It’s that time again!

shamrocks for st patrick's dayAlright, all you bits of starlight out there – it’s that time again!

SO, get out there, kiss a leprechaun if you can find one (they’re a wily group, wonderfully mischievous and gorgeous fun, so watch out!!), wear all things green (or at least one), and if you must, go do ‘the green beer’ thing too (not my favorite way of marking the day but…). We do not recommend colouring whatever river happens to be nearby, but since Chicago has gone and done it, well what the…!

Quote Yeats, Beckett, a bit of Myles na Gopaleen if you can (look that one up), wax poetic about the slow air, and generally give a thumbs up and a GOOD GOD, YOU’RE WONDERFUL to the day.

That would ST. PATRICK’S DAY, in case you missed the clues.

And to all my dear and beautiful friends in The Green – Love ya bunches – Wish I was there!!

 

HAPPY ST. PAT’S DAY, EVERYONE!

 

shamrock

 

 

 

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Samhain & those veils … part 2

Earlier when I was writing the previous post, I was interrupted by a very insistent being … He’s small, he’s mighty, he’s fond of green, and he morphs whenever he wants to! He is also incredibly adamant about speaking. I want you to know here and now that I take absolutely NO responsibility for whatever it is he’s about to say. Whether you believe it or not is totally up to you. So, hang onto your proverbials, here he is.

shamrock

 

“Sure and they won’t believe you. Not about the windows. We’ve been trying for ages. They like the fright and the candy. Maybe even the blood, but who wants to talk about that! And don’t go telling them who we really are. They won’t believe that either. They know nothing about the inner world, no matter what they say! They think we’re just wee gnomes sitting in the gardens. Leprechauns and fairies fluttering between the trees, hovering on the edges, smoking a bit of whatever. As if that’s all we had to do. As if that’s why we were here. They don’t remember the stories … sure and don’t they think it’s all myth, as if myth were nothing but a fable, a wee bit of fluff you talk about over some camp fire. I swear to you. They don’t even remember the Grand Cosmic Moment, and who doesn’t remember that one!  And they’re running out of time, to believe I mean.”

“Because here’s the thing – when the veils thin to the point where there’s nothing between anything anymore (and that could be anytime soon, let me tell you), then what you find on the other side of thought (the current one that is) better be a thought or two that you’re thrilled with, that you’ve been dreaming about for like forever, that you love to bits, that brings joy and colour and life to your world – because if it isn’t, if it doesn’t, well then for sure for sure, you’ll find yourself in a dark place indeed. And that’s a place we can’t go to help even if we wanted to. You’ll be on your own, in a dark place, with no light. And it won’t be the cosmic void. It’ll just be a dark place, with no light. Trust me, there’s no fun in that at all at all at all.”

“SO, with that in mind, we’ll try this one more time (because we’ve grown a tad fond of you, not that we’d readily admit it you understand) – THERE ARE WINDOWS, THEY ARE HERE, especially on this night of nights when the veils are thin and worlds can meet in the hovering of an autumn moon. Would you just drop the candied fright for a moment and turn and say hello. The windows are waiting. And so are we. And on that note, God bless you all, and I’ll see you, I hope, on the flip side of tomorrow today.”

 

 

Happy Samhain…

Welcome to the thinning of the veils…

It’s October 31st, that time where sticky candy, wobbling strange rubber faces, frail and flimsy wings, and flip-flopping swords and daggers reign supreme. There are even a few glittering red slippers and a star-tipped wand or two to be found dancing around. It is a time of ghosts, goblins, and miniature versions of the cast of the Pirates of the Caribbean sauntering down night streets just about everywhere.

In the Celtic world, it is the time of Samhain, where veils become thin, and the spirits of the past rise up to greet the spirits of the day. You won’t necessary find those pirates roaming but you might find your relatives from the 6th century popping in for a cup of mead (that’s honey wine). Treat them well. You never know what you might have done in the 6th century!  And so it is a time of the changing of worlds – autumn to winter – winter to the cold dark beyond.

