Tuesday, 23 September 2014
Spirit of the Woods,
I hear you breathing.
You are in me,
in the wood of the bow,
the taut bowstring,
the flight of the arrow.
I am in the moment,
focussed on the arrow's point.
I am in you, the endless woodland,
where the Hunter and the hunted are one.
May the skill of my arm increase.
May my body move in harmony.
May I be true as my aim is true.
So mote it be.
Monday, 22 September 2014
"Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
"At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
"Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
Friday, 18 July 2014
So this is my prayer:
Lords of Animals, Ladies of the Flowers,
Gods of green growing things and goddesses of wild animals
Teach us to tread lightly on the Earth,
And walk in harmony with Nature.
The earth, the fire, the water, and the air:
All are sacred,
And the fifth sacred thing is spirit.
Once we were wild,
and instinctively knew
how to walk in a sacred manner.
Now there is so much destruction,
that some are already in mourning,
believing that there is no hope.
I still hope, but I also fear.
May our hearts be open to your promptings,
May our hands be ready for your work
May our minds be in the service of healing
So mote it be.
Thursday, 12 June 2014
(inspired by Crystal Blanton's post, My Hair Doesn’t Get Longer, It Gets Tighter: A Symbol of My Path)
Wednesday, 23 April 2014
I had an amazing dream this morning. I was standing on top of a city that consisted of a collection of small houses, which we realised would have to be turned into a tower for defensive reasons. Just then a tiny spaceship about the size of a coffee pot came and settled in my hand. It started making a humming noise, so I put it to my ear and I could hear a message. The message was that we must stop hurting the Earth. The aliens who had sent the message had despoiled their own planet with pollution and carbon in the atmosphere, and they wanted to save us from the same fate.
Friday, 21 March 2014
that the environment is doomed,
but the seeds of a new way of life are sprouting
beneath the cracks, beneath the concrete,
and the rivers are rising,
the Earth is protesting,
the winds of change are blowing.
The spirits of place are calling
for a new story, for a new paradigm.
A story of hope, a story of renewal.
Ancient Goddess of Earth,
hear our desire for change,
forgive us for wounding you,
over and over.
We begin today to tell a new story, a story of hope, a story of renewal.
The wheel turns, the fire burns, the winds of change are blowing.
The spirits of place are calling, the seeds of change are growing.
We dare to dream, we dare to hope, we dare to change.
~ Yvonne Aburrow
Inspired by this article by Nafeez Ahmed: The global Transition tipping point has arrived - vive la révolution
And this blogpost by Sophia Bonnie Wodin: Story: the bigger picture
Friday, 28 February 2014
The world hangs in the balance,
a blue bauble on a pendulum
swinging in the void.
Change begins with a butterfly's wing,
a tiny flutter gathering into a storm.
We can all be butterflies.
If you worship the green growing things,
if you honour the three-toed sloths
and the hummingbirds and the pandas,
and the strange beasts of the deep places,
the furry, scaly, leafy textures,
the divine exuberance of life,
then please remember
we are living on borrowed time,
borrowed places, hallowed spaces,
and tread lightly on our sacred home.
Thursday, 30 January 2014
not just with oil - they take the arms and fingers
of those who tend them. They invade the dreams
of the workers, who hear their clattering
even in the furthest reaches of sleep.
So we creep by night into factories.
Ned Ludd - general of the armies of night -
is with us. His strength was in my arm
when I smashed the machine loom, smashed and smashed.
Strength like the grip of ivy, crushing
stone and metal. The power of roots is in him,
relentlessly pushing up from the earth.
He is the land fighting back, rising up.
against the encroaching iron and steel.
by Yvonne Aburrow
Inspired by A choice of worldings by Rhyd Wildermuth
Friday, 24 January 2014
The wilderness is not desolate when
it is illuminated by one who
sees every leaf and branch for its own self,
and patiently teases out its meaning.
The prophet’s voice is heard, speaking softly,
close to the earth, divining the waters
that well up unseen. Softly the creatures
of the wild places gather to hear him,
eyes like lamps in the night as they hear his song
re-enchanting the world, weighing its meanings.
One day the waters will run free again,
awakening the land from sleep. Till then,
listen to the man who sings of trees and stars,
waters and woods, a voice in the wild.