The People are Sovereign. They are intrinsically Sovereign through their connection, in their Rivers of Blood or DNA, to the Ancestors in the Otherworlds. The portals between these Worlds are opened and closed by the gatekeepers, the Fae, in cooperation with shamans that are entrusted with this sacred work on the Land.
The People, in turn, elect representatives to take their views to the Parliament (Parle-ment, Anglo-Saxon for a representative assembly of speakers) and this – and ONLY THIS – is what makes our Parliament Sovereign. Other countries have copied this method of governance because, until now, it has been successful as when it is truly representative, it has the blessings of the Otherworlds. and this is why Westminster is known as the Mother of all Parliaments. Continue reading
We are all familiar now with the famous Tunnel from those who come back from the Realms of the Dead and recount their near death experiences. But another common factor in these accounts, and yet one that is little reported, is the overwhelmingly ecstatic feeling of love that surrounds them during their brief sojourn to the Other Side. And far from them coming under the harsh judgement of a Jehovah-type God who sternly weighs their “sins” in the balance, there is only a gentle self-assessment, which is often kindly supported by their ancestral spirits, that informs their view about whether or not it would be the wisest course to return into an often broken, and thus painful, human form, because their “appointments” on that rung of The Ladder of the Wise had not yet been met.
Many who return to This Side find that their new realisations cause their life to change, and they take up new interests – and sometimes new trainings and new professions – in order to better align themselves with their life’s purpose. This is all to the good. However, it is a little-known fact that one can reach the Other Side without going through the death experience, and it is by following a technique I call the Ecstasy of the Heart.
The magic of the Sovereignty of the Land has long been hidden from us by many means, screens and schemes, and one way of preventing us from dis-covering it has been to change the meaning of words. For instance, let us consider the word ‘history’. ‘History’ actually comes from the 12th century Norman ‘histoire’, which in that language meant ‘story’. Thus, when discussing ancient ‘histoires’ we are dealing with a story that may or may not be true. However, it doesn’t matter for our magical purposes because, as I always say, the only difference between mythology and history is that myths are true, by which I mean that “history” is usually written by the victors who are bound to put a spin on their recorded events, but “mythology” contains deep and eternal truths that always remain true.
And so by engaging with what we believe to be history is, in effect, entering cognitively into the fabric that made up the consensual reality of our ancestors, and no matter how much the transcribers and translaters have, over time, taken that fabric, and cut and tailored it into different suits, jackets and dresses, the mythological truth still remains evident, in the weave, to those who have the eyes to see it. Continue reading
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
Who was Merlin really? It’s a question I often get asked.
Well, we have to go back to the 12th century, when a school of scribes was appointed by the Norman conquest to win the hearts and minds of the unruly Celts, and they reinvented Merlin from an already-existing native, mythological shaman called Myrddin Wylt.
A few years ago, before I wrote Reclaiming Sovereignty, you never heard the word being used. Now I hear the word “Sovereignty” being bandied around about quite a lot and usually being misused.
Sovereignty is not for the individual. It is for the tribe or the nation or however you define the territory of the land you live on. It is a gift from the spirits of the Land in return for work that the shaman does with the ancestors. It is how the shaman dreams new worlds into being. It has always been this way and so when Trump addresses the UN Assembly on the importance of Sovereignty to countries, he is using the term correctly.
This wonderful poem by Amara Bronwyn MacEachern Hollow Bones sums up, in a nutshell, everything about the specialised shamanic path that I write and teach about.
We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys
They sank in our rivers of blood
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths
And then burned the earth with our rage
We didn’t teach our children
It was the only way to protect them,
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
and put out the fires
For the dams to break
For the rivers to flood
For the paths
to be walked again
For the soil to breathe
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble
We find we’ve always had the keys
Our stories and our maps
Our paths are revealed to some
And the seeds grow again
The threads are unspun
And woven again.