One could also say it is a time when the veils between your perception of realities thin. Where the things you are so very sure are real begin to flutter and fade, and the dreams you visit only in the quiet of your mind begin to take on colour and grow. Where, for an infinitesimally small moment in the concept of time, the two dare to merge, mingle, trade places, or even become one.

It is even possible that as our world shifts and changes, moments like these turn out to be windows to the very heart and soul of a better life and a better world.

…more to come…

A bit of poetry…

I AM THE DANCE  

by: Aliana Alani ©2016

 

I am the dance of the universe.

My cells tango with the heavens
and salsa with the seas.

My heart beats to a drum, divine,
marrying its pulse with worlds as yet unseen.

My mind, ah my mind, hums and sways with
melodies, both wordless and serene.

I am the dance of the universe.
I am the dance.

Come dance with me.

The poem … ‘I Had A Dream’

Yesterday I posted a ‘Prelude’ to this poem to give you a sense of how it came to be, the feeling of power,magic, and yes perhaps even destiny, that wove round its coming into form. Here is the poem itself. It is very long so do hang in there. Thanks!

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I HAD A DREAM…                                      By:  Aliana Alani – updated ©2016

I had a dream on a wayward night when the moon was riding high.
A dream of the future once hidden so deep, now crying out to arrive.
A dream with a voice, a dream with a name, a dream with a purpose true.
A dream that grabbed me by the heart and begged me to see it through.

The dream spoke of a land, full and rich, steeped in the power of words.
Where voices whispered in morning mist and councils longed to be heard.
Where the earth was ancient and the song was of old, its colors royal too.
Where legends lived and prayers could be heard locked in the morning dew.

It spoke of a time when the world was right and the island knew its name.
When keys were forged in the glistening light of a golden destined flame.
Buried they were in the depths of the earth beyond terror and human sight.
Beyond evil hands and evil thoughts and intruders come to dig in the night.

For it was known then by those who could see between the sleeves of time
That hungry men would stretch their hands across the water’s broad line.
They would stretch and claw and grab for themselves pieces of the soil.
The land would burn, the land would bleed, and men would know only toil.

And all that was holy, all that was pure, would drown midst a sorrowful cry.
The power of the day would run for the dark, its magic now needing to hide.
Men’s spirits would live in the midst of night’s hue serenading a somber song
And all that was free, unfettered and true, would seem lost in a captor’s bonds.

The seed would be sent to foreign lands with young stomachs yet to be filled.
Such worlds appeared new, wild and alive; still the heart could not be stilled.
It longed for the green, it longed for the mist, it longed for those hidden keys
That called from the depths of that deep dark earth and promised a spirit free.

There would come a time when the world itself did not know which way to turn.
It would look to the left, it would look to the right, its lessons still not learned.
The seers knew such a time as that would wash harsh o’er the souls of this earth.
It would toss them and turn them, it would tumble them round, all before the birth.

They knew those keys would be needed then, so potent with life was their door.
Each encased in a golden light so pure, its spark took one straight to the core.
There would be no denying the power of its flame, no denying the power of truth,
No denying the light that would soon emerge, its flag flying o’er all of the earth.

It would come from an island once lost in pain, an island of war and of strife.
It would come from a place ancient yet new that oft seemed to have little life.
It would tear at the heart, sing to each soul, it would open doors so long bound.
It would call to the day, it would call to the night, it would call to the table round.

The island would live, the island would breathe, the island would claim its place.
From the north to the south, the east to the west, its spirit cast in lasting grace.
Its song would circle a troubled world, a loving voice long destined to be heard.
A white dove would fly from a hilltop high, and the dream would now emerge.

And those who had sat on that still dark night when the keys were buried deep
Who had watched them sink within rich moist soil, their secrets there to keep,
Whose hearts were etched in the print of the plan, fired within a golden mold,
Would be called from far, would be called from wide, their stories to be told.

