Merry Yule!

Yuletide Blessings to all! 

In the northern hemisphere, we celebrate the winter solstice, the coming together of friends and family. 

I love the idea of snuggling up by the fire, telling stories and sharing what we have with each other during the darkest time of the year.

It is a celebration of the re-birthing of the sun, and, also, all the sun Gods around the world. 

We honour him, we thank him, and we give him strength to him to return to us with the fires in our hearts and belly’s. 

We bring winter greens into our homes, hoping to bring the energy of life back into our lives.

There is so much symbology and similarities between other winter celebrations, including Christ’s Mass, that I’d be writing a book rather than a blog, and I am writing about something a little different now.

In the southern hemisphere, it is summer. 

The summer solstice. 

The sun it big, bright and power-full. 

For the Q’ero people they are celebrating Copaq Raymi, Feast of the Sun. 

Traditionally gold and silver was gifted, sacred to the sun God, Intitayta; they may as well have gifted frankincense and myrrh too.

It was and still is a magnificent celebration, honouring the passing of youth to adulthood. 

A time to plant crops that bring us joy and pleasure, rather than food that will sustain us, like coca for example. 

Despite Copaq Raymi’s focus on the Great Sun, the All Father, the Holy Son, it is considered a feminine celebration, often called Warmipacua, The Feminine Passover.

It was really a time that young children were to find the dharma, their reason for being, finding the gift, talent and heart desire that they brought with them to this world.

So, over the Christmas period, let’s all connect with our innocent, inner child, and see the world with wonder and awe, let’s be delighted with the twinkling lights, the Christmas stories, and let’s enjoy those chocolate treats!

Let’s find our dharma, our gold, and share it with everyone.

This Yule, during this dark period of our life, let’s plant crops of love, lets gestate seeds of joy and happiness, so we all have something even more beautiful to look forward to in the spring, lets share this gold unabashedly and generously.

Brightest of Blessings

Danny aka The Bearded Shaman.

Our Lady of the Serpents

It was in the winter of 1531 that a 57-year-old Juan Diego heard strange music coming from the once sacred hill of Tepeyac. He walked up the hill and was greeted by a woman of his own Aztec heritage. She introduced herself as Mary, mother of God. 

She told him that she wanted him to build a church on top of the hill, and urged him to speak to the Bishop. Juan left and demanded that he is greeted by the Bishop of the New Church of Tenochtitlan, Juan de Zumarraga. 

The Bishop was understandably sceptical, and asked for more proof, a sign, maybe, that she truly was the Holy Mary, mother of God. Eagerly, he ran back to the hill and prayed to the Virgin Mary that she would appear again to him once more. 

She did appear, this time she told him, (in his language, Nahwatl) that her name was Coatlaxopeuh.

She showed him a garden of roses, which do not bloom in winter, a miracle by any means. 

She told him to collect them up and show the Bishop the rose buds, she even helped him arrange the roses in his tilma, his modest cloak. 

When he arrived at the New Church, he blurted out her name, the Bishop, due to nahwatl pronunciation, heard Guadalupe. 

Juan emptied his tilma of roses, letting them spill across the floor, but the Bishop did not fall to his knees in disbelief because of un-seasonal rose buds, but the imprinted image of Our Lady Guadalupe on his tilma.

A church was built on the sacred hill of Tepeyac.

Eight million descendants of the Aztecs converted to Catholicism.

The tilma is still held, after all this time, in the Minor Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City. 

It is made of cactus fibres and in 500 years it still hasn’t disintegrated. 

No paint was used. 

The eyes of the image reflect those of the clergy and those of Aztec heritage. 

Even more fascinating is that the star constellations on her dress are exactly what you would have seen if you were in Mexico in 1531.

But, Our Lady has another identity. 

She is Coatlicue, ‘Skirt of Serpents.’ She is Tonantzin, ‘Our Mother.’ She is Cozcamiyawh, ‘Corn Tasselled Necklace.’ She is Cihuacoatl, ‘Snake Woman.’ 

