Merlyn and Odin exited Purnima Passage at Stone Ground on that August full moon. They were surprised to see red warning tape around the sacred rock structure.
“At least, it still works as a portal,” said Merlyn when Aristotle and Indra came out of the palace to greet them.
I first learned hands-on-healing when I was twenty and belonged to a Catholic Charismatic Community. It was one of my favourite things to do. I never doubted its authenticity because, to me, it seemed obviously real and beneficial.
I remember attending a community conference in a different state. At that stage, I didn’t have any money and was gifted the conference and flight tickets which I was thrilled about. The conference was a large, enthusiastic gathering with many hundreds of young adults fired up with spiritual energy.
Merlyn had her month of weekend sleep-overs at Tom’s flat, in the city, and weekday sleep-overs at Malik’s house, in Waldmeer. Neither was ideal. Tom kept pushing her away, and Malik’s busy family was all-consuming. She didn’t like Tom pushing her away; it hurt. Nor did she like being taken over by the members of a large, noisy household with three children (Maria being the youngest at fourteen and Michael being the oldest at twenty), two adults, and Odin (who was supposed to be an adult but, on Earth, he ended up more of a dependent).
It may not have been Merlyn’s favourite arrangement but that’s life, isn’t it? When are things perfectly balanced on the outside? Rarely. And in those glorious moments when they are, it doesn’t last long. The only viable option is to try and balance ourselves on the inside so that we are not pushed around by what happens outside us.
Here is one of the chapters from my newly published book, Writing: A Spiritual Voice. The image is the original cover of The Love of Devotion which this article refers to.
A few days before the photo shoot for the book cover of The Love of Devotion (2014), I suddenly had the idea to wear a large, white, silk veil over my body and head. The veil is a universal representation of feminine spiritual devotion. It is ancient and transcultural. It represents the core qualities of spiritual love and inner beauty. It has its own particular manifestations in each religion, but is always equated with humility before God, devotion to goodness, and commitment to the spiritual path. My natural self is highly devotional. As a Westerner, and a raised Catholic, the archetypal symbol was probably arising from the stereotypic Catholic nun.
This is the first chapter from my newly published book, Writing: A Spiritual Voice.
Like many people, I have always written. Like most people who write, I had no intention of being an author. I remember, as a young adult, a university friend telling me that my birthday and Christmas cards were so long that they were like a book. Later, in my mid-thirties, another friend told me, several times, that I could write a book about my life. I didn’t think anything of that because everyone’s life is interesting to themselves because they are the star.
Writing is a long-term career. It takes a lot of time, money, perseverance, learning, and soul. Making a mark as a writer and having an influence in the world is a process which generally accelerates slowly.
Keep going.
Keep giving.
Remain true.
Trust your instincts.
Go with the flow.
Do your best.
Enjoy it.
If you know that the spiritual voice is in you, and you would like greater access to it as a writer, then Writing: A Spiritual Voice can help you to develop your capacity to hear and heed that voice.
May we be grateful for everything good. Good IS everything. May we remember that God is the only Love. May our eyes radiate nonconditional benevolence. May our awareness be of spiritual perfection. May our freedom be boundless. May we know the loveliness of love. May the Divine presence fill our consciousness. May we feel the magnificent capacity of Life. May our touch be uplifting. May our influence be a blessing. May we feel the immensity of Divinity. May we know the sublime Love that we are part of. May it sustain us. It IS us.
This short story (written in 2016) is in my newly published book, Touched by Love (Book 2 of The Great Love Affair Series).
Man cannot really live without attachments, but mostly we are reaching for the wrong attachment. (Thomas Hora)
Isobel watched Benedict walk unsteadily down his driveway towards the builders in the backyard. He hadn’t dressed properly. He had no underwear on and his track pants were ripped so that anyone who looked (perhaps, it was impossible not to look) could see his backside. Somehow, it was still a great looking backside for all that he had put his body through in recent years. There was no point telling him that he hadn’t dressed properly. He was too sick. Along the way, things like dignity get lost.
Here is the next part of Purnima (Book 7 of Waldmeer): Gum Flat.
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by? Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry; Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky? Have you heard the still voice calling — yet so warm, and yet so cold: “I’m the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old”?
Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range, All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange! While you thought in softened anger of the things that did estrange? (Did you hear the Bush a‑calling, when your heart was young and bold: “I’m the Mother-Bush that nursed you; come to me when you are old”?)
In the cutting or the tunnel, out of sight of stock or shed, Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge overhead: “You have seen the seas and cities — all is cold to you, or dead — All seems done and all seems told, but the grey-light turns to gold! I’m the Mother-Bush that loves you — come to me now you are old”?
(On The Night Train by Henry Lawson)
Night Train
On the way to Gum Flat:
Merlyn read the Henry Lawson poem which was on the wall of the night train to Gum Flat. Written in 1922, the year of Lawson’s passing, it was his last poem. She looked out the dark window at the even darker bush running by and felt a profound sense of belonging and also a profound sense of separation – Have you heard the still voice calling — yet so warm, and yet so cold. It was the same land that Lawson saw, wrote about, and loved. This land doesn’t really change. It is too vast, ancient, detached, motherly. All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange.