They would place their print in the palm of the plan, the heart’s song to be sung.
The earth would tremble, the soil would shift, and the birthing would have begun.
Then the ghosts of the past meet the spirits of the day, awash in a glow of light
And that which was sorrow, that which was pain, is dissolved by a higher might.

Soon a love song is sung through emerald rain, a song so full and so strong.
Its call can be heard through forests and fears, through hatreds and rivers long.
It’s a song we long for, a song held in our hearts, a song the world needs to hear
Brought from an island long known for words, sacred and destined and clear.

I had such a dream on a wayward night when the moon was riding high.
A dream of a future once hidden so deep whose time had finally arrived.
A dream with a voice, a dream with a name, a dream with a purpose true.
A dream that grabbed me by the heart and begged me to see it through.

                           Aliana Alani © 2016

Digital Camera

 …for the heart song of Ireland

Prelude to … ‘I Had A Dream’

 

MANY MOONS AGO, in what feels like eons but isn’t, just like eons can feel like moments but aren’t, I had one of those poignant experiences that it sometimes seems only time in The Green can give. It was the after edges of Samhain (Halloween to those who live west of The Big Pond), I was staying at a friend’s in an area that could easily be classified as desolate on a grey rainy day, which it was. There was a brooding feel to it all, as though something could pop out of the unexpected any moment. It was Ireland after all, so this was possible.

I STARED OUT a many-paned window as raindrops splattered on glass and a welcoming fire crackled from behind. I was looking at a leafless tree that resided along the edge of the driveway with birds now gathering on it. I watched. And strangely, I waited. When it seemed they had all arrived (for what I did not know), I counted. I admit it, I was curious – partly because there were so many, and partly because they were all ravens. Ravens, as some say, are superb magic makers, shape shifters par excellence, sounders of creative births. In other words, powerful. No one worth their emerald green seaweed would mess with them.

I ADMIT THESE WERE EARLY DAYS for me in The Green, still I swore I could feel the dulse of the sea beginning to cling to my very being (let alone my heart) and so I paid honour where honour was due, and promptly counted again. Yup, twenty-two. Twenty-two ravens perched on a tree, waiting. I had a feeling they were waiting for me.

SO I DID WHAT ANY SELF-RESPECTING BEING SHOULD DO. I asked what they wanted. ‘Be raven.’  They said. ‘Come see. Come see.’ What could one do but agree. After all, there were twenty-two.

AND SO the journey began.

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WHAT CAME OUT OF IT many hours later was a poem – a rather long one done in verse, which I don’t normally write. It was called, I Had A Dream. It touched my heart and brought tears to the eyes. I shared it with friends and a few I did not know. Then time marched on, I left The Green, and the poem, as poems sometimes do, went into the now-labelled ‘Poetry – Ireland’ file.

AND THERE it sat, until now.

I’M NOT SURE WHY I’m meant to share this with you. Perhaps it is the changing times. Perhaps within the blowing winds, the ravens are calling – ‘Come see. Come see.’ Perhaps it will touch your heart as it did mine. Perhaps, just perhaps, if you live in The Green or feel its stories wafting through your soul wherever you may be, it will sound a chord of remembering, and in so doing, awaken a long prophesied dream.

ONE TINY ADD-ON – It is my sense that there are places in this world that carry keys; keys that when re-discovered, and then used wisely, become of enormous benefit to us all on this fragile exquisitely beautiful planet. To me, Ireland carries one of those keys.

BECAUSE IT’S VERY LONG, I will share the poem with you in the next posting.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day

 “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” …W.B.Yeats

shamrocks for st patrick's day

It’s St. Patrick’s Day – so go on now, celebrate The Green, raise a glass to the isle, toast the impossibly possible, dance with good friends, delight in great moments, and whatever you do, don’t forget the magic – because the magic is so much of what makes The Green, and life itself, truly special.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY EVERYONE!

shamrock