And she is also Coatlalopeuh, ‘She who has Dominion over the Snakes.’

Earth Goddess, Mother Most High. Patron of Serpents. Pachamama.

In the Image above, you can see that her cloak is midnight blue, and adorned with stars.
Coatlicue’s son Huitzilpochtli created the stars from his dead brothers.

She stands on a dark crescent moon, held by a child. Coatlicue’s son created the moon from his sisters severed head.

Behind her, shines the rays of the sun. Coatlicue’s son is the God of the Sun.

She wears a black sash around her waist. Coatlicue wore a black sash around her waist as did many Aztec woman during pregnancy and childbirth.

Her tunic even shows the sinewy lines of the image of Coatlicue.

I love the Holy Virgin Mary, and I also love Coatlicue, the primordial Goddess of all things wet, dark and tangled. 

This is why Our Lady Guadalupe is so special to me.

Elders tell us that she has been holding the Divine Feminine energy within her heart, until such a time that the decedents of the Mexica set aside the beliefs imposed upon them by the Spaniards, and bring forth into the light of the sun, the ancestral teachings, and the restoration of woman’s place of honour in the community.

This speaks volumes to me, not just for the feminist principles, but for bringing Her back. 

Bringing back the Divine Feminine within our culture and community and spirituality. 

It means acknowledging the presence of the female face of God as Mother, Divine Creator and nourisher of All, as pure creational potential and the feminine energy of flow and movement.

Already the ancient teachings of the Americas have been brought forth into the light, we shaman and mesa carriers have these teachings, I have these teachings within me, and I willingly share them with you.

All religions have a hidden, or not-so-hidden, female face of God; you just have to search for Her. The best place to search for her, is within your own hearts. 

Embrace her, for She will embrace you, and She will give you back your power and your grace that She has been lovingly holding for you.

The twelfth of December is The Feast of Our Lady Guadalupe, light a candle for her, embrace her, for she carries within her womb your gold.

Frohlichen Krampusnacht!!

Tuesday the 6^th December is the Feast of Saint Nicholas. He was a Christian Saint and a Greek Bishop of Myra. He was known as Nikolaos the Wonderworker, and has since been used as the model for our modern-day Father Christmas, Old St Nick, Santa Clause. He has many names, he is also known as the Holly King, the Green Man, The Shaman, and even Odin. He rewards the good and well-behaved children of Christendom with gifts and trinkets and sweet delights on Christ’s Mass Eve.

But did you know, like all of us, he has a shadow? He, like me and thee, has a shadow self too. What would Jolly Ole Father Christmas’s shadow look like? What could possibly be a contrasting image of Santa?

Are you sitting comfortably? Are the lights on nice and bright? Are your loved ones near? Then I shall tell you.

He has no shiny, buckled, black boots that tread through the snow, but cloven hooves that clip and clop. No red coat dons this man, but a tangled mass of dark fur. He does not wear a red hat, (and if he did, it would probably be the foulest blood red) instead, two great goat horns curl and twist. Does he say “Ho, Ho, Ho?” Oh no, no, no, he couldn’t possibly, not with those fangs and that long, long red tongue. What about a sack full of toys? I hear you ask, he carries a sack, or sometimes a basket, over his shoulder, but it doesn’t contain toys, only children. He holds, not the reigns of a beautiful sleigh, but chains that attach him to the devil.

On the 5^th December, the part goat, part demon Krampus punishes the naughty children, whipping them with his ruten branches. Or gifting coal instead of toys, ruten bundles instead of sweet nectarines. 

On the eve of The Feast of Saint Nicholas he gifts an early Christmas present to those who have been exceptionally good. But, God help ye merry children if you have been very, very bad. If you have been wicked, then he will take you away leaving a log of wood in your image behind while you are taken to his lair. Maybe he will make you work for him or maybe he will devour you. Or maybe he will drown you the fiery pits of hell.

