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.
When she was just a young girl, my mother was the first to get to her dead father who had died of a heart attack in the outside loo, and had fallen against the door. Mum was the only one small enough to be able to crawl under the door and then, with her little arms, pull the dead weight of his body back so that the others could get to him. Shortly after that, she and her elder brother were outside chopping wood for the fire, and he accidentally managed to slice off the top of her index finger.
Insult was added to these traumatic injuries by the fact that her mother, my grandmother, was the sort who favoured and promoted the interests of her male offspring over her one daughter, who she would continually put down. Continue reading
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.
Some of you may be realising by now that working in the mundane physical world against the New World Order is like fighting with shadows. That’s because the shades are being reflected from the Astral Planes, which they dominate. From there they are enacting operations that are the source of the dark effects that we see on this planet, and they mainly take the form of the evil acts against humanity that we witness all around us as they perform a huge mass sacrifice to their ‘gods’ with us as the sacrificial lambs.
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Annie Dieu-Le-Veut is a shaman and story archaeologist who digs up the originals of these epic tales that were drawn in the glittering night skies of the last Ice Age. She brushes them off and then breaks down their meanings in the simplest of terms, so that we can unlock the doors of our perception with their metaphorical keys.
Once we understand the substance of the messages our ancestors left for us thousands of years ago, we realise the value and meaning of human life and finally know what to do with it.