An unanswerable question asked,
A box not yet opened to the world of men,
The Boy, a story told but still hidden
The man shrouded behind a wall of guilt and longing.
A Box opened, a light on a dark space
The boy seen hidden in the man
A past denying a future
A past controlling the present
For a number of reasons, linked to the same underlying issue – that of historic abuse it has to be said, I have been asked to think about what forgiveness means to me.
It has been suggested that part of recovering from the harm that was caused to me as a child, and has blighted my adult life, would be to forgive the person who abused me.
The whole concept of forgiveness seems to be rather stretched our of shape in this context, it isnt for example suggested that forgiving actually has anything much to do with saying what was done was OK or that the abuser doesn’t bare the responsibility. It seems more about accepting that focusing on the abuser rather than on your own needs is counter productive.
Words like spiders’ webs in the frost laden morning,
Glittering, beautiful but without substance, without future
Words like the damoclean sword, the promise of destruction
A modern day Dionysius, showing her power to control
The first of February sees the celebration of Imbolc, a Gaelic traditional festival marking the beginning of spring. It is seen as a positive time with thoughts turning towards the return of the sun to the land after its long sleep during the winter. We see the days becoming longer and the long nights, slowly at first, starting to shorten.
We look out for the first signs of spring, the snow drops in the woods, the shoots of the daffodils fighting their way through the soil to break into the pale morning spring light
Traditionally it is a time when new initiates were welcomed into a coven, again in a symbolic reference to the new life they are starting.
It is also the traditional time for us to celebrate new beginnings, to see the first indications of growth and development from the seeds and hard work of the previous year.
But sometimes we are confronted with the fact that not all of the seeds we planted, either actual real seeds, or more likely metaphorical seeds, have germinated. We look to the last year, all the hard work we have put in to change our situations, our lives for the better. Or Look at the foundations we have put in place and yet there seems no sign of growth, no sign that the desired outcome is beginning to take shape.
So why is it that all the work, the decisions we took and the sacrifices we made in the last year, seem to have come to nothing? Why are we as unhappy with our life as we were this time last year despite making commitments?
Imprisoned in time, a boy, a young teen
Stuck in a moment, an event, a trauma
No door to exit, no windows to gaze out of
Silently Screaming as memories swirl and constrain
Betrayal by one who should have gave love
Innocence taken by one who should defend it
Trust destroyed by one most trusted
Memory too hard, too dangerous to keep.
Shackles of the mind, self-imposed on by the boy
Memories denied, hidden and rejected
To change the past, undo what was done
Something that couldn’t, mustn’t, have happened
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Things have moved on a bit since I last thought about this.
I was asked to talk to social services, who informed me that they would want to consider what action they would take based on my story and that the natures of things was that they might have to also refer this to the police.
So the question became do I talk to them, to tell them my story or not? It is not in this case a simple equation of who will be harmed by my actions and what offset benefit might there be. It is a question of where responsibility lies.
The core of the problem is that if I was to open up to them then the control of what happened with information, and what the consequences were, would no longer be in my hands, and it would be me of my own free will giving that control over to them. How does that sit with the ideas of personal responsibility imbedded in the injunction to ‘harm none’?
I can feel it, in the air and in my mind.
I can feel it in my soul and memories.
I can feel it in my lack of hope and in my fears
I can feel it building and growing
I can feel it sucking hope and faith
I can feel it destroying the future and plans
I can feel it drag me back to the darkness
I can feel it pull me down
I can feel it calling to the blade
I can feel it calling to my wrist
I can feel it calling to my blood I can feel it, it won’t kill me.
I can feel it , it will make me kill my self
I can feel it, it isn’t death
I can feel it, it wants to turn me into my own death
I can feel it, I can’t hold out much more
I can feel it, I want the peace it brings
I can feel it, touching my soul, my heart, my life, my hope
I can feel it calling
I believe that two souls can be bound, in exceptional circumstances, in a time of shared loss and trauma. If the souls chose the right path and if they stand together.
All good beliefs need a story, a story that tells, in its way, what the belief means. Our story begins, as so many do, with a dream, a vision and perhaps a memory.
In my vision I see a warrior standing in the predawn, atop a hill.
Behind him a small village, round houses and pens for horses and pigs. A few families live there, had lived there for 10s or hundreds of years in harmony with the forest surrounding them.
The raven hair, words promised much.
A need not known, or for her to see
Two souls reaching but do not touch
For I am a Witch and it will not destroy me
A path chosen, love its cost
What was and what can never be
A bond broken, a future lost
For I am a Witch and it will not destroy me
Though still I dream of her fair face
A hope, in vain, that love may yet be
I wish her here to take her place
But I am a Witch and it will not destroy me
I stand before the spirits of the Sea,
Ancient boundary betwixt life and transition.
A souls journey between what was and what must be.
To cast away the gift of the Raven haired one
Beyond the use of mortal men
To the realm of the earth’s daughter’s son