For me, the Krampus represents the naughty side of this season, Christmas in all it's gory glory. It is the time that the birth of the Holy Sun of God is born, in many ancient paths, not just Christian. And as wholesome and holy as this season is, there is a sombre side to this season too. There is loneliness and bitter sweet memories, there is greed and over indulgence. There is consumerism and debt, there is chocolate, alcohol and burning loins. Families argue and fight, office parties end in shame and guilt, and the streets are littered with drunks wearing sexy Santa outfits.

As advent begins, Saint Nick sits on one shoulder, and Krampus sits on the other, whispering sweet nothings in our ears. I have a soft spot for the Krampus, he has been commercialised into a jolly and slightly satanic Christmas figure, and there is a growing number within the anti-Christmas community, who use the 'bar humbugginess' of Krampusnacht to celebrate something less-than-Holy.

Last year I accidentally celebrated Krampusnacht with my son. He was ill during the last week of November and as he was feeling better and as he had been exceptionally good all week, we decided to gift him an early Christmas present on the night of the 5th December. Later that night I found out it was Krampusnacht.

So, to all my kith and kin, have a cheeky chocolate, or a snifter of rum, watch an X-rated movie or simply snuggle up with your Shnookums or your Snugglybum.

Like everything in life, it’s about balance and moderation, holding the two polarities of life in balance in each hand, so you can be the stillness in the centre.

Be both the bright and the dark, the light and the shadow, the oak and the holly, Santa and Krampus.

Merry Krampusnacht 

The Bearded Shaman

A Hero's Call

They say that you can hear the call three times before you find the courage to answer it; a call to adventure, a call to destiny and life. Writer and storyteller Joseph Campbell said,

“A hero ventures forth from the world of common day, into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”

Well, I'm back! Anyone care for a boon?

My call was a call to parenthood, but that doesn't sound very extraordinary, being a gay man means I would need to make some tough decisions, and do something out of the ordinary, other than the usual ins-and-outs of life to produce a child (pun intended). When is anyone truly ready to be a parent? ‘When I have X amount of money in savings’ ‘Once I've seen the world’ ‘Once I’ve grown up’ Knowing I couldn't just ‘Fall pregnant’ meant that if I decide to have a child then the ball will start rolling….Ok…..deep breath….Yes! Call answered.

It just so happened that my partner Tom works for an adoption agency. The call felt like a silent bell going off in my heart. I felt like a spider tentatively stepping and sensing his way along a thin thread trying to grasp what was on the other end, the thread was my new path, a heart string had been pulled.

I was due to go on an advanced shamanic class, ‘Working with the Mythic’ with Chris Waters (www.spiritoftheinca.com) ‘Bring with you a fairy-tale that you feel connected too…’ I couldn't even think of any, so I called another shaman friend of mine, Charlotte Gush (www.shamanicway.co.uk) who was given the name ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ by Spirit, I listened. It was one of my favourites but I couldn’t see how it related to me. 

I arrived at misty hills of Avalon, The Glass Isles of Glastonbury, where the world reflects back to you. I sat in a group waiting to tell the tale I brought with me, the trees eagerly listening, I told the tale of Rumpelstiltskin from the place of ‘I’ - the I being the poor nameless girl who was trapped in the dungeon by the King, who demanded an impossible task of her; to spin straw into gold, a lie told by her father.

I could definitely feel the link; I was trapped in a dungeon like 9-5 life that was not authentic, and I had the impossible task of creating a family that was biologically not going to happen, in a Kingdom that was not all 100% happy with LGBT parents. But I couldn't fully connect with her, she wasn't my story.

