A Vow to Never Live or Love Fully Again

A Vow to Never Live or Love Fully Again

The Binding of Past Life Relationships

Minerva’s Swan Lore Story:

‘It began with an invitation, Two of Wands… a card with two slender reeds, across from each other, a doorway Julia says. Step through this portal and find the innocence of a youth unmarred by disaster or fear, by any stopping of the flow of magic that knows no wrong. And as fate would have it, the next card was the Fool – the pure representative of that green seeking, the kind that makes you leap over any divide with the faith in god and life to hold you, to make you fly with only the rarest of possessions and the intention to begin. The next card was the High Priestess, another invitation, Julia says. To reclaim a new stage of sitting in your power, a deep magic that is only given to you in this lifetime, a power that you’ve possessed but have not fully believed in, and it’s waiting for you at the end of this journey. So we began. 

With the beautiful wise grandmothers at my back, my front, my side, my feet, my head – supporting me to journey through the earth and space and time, we came to all this water. Water in the magical woods, water in the waterfall, water as it mixes with light to glisten in radiance and knowing and make us follow where we wouldn’t otherwise go. I stepped through the waterfall and knelt at a deep green pool, the bottom unknowable and the green like emerald, pure and crystal and true. And I looked at my reflection of another lifetime and saw the warrior – chestnut skin, jet hair, adorned with simple feathers, arms in thin bands of beads, muscles lean and raw, face square and silent. I went with him through time: to the outcrop near the cliff, the open space before the mouth of the canyon where he melted into the dirt, the air of the wind, the grass beneath him, the clouds above – this was where he first met his magic, as there was no separation between him and this world, or any other.

He knew with every cell and bone and breath that he and the water were the same, one kin, different angles and expressions of the same matter, energy, being. This is where he always came to remember. Still, as he grew older, swifter, stronger, like an animal, every space he conquered with his reverence and experience was this too, a seamless tapestry of himself and the universe. He was trained to be a warrior of the highest kind. Able to hunt anything, able to kill and dominate anything with his spirit before the body succumbed. He was of great value to his tribe, and while his words were few he won the respect of all members of his web, he gave to them with kindness and humility and received from them with honor and gratitude, the trust of one who knows he’s being moved by something larger and takes the role god has given him. 

And he one day meets his reflection in the beautiful spirit of deer, the young medicine woman who stands across from him like the other half of a doorway, the twin soul of his existence – and together they tangle like vines, they are part and parcel of this breathing, heaving world, their love is the embodiment of unity with all things. He vows to never let her be hurt or damaged by any darkness, to protect her with every part of himself, and she vows to be the strongest of beating hearts and minds and bodies and healers to take him back in from his journeys, to cleanse him and make him new like birth, over and over again.

Then I am with him in later years and I know a part of him has died because I can see the black stain, like a spear of shadow, running throughout his body, cutting through his union. And he shows me from a distance, I see her at the end of several tents, an encampment, yellow grass, scorched by sun. She is hanging from her neck and her spirit has left this wild planet. A people with darkness tried to take her, and could see that her spirit was more powerful than what they knew, so they killed her. And there was nothing my warrior could do to stop it. And in the moment he knew she was dead, he vowed to never live fully without her, to never love fully, without her – to honor her death with the only sacrifice he knew how to make at that time. And so he did… all the other days he walked the earth, he continued to be a warrior of means, to contribute to his people, he was a bow maker of great skill and when people received his bows, from young to old, they were infused with the faith that they could hit any target at which they aimed with truth and clarity because of the purity of his art and passion and skill and gift. But I saw his hair turn silver, and still that spear of shadow was there, and while he held that vow close, it took the life from him, which he was glad of. What he did not know, and what I had the privilege to see, was that his love and original vow of protection to her had wrapped around her heart so fully that they were only able to destroy her body. She actually felt protected by him, and never cursed what happened. They did not for a second conquer her spirit, and as soon as her breath went skyward, they knew it. She became the medicine. And they gained nothing.  

