So, I said to myself, ‘time to get back on the horse and write!’ after leaving this blog adrift while I recover from the marathon expense of Stag Rider. In that void, where I stood in a dazed, enthused state, watching my second book sail out to sea after years of creating something from travels which were physical and spiritual in nature, I heard the voices in my head gather again, plotting to prepare me for a third voyage into the writing abyss. I’m used to the voices. In addiction they weren’t as positive as they are today. They were loud, obtuse, persuasive.
Now, the voices speak of guidance and reassurance, of strength and hope, and of courage to continue the road to, quite where, I don’t know, but my belief is fuelled by something unseen and powerful. Sure, some of the voices are mine, but others come from elsewhere and I’ve been enjoying fine-tuning my antennae to pick up frequencies on Mother Nature’s wavelength. Something that has been easier to do during the stillness of lockdown.
As we gather ourselves for recovery on a more global scale, I’m finding solace in the stillness as we take stock, resetting ourselves, and also in these words which help me find my way through the feelings and emotions floating on the reviving Spring air. I have been meaning to put digital pen to paper since returning from the most north westerly isles of Cananda, Haida Gwaii.
I first learnt of this most beautiful, virtually unspoilt archipelago of four-hundred islands, through their artists. The indigenous slate stone – argillite, led me to Haida Gwaii. I encountered it through my searches for a black earthy pendant to symbolise my connection with Crow, whom some of you may know of through my books. Haida Gwaii has touched my soul on a deep, deep level. Since returning, music isn’t payed in my car anymore, as I continue to revel in the present moment. A quality learnt by default during the eight-day kayak expedition into Gwaii Haanas National Park, which is diarised in these photos.
Controlled logging still takes place, but Haida Gwaii’s old growth cedars would be significantly depleted if it hadn’t been for the 1985 Windy Bay protest in which five islanders stood against large scale loggers on sacred land. They changed the course of Haida history, prompting the development of legislation that resulted in Haida Gwaii being co-governed by the Haida Nation and the Canadian Government.
Like those beautiful giant old growth trees, the Haida people have recovered from a different onslaught, that of disease introduced intentionally as a culling measure by colonisation which wiped all but three-hundred and fifty of the thirty-thousand or so Haida population. I was quietly embarrassed by my ignorance. Not knowing the horrific details of cultural genocide until I began visiting sacred village sites where proud mortuary and house poles still stood on land which slowly reclaimed them, land which holds hallowed graves of the ancestors who knew first-hand of the crimes committed during first European contact in the 1800’s.
I had intended on finding a shaman to speak to about the supernatural aspects of Haida culture, but as my trip progressed, I realised Haida culture is all about that connection between the natural world and the supernatural.
Their reverence for nature and the complex clan structure of their matriarchal society drew me in. The totem poles depict supernatural beings, many known to take human form and live among the people. The poles themselves are brought to life with song and dance, as the great red cedar, moved from its home in the forest, begins its new life as part of a village.
The Haida creation story centres around one supernatural being, Raven. The skies of these magical isles are ruled by the trickster and the eagle, and the two main clans of the Haida people adopt the same super-natural names. I left Haida Gwaii humbled by the richness and devotion to a culture which has graced the isles for the best part of fourteen thousand years, and with a yearning to return one day to explore the southernmost routes where the poles of Ninstints’ Village still reach for the sky from the land at the edge of world.
Trips spent searching for inspiration are times spent with the rawness of nature, always such a healing and empowering time for me. Mont St Michel is one such place, regardless of the man made architecture which, in my view, were built to celebrate the primal ley-line energy flowing though the site. The impetus for this trip initially came from a dear friend who suggested I might find Mont St Michel (MSM) inspiring. The full itinerary came from another friend who sent me details of a tour the author Kathleen McGowan was due to make of the Carnac region. So I decided to go solo and designed my own pilgrimage based on some of Kathleen’s destinations, and that is how this trip happened. Not for the first time, things fell into place easily and I felt supported from beginning to end, both by my family who afforded me the time away, and by the Universe. I’d never driven in France before, so the seven hundred mile road-trip I was about to embark on was slightly daunting as this was my first trip there for twelve years since last walking through the grotto in Lourdes, a time I wrote about in Awaken. Nonetheless, I felt there was an important piece waiting for me in France. My research confirmed synchronicity with ley-lines – Earth’s primal dragon energies, which are sparks and communicators where my writing is concerned.
