Stories are what makes the world go round; we all live on the stories that we’ve been told and the stories we’re being told. We couldn’t get up in the morning unless there was a narrative to show us the way, so much so that we can get quite upset when someone tells us a different story that doesn’t chime with “our own”. I put “our own” in inverted commas, because unless it comes from our shamanic ancestors, it is rarely actually “our own”. But Nature abhors a vacuum, and so in the absence of our own sagas, we will hungrily grab hold of any tall tale we’re given.
The further back in time we go, the more wisdom the stories, which our ancestors wrote in the stars, contain. That’s why I dig and dig and dig, looking for the indigenous teachings of those ancient ones whose Rivers of Blood run through our veins in the Bright World Above, and through the dark caverns of the Land Below in which those who came before us are buried, often in the very spot where they fell fighting to defend this sacred soil for future generations. Continue reading
Where do we go when all the stories fail?
All the stories are failing. Fewer and fewer want to go and sit in big, draughty buildings with high ceilings – no matter how beautifully fan-vaulted – to hear them anymore. The picture below shows the purpose-made wooden pews of the 12th century church of St John the Baptist in Glastonbury, Somerset. Last week, they went to auction to be sold off to the highest bidder.
It seems to me that the situation we’re in regarding the threat to the survival of our race has all the hallmarks of an initiatory test as part of a rite of passage.
What do I mean by rite of passage?
The rite of passage was a practice – and often still is among those indigenous tribes that remain – going back thousands of years, in which the boys would be taken away, deep into the forest, by the Elders, and there they would be put through their paces by facing natural dangers head on. The adversaries were real – and sometimes, some of the children would fail to overcome them, and would be killed. But those that survived to make it back to the tribe, came back men. In other words, they could only survive by finding their own natural intelligence which is carried in the race memories of the Rivers of Blood, as it’s known in faery lore. (Read more in The Faery wisdom about race… and the rivers of blood). Continue reading
I carry the memories and stories of my ancestors in the blood of my race, in my DNA; these are unique to the Celts and Anglo-Saxons, and they form the basis of my spiritual consciousness and my cosmological understanding.
I love my race and will do all I can to preserve it against the riding tide of globalism which would destroy all diversity of blood in the name of diversity, and stifle all freedom of thought in the name of freedom, and cull us all in the name of protecting the Earth, because they want to destroy our inner wisdom.
I honour and respect your race too, and I encourage you to do all you can to preserve it if you are also to develop spiritually by learning from your ancestral spirits.