And Julia invites me now to release my warrior’s vow. To send the powerful light of forgiveness and understanding, the wisdom of perspective and the flight of aeons to his heart, to this spear, to this vow. You are forgiven, I said, and I hereby release you from this vow to not live or love fully. Be one again with the wind and the stars, be one with the Great Spirit that has always moved you and dissolve into the gleaming dawn of another way, be with your love, the deer medicine woman, your twin. And I saw his body and grief break into particles of light, until the form of his body was no more but the joy of his heart, and it filled my own, and I saw them together. The two reeds, the love of lifetimes, came together again as pure energy. And I vowed, with gratefulness, hope, and prayer, I vowed to live fully. To love fully. To feel the support of the Great Swan Mother with her black down and her enormous wings, to be in my magic and non-separation with all things and be the joy that my warriors became. 

The day after this session, I could feel the free fall of having broken this vow. A strange and vague unsettling, a fear in my DNA that I could not name but knew was connected to this release and the letting down of barricades I’d built myself so long ago. The opening of another doorway. What is to follow? I have no sense. Only the dreams the Swan asked me to see when I made this new vow, the fierce love and community of magic and service, the joy and the bliss of being an element (sun, water…) in unity with my tribes, in ascension and evolution and healing. These dreams sit right next to the fear. All I know to do is to let them tangle, to return to that dirt where my warrior sat and feel my oneness with god, with all things, with every spirit, to be with the multiplicity that is and always will be, in grace and silence and searching. I will leap again. I will sit in my power. And I will walk on to heal and shine.’ 

Minerva

Swan Lore to Clear the Witch's Name

The Salem Martyr , Thomas Slatterwhite Noble, 1869

Unmarried, still living at home with her mother and looking after various children, she felt she was by and large a huge disappointment to her family, and was becoming more of a disappointment to herself by the day. She had no interest in marriage or having children of her own. She loved the children that were constantly in and out of her home, but knew that there had to be something better out in the world for her…

One of the recurring themes in Swan sessions has been a healing around the word ‘heretic’ and ‘witch’ and release from religious control especially when it is still carried in the birth family.

Recently I held a Swan session for a young woman who came from a very religious family. She told me that if her family knew of her love of magic and healing, would cut off all contact with her. She had just completed in her training in a healing modality that she loved but was still holding back on sharing her gifts.

Her Swan Lore Story:

“I met her as I gazed deep into a darkened well, the healer from before. Her face is unclear in the murky water but searching, straining to see me as I worked to make out her form in the shifting, glossy surface of the well water. I finally saw an older woman, but older in the way that suggests youth could be found beneath layers of weariness, undue stress, and the pain of trying to fit into a world that simply isn’t ready for your gifts. I reach out to touch her hand and find myself passing through the water into her timeline. She is happy to see me, but clearly anxious and preoccupied, pacing the room as I took in her humble dwelling.

Dirt floor, rope bed made with an ornate quilt, a rocking chair, and little else. The mirror through which she saw me is the only seeming item of value in the low-ceilinged log cabin. Her front door was ajar as though she had just come inside in a rush. It was never clearly shown to me, but I get the sense that she had a big part in the construction of her cabin.

I was shown her life some years before when she lived in a cramped flat in a distant city, looking after nieces, nephews and the pets and children of neighbours. I saw her huddled in ‘her’ corner by a large, bright window, surrounded by her favourite books and totally immersed in intricate needlework. Complex stitches, rainbow-coloured thread, embroidering quotes from meaningful texts into wall decorations and elaborate quilts. When I first saw her there so focused on her craft I thought how sweet it was that she was so absorbed by needlework. But as I watched her and was able to see more clearly into her thoughts, I saw how seriously she took her work. It was her art, painting with thread, and she was very prolific.

