I wonder sometimes if I am simply dreaming this life, or whether I am being dreamed, instead. In the past weeks, England has been heavily in my mind. At unexpected moments throughout the day — washing and cutting vegetables, walking the dogs, taking a shower — I suddenly see myself there, back in places familiar
In the darkened womb of the round, earthen chamber, its center altar lit by a lone white taper candle, I sat quietly on my mat. Outside, unseen by me but their energy omnipresent, the tall trees stood sentinel, whispering their stories and songs of the ages at the edge of a restless, dark sea. I had driven north
The moment I stepped out the door, the familiar twittering in the tree caught my attention and I smiled. For a couple weeks now, when I emerge from the house to greet the morning, I am met by the song of a lone hummingbird. The miniature fellow, who comes throughout the day to the red
In the morning quiet of the cottage, I sat in the high backed French armchair turned to face my small altar in the living room, lit with a golden beeswax pillar and a flickering tea light in a purple and gold glass holder. In its current incarnation, the altar is a small, hand carved wooden
I wake in the night to a pale glow of moonlight illuminating the thick linen draperies, as if they were somehow spun of the luminous pearl outside in the heavens. Freshly emerged from the cocoon of the Dreamtime, still wrapped in silken images and the warm breath of feelings, I drink in the quietude of my bedroom