The September roads were quiet on the way to MSM and the first sighting of it from miles away across the flat arable land was like a mirage, a spiritual oasis, with the abbey spire rocketing to the heavens. I arrived after a few hours’ sleep during a night-crossing spent in the reserved seating area, but with my ability to meditate in virtually any situation put to good use. Transcendental Meditation frequently lulled me back to a rest, deeper than sleep, turning four hours sleep into what felt like many more. I had no desire to join the huge queues for the shuttles across the bridge to MSM. These trips are personal pilgrimages, dare I say, spiritual quests, as they teach me more about being in my own company (something I have not always good at) and about rejuvenation. Somehow, the older I get the younger I feel. These days are like school for me, learning to live again, finding teachings in marriage, fatherhood, Nature, meditation, and following what I can only describe as a calling which would have never appeared had I not found the rock-bottom I was at twelve years ago when I ran my hand over the Lourdes grotto stone.
I spent the first day on MSM inside the abbey, meditating, looking out to sea from its highest ramparts and terraces. Listening for messages behind the noise of school children and tourists carrying selfie-sticks. Why was I here? What did the energy want to tell me? I couldn’t hear it. Civilization grated on me, but the powerful coastal wind contained me. No matter how strong the wind may be, it always contains me, giving me a point of focus, helping me to go beyond the people from the ordinary to Nature’s non-ordinary reality. I was impatient, seeking instant gratification from a choir of angels declaring my arrival. Then, as I slowed, the energy arrived and as the tour of the abbey progressed it grew in strength as I sat next to the rectangular grass nave where the monks used to meditate. I could have sat there all day and that was how it felt being on MSM, if I was to sum it all up in one word, it would be ‘effortless’ and as the tour guides came, gave their spiels and then went, I learnt to accept everyone’s presence and feel an energy which was subtle at first and then became undeniable. I found somewhere to watch the sunset at the base of the abbey, next to a yew tree and raw slanting rock race which supported the pyramid of Christianity towering above me. Bats woke with the moon rise, and as the tourists left, leaving the forty residents and those staying in the hotels on MSM – its magic appeared in the quietness.
I spent the next four days meditating in areas thriving with the Earth energy stimulated by some of the eighty thousand megaliths placed along thirty-one fractures of France’s most active earthquake zone, causing them to be in a constant state of vibration. I can feel my energy adapting to the experience, to the new resonance of my soul, and I look forward to reaping what will grow from the seeds planted in deepest transcendence with Mother Earth.
The effect of sacred sites behaving like concentrators of electromagnetic energy is enhanced by the choice of stone. Often moved across enormous distance, the stone used in megalithic sites contains substantial amounts of magnetite. The combination makes temples behave like weak, albeit huge, magnets.
Several months into recovery I went to see a psychic-medium and the word ‘meditation’ kept coming up. At the time, I didn’t meditate and certainly didn’t know anything about calming my mind. Drugs and alcohol were a thing of the past, remaining behind firmly locked gates while other, new avenues, opened for me, but my head was still a dangerous place to be alone. Too often I confronted myself in the dark alleys that my all-too-vivid imagination took me to. Respite from my self-sabotaging thoughts was rare and precious as the drugs and alcohol weren’t there to numb it anymore. I was soon to be introduced to a new, natural high, which would protect me from myself, connect me with my Self and in doing so introduce me to the spiritual and creative energy now driving my writing.
The more I learnt about the simplest, yet most powerful meditation technique, the more I realised I’d found a huge piece of my spiritual jigsaw. Rehab helped me realise that Nature was my higher power, my G.O.D. or Great Out Doors. As the fog cleared, I saw Nature in new glorious technicolour. I felt the elements with new vigour, and connected with the Mother of all mountains, Table Mountain, in a way which is probably the closest I’ll ever come to defining what having a ‘religious experience’ means to me. Blessing’s came in many guises during rock-bottom and rehab. Being given the chance to heal in Cape Town was one of the biggest gifts, second only to meeting my soulmate and having the family I yearned for and now have. They only came to me because I’d found rock-bottom, though, because through the process of descent and return, I cleansed my life of the imposter claiming to be me. Funny how it works isn’t it. With this new-found love of the environment in my recovery toolkit, I was then given my TM mantra, a sound of Nature itself. A combination of two syllables, meaningless where the English language is concerned, but with a vibration which forms part of the primordial hum of the Universe. A sound of Mother Nature and the more I repeat it, the more powerful it becomes and the closer it brings me to Nature. Step eleven – ‘Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood him/her,’ had just taken on new meaning. Nature’s natural instinct is to support and help grow, so I was tapped in to a force which would always look for the best for me.
I kept going to the meditation retreats at a country house in Kent where forty of us meditated in a group, seven to eight times a day. There I listened to the teacher talk about the power of the group, coherence. Three days of group meditation during the retreat gave each of us the benefits of three months of solo meditation. The most noticeable change was how I interacted with Nature, and it with me. I had moments when I felt trees acknowledge me, and I felt their joy as they basked in summer sunshine and danced in winds. I found myself overcome by love at random moments. Tears ran down my face in crowded trains after twenty minutes of TM as gratitude and a feeling of profound love washed over me. Yes, those moments were just that, moments, but they were so powerful I knew something magical was taking place.