Unmarried, still living at home with her mother and looking after various children, she felt she was by and large a huge disappointment to her family, and was becoming more of a disappointment to herself by the day. She had no interest in marriage or having children of her own. She loved the children that were constantly in and out of her home, but knew that there had to be something better out in the world for her. 

I was shown her childhood. A little girl about four years old, long, silky, dark hair in a bow, on tiptoe to watch her grandmother do similar needlework to what I had seen her do earlier. She is so fascinated by what she sees and so eager to learn but still so small and uncoordinated. Her tiny hands reach up to her grandmother’s, wanting to make sure she doesn’t miss a thing. A few years later, I see her completing her first sampler. It is not perfect, but she is so proud, and so is her grandmother. She worked so hard and now feels as though she can do anything.

I saw her, a few years in the future, outdoors in the hot summer weather, wading in the river that flows through the park near her home. She stares deep into the water studying the creatures there, the rocks, the occasional shell, the water plants. She sits on the bank, gazing out over the water, resting, running her fingers through the soft grass, feeling fully herself. There is a sense of ease for her here that perhaps, even now in her young life, she does not fully feel in many other places in her world. 

Eventually, she feels she has to leave the city and her family. She sees an advertisement encouraging sea travel to a distant land for the purposes of settlement, and whatever she reads in this advertisement convinces her that this is both what she wants and has to do with her life. Things have become increasingly difficult at home, staying is no longer an option. Her hand feels forced, but she tells herself that this is truly what she wants, and she is not completely wrong. The voyage is hard, but she is hopeful for what lies beyond.

I see her arrive in this new place, completely alone, not knowing where she fits into her new community. She feels ill-prepared for life here and wonders whether she made a mistake in coming after all. Eventually, she begins to find purpose in assisting the healers who have also made the voyage, becoming the student of a doctor of sorts, a kind but self-important man who takes great pleasure in running the show whenever possible. She spends time in the woods, learning about the unfamiliar plants and their uses. Everything still feels so new and she wishes there was more she could do to help the healers, but she works very hard and those around her appreciate her for her earnestness and care. 

She stays up all night with an elderly patient, allowing the family members to get some much-needed sleep, knowing the doctor would never have spent as much time on one person, especially one so old. She fears that they will die on her watch, she would never be able to forgive herself, but they rally in the night, much improved by morning, and she is so relieved and proud. A small accomplishment to some, but again, she is filled with the sense that she could do anything. 

Time passes and the verdant embrace of the forest becomes her true home and the medicinal plants there become trusted allies. She wields their healing power with ease and finesse. Her neighbors, grateful for her knowledge and kindness, have watched her grow and expand her skill set. She is a valued member of the community, though still keeping largely to herself. Alone, but not lonely. 

She contradicts the doctor in public and he rebukes her with harsh and disrespectful language, making reference to her former life in the city. She is also not the sort of person who is very good at standing up for herself, so she stays silent, knowing that she is in the right in this instance, no matter what he calls her. The disagreements continue and his anger escalates. He starts a whispering campaign against her, former friends turn away when they see her approach, and eventually she begins to fear for her own safety. 

This is where I met her. Just after an ugly interaction in the street she dashed into her tiny home to plan her next move. She would run to the woods. She felt confident she could survive out there by herself, but she was quickly caught, returned, and killed with a rope before any of her loyal friends could save her. 

At this, I found myself quickly lifted from her world by Sister Swan and soon I was back at the well’s edge and so was she, now on my side of the looking glass. I threw my arms around her and we both cried and cried. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” I said. “You did nothing wrong, you helped so many. I’m so sorry.” 

I felt the bonds that had held her then now wrap around my throat, as real and as life threatening as they had been to her so long ago. (I have since childhood, for no particular reason, been very sensitive and protective of my neck area, not even being able to wear turtleneck shirts without discomfort. Perhaps this is part of the reason why.) The grandmothers give me a sharp, glowing tool to free myself and I feel huge relief as she and I are both finally free. 