We performed many tasks and beautiful ceremonies within the land of Glastonbury that week, re-enacting myths and legends, of Percival, the decent of Inanna. We visited Gwen App Nudd the lord of the underworld, and Cerridwen of the cauldron of transformation. Sat on the altar in our sanctuary was a beautiful statue of the horned lord, I longed to be connected to him, and for me his presence represented fatherhood in its purest form. His resplendent horns are the horns of passion, fierce love, protector and guardian, provider and teacher, all the things needed to be a father, I lost my horns a long time ago. Where was he in this story? We hadn't discussed him at all. Where are my horns?

There is a thorn tree in the Chalice Well Gardens, it is said that the tree grew from a sapling from another tree that grew on Wearyall Hill, and this particular tree grew from the staff of Joseph of Aramathea, Jesus’s Uncle, the staff was cut from the same thorn tree that Jesus's crown of thorns was made from. A small ceremony we have done many times before is walk under this tree in the Chalice Gardens, and comb our hair through its thorns and give back our own crown of thorns, we no longer need this guilt in the world. I was looking forward to visiting this ancient tree and as I approached, to my horror, it had gone. The year previously the even more ancient tree on Wearyall Hill had been vandalised beyond repair and died, a year later the tree in the Chalice Garden was struck by lightning and split in half. All that is there now is a fairy ring. I stood looking at this fairy ring and it dawned on me a story of the horned lord. I have heard that there once was a sacred garden, maybe the Garden of Eden? And in that garden stood an ancient tree, for some reason lightning struck it and it split in half, and out of its centre stepped the horned lord. Had he stepped out of this tree?

Once I was back at base camp at the Abbey House, I decided to tell my story from the place of ‘I’ but instead of the young girl I chose Rumpelstiltskin, after all it is his story, the only one with a name. Suddenly it all started to make sense. Rumpelstiltskin did the impossible, he spun old straw into gold, an impossible task a bit like creating a family with out a woman. He was promised a child, I held on to the hope that Toms agency would say yes to us. He had a secret name, a secret identity that is anyone found out would cause his demise, I am not an 'office worker' its not my name, I have a secret name, a secret identity, one that involves children, magic and mystery. He was betrayed and the promise of a child was taken away from him, and he tore himself in two with the pain and rage.

“What if this story came true?”

“It can’t, I would be devastated.”

“But what if this is exactly how things are supposed to be?”

“I feel like my life would be over, I would be in so much pain and rage I wouldn’t know what to do…”

That night we burnt our stories in a ceremonial fire. In the flaming remains of all the stuff I was working on that week I saw the image of a King. Also that night Tom went into a meeting to officially ask to start the adoption process with his agency. After the fire I ran through misty rain back indoors, put on kettle for a hot chocolate and checked my phone for a response from Tom. I called him after reading his text. We weren’t allowed due to employment boundaries, which is understandable, but still rage flared inside my heart. My head aching with the loss, the story came true, I went to bed heavy hearted.

Something was splitting, my head, my soul, my heart? One of my kuyas is a split stone, I call it ‘Emergence’ is this what is happening? It didn’t feel like it.

The next morning I had a powerful migraine, I stormed about the place swearing and punching walls in rage. I felt like I was splitting in half, I was Rumpelstiltskin tearing myself in half, I had to tell my story! Someone took the words out of my mouth, “Where is the fierce masculine in all of this? Where is the horned lord?” YES! Where the fuck is he?! So I told my story.

“Where do you feel this loss in your body?”

“Its in my head, and my heart, but mainly my head, I feel like I am about to split in half.”

“What would happen if you allowed yourself to split?”

My heart swam in relief, I could finally let go, I raised my hands to my head and slowly with grace tore myself in two, and it felt liberating! I felt peaceful, still in pain, but accepted pain.

“Can anyone else see his horns?” I heard someone say, ‘I’ stepped out of myself and there instead of the old me was a horned lord, a father, albeit a childless one. Little did I know that my son was being born just a few miles away.

