Stories ...

“Stories are compasses and architecture, we navigate by them, we build our sanctuaries and our prisons out of them, and to be without a story is to be lost in the vastness of a world that spreads in all directions like arctic tundra or sea ice.”

― Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby

When Totnes Gets Too Much

It happens ... there are times when Totnes can become a little too much to take. It's a small town after all! Privacy, what's that? Intensity, maxed out! There's only so many crystal healing wheat grass juice cleanses to be had in a day. When a Totnesian is having one of those moments where the world goes wwwwoooooaaaaahhhhhhhh - this is what happens ... (all I am saying is - I now know what twin towns are for).

Bags packed, coat on and heading for the wardrobe. Time to take a break from one reality and to step into a new dimension - yes to that!

A Good Book

A couple of days ago a new book landed on my doorstep. One of life's pleasures is the anticipation of a good book, why? Well I think this image sums it up ...

and the book in question on this day ... let me share with you a brilliant writer and a portal definitely worth stepping through ...

 

... this is a book for those who have dreamed of stepping into one of the oldest stories originating from Europe, told around countless firesides and passed on from one generation to the next since memory began. Here's your opportunity to delve deeply into the mystery and the magic with Martin Shaw.

The Taoist Maybe Story

"There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years.

One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically.

 "Maybe," the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbors exclaimed.

"Maybe," replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. 

"Maybe," answered the farmer. 

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. 

"Maybe," said the farmer."

Sunday Morning Last Week

What happens when gratitude is stuck inside?

Blocked like a constipated goose
Eyes bulging
   Skin tighter than an unplayed drum
 Senses prickling and sensitive
     Alert to the brooding expectation and glare of damnation

And still no gracious movement
 No head bow
  No softening of the heart

Fires of rage rise up
  For what?
    For what?
      For what you may ask?

 To guard the edges of existence
   To keep a sense of experience
To stop the march of the unthinking

THAT IS WHY!
  That is why the gratitude is unannounced
    not unfelt, simply silent and within.

Beltane

It's May
It's Beltane
Get wild
Light fires and leap them
Walkout in bare feet and feel the morning dew
Gather wild flowers; primrose, garlic, bluebells
Marigold, gorse, hazel and cowslips to name a few
Dance naked in the woods
Roll about, get covered in mud
Be wild, be free
Run towards the roar
It's May
It's Beltane