I see her loved ones running down to her over a nearby hill. Her grandmother is there, her friends, people she had taken care of, all there to meet her and bring her back to them. She runs to them and they embrace her, so happy to be reunited. They float off into the ether together and I am filled with peace, knowing that significant healing can now begin in my own life.”

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Meeting the Ancestor of Her Magic

The Family Tree - sometimes we carry gifts that are not always reflected in the birth family or circles around us. We feel different and these differences can make us feel that somehow it is wrong if it’s not reflected around us. But just like the animals and the plants, we have many different skills and traits and journeying to meet ancestors we see how these skills and ways of being had a place and understanding. Meeting the ‘one like you’, the ancestor who carries the gift that you now carry can be profoundly healing. It can create a sense of belonging and wholeness that can stay with us long after meeting them.

When Irene contacted me to ask for a second Swan Lore session I had a memory of her coming to see me many years before and I she told me that after her first Swan Lore session she had decided to trust more in her gifts of intuition and had created a business she loved reading tarot for others. Irene is deeply immersed in her Maori culture but had also recently begun learning about ancestral healing traditions with Maori healers and elders. I could see this was having a powerful affect on Irene and her energy. But there was a problem - Irene was questioning her own personal way of working and being. She said she had always thought she was ‘too soft and feminine’ and that this might not be ‘right’. We journeyed together for ancestral healing for Irene and asked for an ancestor who could help her understand her gifts. In doing so she met a family member that was ancient and so close to the source and truth of life that it was one of the most beautiful sessions I have witnessed.

Thank you Irene for sharing your story here of your journey to meet the ancestor who taught you that you are a loving gentle woman and that this is your strength.

Photo of Irene by Soldiers Rd

“I was met by a gracious woman by the river. She sat in nature as though she was in her element, connected to the roots of the ground…she wore a traditional moko kauae on her chin. She was an ancient ancestor and I was her descendant.”

Irene’s Swan Lore Story of Wairua (Spirit)

I was met by a gracious woman by the river. She sat in nature as though she was in her element, connected to the roots in the ground. Leaning towards the water, her bare body was shown to me through the reflection of the water. She was Goddess like, and wore a traditional moko kauae on her chin (Maori tattoo). Her hair was long, wavy, and thick and her skin was of a tanned complexion. She was an ancient ancestor, and I was her descendant. She gently offered her hand out to me, guiding me through her soft smile to share a glimpse of her life and mauri (life essence).

She sat, knees bent to the side as she collected harvest and placed the food in her kete (basket). Elegantly and carefully choosing one at a time by gently selecting it from the earth, and exchanging gratitude through karakia (prayer) and setting loving intentions. A new journey of life through those it will nourish.

She showed me her playful side as she sang and danced with children, teaching them important lessons through laughter and games.

She was a healer. She showed me how she was mentored by her grandmother as a young girl as she was the chosen one in her village, because of her kind heart and compassion for all things living. She presented me with a gift through wairua (spirit) exchange, called a hongi. Through this action, her wairua and gift was transferred to me.

I feel a sense of security within myself after this experience. I have always shared a similar gentleness and femininity that I did not consider a strength or appreciate as a gift, prior to the Swan Blessing and meeting my ancestor. I can now put a face and story behind one of my guides and feel a sense of pride knowing I can call on her when I need her.

The affirmation she left with me to always remember is; ‘I am a loving gentle healer’. And this is my power.

‘Ehara taku toa, he takitahi, he toa takitini’

(translation) My success should not be bestowed onto me alone, as it was not individual success but success of a collective.

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The Caged Bird and Vow to Obey

“I looked into the water and saw my reflection. As I looked at myself my reflection began to alter, shift and change. I was no longer looking at my face. It was still me, it was still my soul, but it wasn’t the shape I have come to know. The person, the woman looking back at me was a beautiful young Victorian woman in her mid 20’s. She had deep stormy blue eyes and giant golden curls. She carried a parasol and wore a corset. She had a look of wildness and ferociousness in her eyes that betrayed her outward demeanor. She offered me her hand and I accepted. She slowly pulled me through the water and into her world.”