I always knew he was on his way, I could feel him. Every time I journeyed to the upperworlds and visited with the children of the future there was always a particular little child, full of energy and big beautiful eyes who couldn't wait to see me, I presumed it was a piece of myself, but something told me otherwise. “I can’t wait to come down! It looks amazing!” he once said to me. A golden little boy.

One year later and I am sitting nervously on the floor of a foster carer’s house. Fear and excitement rumble within me, I think I'm going to be sick! I hear him in the kitchen making a right noise! “Do you want to meet him?” the foster carer asks. She calls his name and his tiny little face pokes around the corner looking sheepish and coy, he gingerly crawls towards us, my heart melts, I am in love! This is what munay felt like, sacred love. Our son was looking at us, my golden little boy! I pick him up and put him on my lap, I feel like I was anointed king! I am the victor of my hero’s journey, I am King of my Kingdom, I am the Horned Lord, I am Dadda, with a bag full of boons.

So, Trump Won.

So, Trump won. 

There is a lot of debate out there on social media, cities are divided. 

Is it right or wrong? Good or bad? What is right anyway? What is wrong? 

Everyone’s 'stuff' is up, all our buttons are being pressed; anger, rage, fear, doubt, hatred, indolence, apathy…it’s all our stuff.

We can choose to perceive Trump as a bully, a bigot, a misogynistic tyrant, predator, homophobe, racist. Some see him as a great man, a leader, a creator of change and immense walls. Others see him as a man, a son, a husband, a father.

I don’t believe for one second, that the majority of America are hate-filled, angry bigots. 

Maybe the votes were rigged, Trump said that very thing, maybe it’s true? 

I believe in the goodness of people. 

His supporters are fearful, they hold scare-city within their hearts, anger, rage and a deeply rooted ancestral shame. 

Whatever is in your hearts, you will perceive outside of yourself; so this is what they see.

Trump, just like all of us, has many wounds. 

He is an archetypal concept, the Wounded Masculine, the Wounded King, an archetype of our time right now. 

Where are our leaders? Where are our fathers? Our mentors, our guides, where is the Fierce Masculine? 

Trump is a beautiful reflection of our most darkest shadows, and we can all see them! 

The Emperor’s New Clothes!

I almost want to thank him for showing up, for stepping into his power and for showing US the parts of ourselves we are unwilling or unable to love, so we can heal them!

All those parts that hate, that judge, that condemn, that despise.

The parts of ourselves that we are ashamed of, that are weak, that are vulnerable. 

These are All of our shadows.

So, Trump won?

If you are reading this, it is because you are energetically drawn to my words, our words, our consciousness.

Remember, there is only one consciousness, even Trump is a part of that divinity. 

He has lessons to teach us, let's listen.

What can we do? 

We can choose to love each other, it’s totally in your power to make a stand and say 'Yes' to love. 

Love your neighbours, love that gay couple around the corner. 

Love the Pakistani family in the flat above you. 

Love that black guy who gets the same bus as you every morning, and that Mexican woman who sells flowers on the corner of your road. 

Love that trans kid who always looks away awkwardly when you stare, and the angry single mother who always looks so tired. 

We can also choose to love that orange guy with the funny hair. 

But more importantly, go to that mirror in front of you, go look in it, see that person, love them.

We can choose love, I choose love.

My Home Town

There used to be a few esoteric shops in Reading, witchy and crystal clad. There used to be a few holistic festivals too, but they are almost all gone, apart from a few, Stardust is a good one.

Reading’s spirituality has gone. It’s like Reading has experienced soul loss. Is its chakra has been blocked? Maybe its ley lines have been crossed? Or maybe its aura has been shattered, I don’t know what has happened, but it has.

Fortunately, something has shifted, people are coming of the wood work, psychics, healers, reiki masters, shaman, artist, visionaries. The Winter Giant visited Reading last Christmas. Something magical happened, just for a while, we stepped into the mythic. A tale of welcoming with open arms and an open heart, a story of compassion and giving and love. It was beautiful.

