South America are
described accurately – in a book written about 600 AD!;
plus the knowledge that the two ‘Americas’ were once
separate, and that the joining with a land bridge
would destroy many forms of life.

…………………………………………………………………

Trigor will write of some of this on the “Grand-Tour’,
but no one should miss out on these revelations and ‘facts’.
As noted previously, one value of a myth is that it may challenge
traditional thinking and beliefs.

faucon

Heather Near

I wrote this for Heather last year on another blog you will never see,
and do again that you might know her more …

papa
…………………………………………………………….

‘Heather’ as a word,
falls in a mem’ried pile of life’s moraine,
with ‘copse’ and ‘gorse’,
‘moor’ and ‘rill’ and ‘loch’.

Ah, to return to the Scottish highlands,
hills of endless grey and green,
blushed with pink and yellow dreams.

Crisscrossed waterfalls allow
of arching bridges and twisty roads,
leading to surprised vale mists
and dark lakes of mystery.

Yet, of all of this –
or perhaps because of all –
only one word became
a girl’s name,
rarely used today,

as ‘heath’ leads to ‘hearth’
and ‘heart’ and ‘home’
that we may
believe
again.

Welcome Adventure

What I wished to post two days ago
…………………………………………….

THREE QUESTIONS

Who will walk with me in the high meadow where the waving lupine caresses lavender on our bare feet and hides the rabbit tracks of yesterday? Who will hold my hand to jump-step the stream that flickers clouded fingers of light into our laughing eyes? Who will tumble with me down the grassy, tender slope of childhood memories where the game was more important than the goal?
Perhaps who is not the question or the answer here -
but I listen intensely just the same.

Where is the crystal pool with the mossy stones beneath the earth blessed spring of winter’s tears where we can wash our dusty feet? Where can we shed our false pride and imagined slights that gather like mold upon our skin, hidden beneath society’s brash garments? Where can we stand naked in warm cleansing rays of friendship and eternal love without the curse of shame cast in the name of faith?
Perhaps where is not the question or the answer here -
but I look deeply just the same.

When will I know that you have heard my silent, stifled cry for courage to conquer selfish, foolish right? When will the extraction of tortured self-inflicted spikes draw breaths of joy rather than sighs of fear? When will I hear the siren song that I know blends with the chiming star stuck bells of eternity? When will I cease to question that which my soul should already know from simple shaped internal bliss?
Perhaps when is not the question or the answer here -
but I wait patiently, just the same.

papa faucon

Day Two – Lemuria & Le Enchanteur

Now, as I am standing amongst the flowers, I stoop to examine them more closely. The pure punch of purple-ness is breath-taking. Each flower has a faint musky-sweet scent. All together, the field of blooms is heady – almost too rich. This field stretches out around me – the portal tree juts out in the middle of it. Ah, should be easy to find it again when it’s time to leave.
Leave? I just got here – okay, time to focus on the task at hand. First, to find this infamous Enchanteur…
“It’s about time you arrived.” says a husky voice to my left. I nearly jump out my skin at the sound. I turn to look and am greeted by the sight of a…
more
until day 3,
the WiccanGal

A Bronze Age Idol

Lagging behind on Day 3 of the tour I have finally prepared my offering of appeasement- it will also travel to the other side of the world as a gift of goodwill to the people who were the original owners of the “eye” idol from the Tel Brak excavations in Syria. As I am journeying to Syria in february I have to familiarise myself more, with the art and symbols of early times- a journey not unlike the descent into the alluvial mine.

Unfortunately the image will not upload and you will have to look at it in Scratchings.

Dijanne

Meeting our guide – an old friend!

My companion and I were up bright and early for the trip to the Lemurian mainland. According to our instructions, we were to meet our guide in Lemuria and spend a few days with a host at Owl Creek before setting off the Alluvial Mines.
My companion raised a delicate eyebrow. “Mines?” she said. “I may be incorrectly dressed.”
Our transport to the mainland was a charming little boat rowed by a deceptively small ferrywoman. As soon as we pushed off, she proved herself to be a powerful rower, her strong arms pulling the boat quickly away from the marble steps of Hotel Atlantis. We watched the hotel recede with real regret. Our stay there had been extremely comfortable, but adventure lay ahead, and we soon turned to watch the approaching mainland.
Our ferrywoman’s name was Imeena. She was descended from those Atlanteans that had sought refuge in Lemuria when the sea swallowed the great island.
“The waters of this bay are very clear,” she pointed out. “If you look over the side you can see some of the remains of the great city.”
Edith and I peered eagerly over the side of the boat. The water was a translucent jade and far below we could see broken white marble columns and the faint outlines of mosaic floors. Edith gasped as the boat passed over the form of a great golden bull, its head upraised, its eyes of inlaid turquoise seeming to follow us.
“That was the site of the great bullring,” Imeena said sadly. “The centre was laid out as a labyrinth, and the athletes had to journey through it to meet the Minotaur.”
“But the minotaur is a Cretan legend.” My companion demurred.
“It was an Atlantean truth long before it was a legend of Crete,” Imeena smiled. “The Minotaur was a great athlete who once a year challenged contenders to meet him in the centre of the labyrinth. But they had to prove themselves worthy to meet him – throughout the labyrinth there were young bulls and the athletes leapt over them to get to the centre.”
Our minds filled with the lost glory of the city below, we were hardly aware that the boat had docked until strong hands reached down to help us ashore. We watched Imeena row away again, her strong brown arms plying the oars, her long black hair held back with a single gold band. One of the last living links with Old Atlantis – we felt awed and privileged to have met her.
But we still had to meet our guide, who would take us to Owl Creek. Standing on the jetty with our baggage, we watched the sun sparkle on the ocean and the secrets that it held. Then a long-eared shadow fell across the jetty.
“Good morning, ladies.” Said a cultured Scottish voice.
“Hamish!” I cried in delight – for it was he, Hamish, the dear old donkey I had met before in Lemuria. He still wore his raffish tam o’shanter, and a look of impending doom on his lugubrious face.
“This is our guide,” I said to Edith. “We are old friends.”
Edith bowed politely. I could see she was a bit startled to meet a talking donkey, but she was quickly adapting to life in Lemuria. They chatted like old friends as we made our way along the jetty to the town.
Hamish manfully – or should I say donkeyfully – shouldered our luggage and we set out on the road to Owl Creek.

Gail Kavanagh

Tiny Froglet’s Descent

It’s time. I take a deep breath and place my hand on the handprint. The rock face beings to glow and this is what I see:

(http://tinyfroglet.wordpress.com/ for more)

Rebirth as a Star Child —– Soul Sister

 

A vision unfolded before my inner eye as I sat in deep meditation– an image of who I really am underneath the layers of false identities. And then the vision grew and expanded until it included all who walk upon the face of the earth.

Lonely Portal

 

A lonely portal in a wild land………….

 

Image:  Lori Gloyd (c) 2006