When Sam booked in to see me for a Swan Lore session, her request was to open up a free flow of her creativity and this is the vision she received. Today I share Sam’s Swan story of the caged bird and the Vow of Obedience that many women were forced to make on the day of their marriage. I have often thought about this vow and it’s energetic ripple along the female lines of our families and the corset of control that came with it. I have seen this vow turn up again and again in Swan Dreamer journeys and it has a strong and lasting impact way beyond the time it was made. After I hold these sessions with my clients I ask them to take a quiet moment over the next week to channel and write their Swan Story - their own personal mythic faerietale and memory of their story. For some people this is the first time they have been invited to open themselves up to be a channel. What is experienced and produced in these writing sessions is beautiful and I am told it is like a ‘second journey’ - a reclaiming of our natural ability to receive a vision and the power we feel when we open ourselves to be the mythic storyteller of our own lives.

Thank you Sam for channeling this writing after your Swan Lore session. I hope it helps anyone who needs this gift of story today and resonates with this difficult vow that may still be carried somewhere in the belief system and spirit. We are free to love without obedience.

“I closed my eyes and I entered a forest with ancient redwood trees. I could feel their heart beat and their breath. As I looked onward I saw a glistening up ahead. I walked towards the light only to find a beautiful cleansing waterfall.

I looked into the water and saw my reflection. As I looked at myself my reflection began to alter, shift and change. I was no longer looking at my face. It was still me, it was still my soul, but it wasn’t the shape i have come to know. The person, the woman looking back at me was a beautiful young Victorian woman in her mid 20’s. She had deep stormy blue eyes and giant golden curls. She carried a parasol and wore a corset. She had a look of wildness and ferociousness in her eyes that betrayed her outward demeanor. She offered me her hand and I accepted. She slowly pulled me through the water and into her world.

She sat alone in a library or tea room perhaps. A woman of means she was alone. She had everything but longed for the world. She had married young to a good and kind man that loved her with all of his heart, but could never truly know her and her untamed heart. She loved him too, but knew that he could never understand her and therefore never love her fully. She would never have a true companion that melted into the intimacy of her soul. She spent her days in this room and remembered fondly her days in the park with her friends. Her friends were her family. They would spend hours in the park picnicking and talking and relating, laughing too loud for ‘ladies’ and causing all kinds of delicious mischief. But sadly they grew older and once they left their teen years it was time to leave such foolishness behind. They all married and their picnics became things of child’s play that they no longer had time for, or more truly was time society did not see well spent.

She would sit in her library and stare out the window longing for days past. Longing for the adventure in her heart to fly free. As a child her father would tell her stories of far off adventures. You see her father was an explorer. Well that’s what she thought anyway. No matter the actual reason her father traveled to the farthest corners of the globe. She cherished the moment her father got home, he would tuck her into bed at night and tell her all about the world. She couldn’t wait to grow up and become an explorer herself one day. She dreamt of running barefoot and wild through the wilderness belly laughing her way through life and painting all that she saw. All that she dreamed… collecting those moments trapped in oil and brush stroke and creating a hall of adventures. A life time of adventures, but as time passed and she grew older she learned more the ways of the world and the limitations for a young woman. A proper young woman, never to run barefoot anywhere... never to laugh too heartily, besides how could she in this constraining corset?

So as all proper women do she married and vowed to love and obey. Obey. Obey, would be all that was written on her headstone. “She obeyed” the thought destroyed her. So she obeyed. She sat in the library day after day her only company her song bird. Her beautiful canary, and how she regaled this canary with stories of adventures. Adventures she could only go on in her mind and in her heart. She LOVED this bird with all her might and the bird loved her too. The bird loved her too but more than anything wished to be free. The bird was her you see. Occasionally she would paint. Paint memories, one day she painted a still life of 5 young women having a picnic and laughing too loud in the park as if she was almost in a trance.