 Winter Giant

Reading prison is now closed. It is, unfortunately, famous for holding Oscar Wilde. He imprisoned for being gay, so I am glad its closed for that very reason. But now, in his honour, it's open to the public as an art house. More interestingly, I have recently discovered that we have a hidden, lost King.

I went for a walk with my son today in Reading’s town hall museum, and found out that there is a lottery funded team, searching for the lost King.

Henry I

Reading Abbey was one of the wealthiest monastic houses in England, and one of northern Europe’s most prestigious religious centres. It was founded by Henry I, who was the son of William the Conqueror, in 1121. It later became his resting place in 1135. After his death in Normandy, his body was brought to Reading Abbey, sewn into a bull’s hide. He was laid to rest in 1136 somewhere in the grounds, and to this day, he still lays there. 

During the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII, the Abbey was destroyed, leaving only a few remains. There is no record of where Henry I and his wife, Queen Adeliza are buried, only that it was in Reading Abbey, beneath a great altar.

Reading Abbey and its surrounding areas was once Readings spiritual hub, its connection to Spirit. As I watched my son run around the Forbury Gardens, it dawned on me that it still can be, a new alternative, esoteric, all inclusive, multi-faithed spirituality, we’ve just forgotten about it. 

I truly feel that we can rekindle the spiritual fire of Readings heart.

Readings Chalice, womb of our Mother Earth, Font of Forbury Gardens. Kai and I placed flowers in the water as an offering to her.

We have a stone circle, filled with water and life and all sorts, standing beautifully is a statue of shells, symbol of the Divine Feminine.

We have a mountain, Forbury Hill, we have a huge stone cross sat erect and proud, facing the entrance to the Abbey ruins, a powerful symbol of the Divine Masculine.

We have a grotto, a womb tomb, flanked by the two holy thighs of our Mother.

We even have a fairy tree, mulberry I think. An ancient and twisted and beautiful tree, a temple of nature and the nature spirits. I offered a ribbon to the branches.

The garden is guarded by a great lion, Ottorongol, Hatun Puma, Chocchinchay, the Golden Jaguar. He is a protective entity; The Lion of Reading.

When our lost King is found, I believe that a new emergence of spirituality in Reading will arise. This is my prophecy.

Reading Abbey

We already have Reading Festival, an Abbey, and now a lost King just like our King Arthur, lets create a Glastonburyesc city, a haven of spiritual freedom. Apologies to Reading Borough Council if the Forbury Gardens are over run with hippies and the trees covered in ribbons and fairy offerings, there are there, hiding, one day they will return, I’m sure of it, just like our lost King.

A Letter to America

Dear America.

Firstly, I would like to say, that just like here in the United Kingdom, I know you are not ALL the same, you are not all crazy arse white people, and no, I’m not black. 

I am a shaman, my tradition is with the Q’ero people of the Andes mountains, so I feel energetically linked to the Americas, otherwise I’d be like everyone else in the world, just watching the Merican shit hit the fan.

As a shaman I see shadows, I see reflections in the world of my own inner landscape. In that I also see a reflection in America to our own craziness (thankfully not as crazy/deluded/corrupt as you guys) in England, so know that what I say has some reality in our own culture too, sadly, I know how beautifully fucked up we are.

Over the last few decades you have changed. The once Great America is now a chaotic cesspool of political drama, religious dogma, disrespect, disillusion and disconnection. Racism is the same, if not worse, than it’s ever been, and it’s all being stirred by the dirty hands of people with unquenchable, insatiable desires for power.

We follow you in our pop culture, film, drama, our young idolise you guys. The thing is, you are us. (funny how you call yourselves U.S, us) You are us for another reason, you are our ancestor’s children, you are our relatives; we, Europeans. You left us back in the 1600s because of us, we fucked up. You left because of religious persecution, punishment, we didn’t know what to do with you. Some of you left for other reasons, unfortunate reasons. Some left for adventure, seeking new possibilities! We waited, you didn’t come back. It was a dark time for us too, we made huge mistakes, our ancestors made huge mistakes; we still are making mistakes.

So for that I’d like to ask for forgiveness, I’m sorry.

The American dream is dead, it’s more like an American horror story, a nightmare, what happened? Watching you is like watching history, you are stuck in a time loop. You are destroying the homes and lives of those who You took the land off of in the first place, just like you did when you arrived. You are building walls of hate against the very neighbours in the south that offer their food and services to you, just like you did when you arrived. You are segregating, abusing and murdering our black brothers and sisters, and their children, OUR children. They are being killed by a massively corrupt police society, seem familiar doesn’t it? What’s next? Civil wars? Assassinations? World war?

The place YOU have named America is not yours, it never was, you stole it from the native people of the land; did you even ask them what their land is called? Destruction, murder, genocide, rape. Not just of the land and its animals, but ALL the people. The dreamscape that you hold so dear is crumbling because it’s built on lies, corruption and violence. The bones of these atrocities are sticking out of the ground, tripping up all who walk across it. Some see it, I have friends who I know who live there who see it, and they are those who give us all hope. But many do not. It’s time to open your eyes.

The hidden shame and guilt is seeping up through the veins of American culture and its people. Instead of acknowledging it, making it right, making peace with it, you ride it, buy it, bury it, eat it. You blow it up, shoot at it, inject it, hang it, control it, rape it, abuse it, laugh at it, sell it, bludgeon it, vote for it, until it goes away. But don’t worry, you are not alone, we in Europe have our own shit to deal with.

End your morbid obsession with external sexualised beauty, it’s not that beautiful. Stop using Jesus’s name to justify hatred, judgments and segregation, he was not white. He was a brown skinned Semite Jew, who never spoke a word of English. He fed the poor and needy, and took care of the homeless, he defended woman, and preached love and acceptance. He also never conformed to any religious or political views. I’m pretty sure he would be against guns too; another fucked up obsession, seriously, get rid of them.

You fail to see that the bad guys and villains, like in your movies, don’t all talk with a terrible British accent. They are not the Russians, nor are they the Koreans, they are not the Mexicans or Muslims, they are also not black people, or strong women with pussy’s ripe for the groping, nor are the LGBT community. I’m afraid it’s an inside job.

Clinton or Trump? I have seen the timelines of both, both will cause pain and suffering, both will cause more of the same, the circle will keep turning, never evolving into a spiral. We always get what we’ve always got if we continue to do what we have always done, or thought, or voted for.

I see America as a police state, there is no freedom. One day America, you will be great again, it has vast potential. But this will only come with reconnection to those you have segregated, it will only come when you give back the land to its true inhabitants, it will only be great again once everyone is free to think and feel and love and chose as they wish. Everyone deserves to be held in the arms of the Sacred.

Those who are awake, teach your children to love and forgive, teach them acceptance and that they are perfect exactly who they are. But more importantly, listen to them, let them teach you!

Yours hopefully,

A Concerned citizen of our planet.

The Bearded shaman

Happy Mothers Day!

Happy Mothers Day!

To all Our Mothers, the Divine Mother, the archetypical Mother, the Universal Mother.

To those mothers who have passed on, grandmothers ancient wise women; we honour you and we love you 🌺💐

Imbolc Joy

Imbolc, Ewes Milk, day of Our Lady Brigid. 

Bree, the divine feminine of Spring. Early budding, spring flowers, sap that oozes quietly through the veins of our earth and all her children. There is a stirring, there is a blossoming. What have you planted? What are you growing? What are you nurturing right now? 

The winds of change are blowing, are you ready to let go and let Be? 

I ask Our Lady of the Flames to burn brightly our passions, the fire in our bellies, and stir change and transformation  from fear and death to joy and life 💫