When she came to and looked at what she had done, what she had painted, the memory of the joy, the memory of the freedom, the memory of the potential, the memory of the possibility was more than she could bear. In that moment she felt her heart ache and her soul shatter. She vowed to never dream again. To never look back for dreaming did nothing but break your heart. They will only ever be dreams, they will only ever be still life, frozen in time, captured and never lived. She vowed to silence her dreams, to silence her fantasy and silence her soul. The memory of possibility was more that she could bear. She vowed to never dream, to just be present and accepting of what is. Both are slow deaths but one is an agonizing defeat rather than a slow descent into numbness and nothing. Numbness and nothing were welcome homes compared to the scorching pain of potential never evening having had a chance. So she stared out the window and the days turned into months and the months years. She grew old and more and more resentful of her captor... Her sweet unsuspecting husband had no idea the distance and the disdain. He was no longer her husband, maybe he never was. He was her warden no matter how kind.

And now she stands before me, soul to soul, frozen in eternity. She recognises the weight of her vow. Her vows to never dream and to obey, how heavy they have been, not just on her but on her soul and all its incarnations. She puts down the weight. She is tired and as she puts it down the blood rushes to her face again and her soul becomes lighter and lighter… she is free, she is becoming free. The weight of the burden gathers around my feet like a brick of cement guaranteeing my demise, when the women of the water ascends with the tools for my freedom. I chisel and hack and break myself free. Free from bondage, free from obedience, free from the doom of lost dreams. I am free. We are free. We embrace and the energy runs back and forth through our bones, through our hearts, we are no longer sworn to any vow. We are barefoot and wild and beautiful, we are free. I lay in the water and my grandmothers clean me and break my chains... I float up and up and up into the sky and feel the sun kiss my face. The swan takes me in her arms and flies with me into freedom.

I Sam am FREE. I Sam am LOVE. I Sam am SPIRIT.

And so it is.

Artwork: Valentines Mistake and Missive Letter from the Illustrated London News 1883

The Cloak That Kept the Village Warm

The Cloak That Kept the Village Warm

Swan Lore Story

“She took her granddaughter’s face in her hands and said, “Be free, child. You are released as I am released”. And the woman removed her cloak, took her grandmother’s hand and together they transformed into wild geese, graceful feathered wings, warm blood and dark eyes they took to the sky, following the swan towards the horizon.”

Today I share with you the Swan Dreamer story received by hair weaver and colour alchemist, Roxie Jane Hunt. It is a beautiful ancestral vision and journey she received during her journey of the tale of the spinner that wove the cloak that kept the village warm but became the cloak of invisibility. When I see Roxie’s intricately woven hair creations I am always reminded of the weavers and the spinners of the past. Hair is such a magical fibre it is our wool, our human fibre and antennae to the cosmos. It is also one of the strongest holders of our DNA and secrets and gifts of our lineage. I am honoured to share Roxie’s story and to know her work of wisdom, devotion and dedication to creating community through ritual hair care and adornment.

For all those who need help to throw off the cloak of invisibility and shine again.

“A woman sits at her spinning wheel on a crag above the ocean, watching the light dance on water as the fingers of her hands spun wool. In this state, she prayed. This was her devotion. 

When the sun was high in the sky, and the rain slowed to allow for a breakaway ray to hit the sea and light her eyes on fire, she composed herself, and retreated inside to her kitchen, where the colors and flavors of ingredients foraged from the land and sea awaited her, beckoned her in to begin her second devotional act of the day, the Alchemy of Supper. 

With love, she prepared a meal, always enough for 3. This was just in case a friend showed up, a villager from a nearby town, to talk to her about a hand spun cloak. She was the one who made the cloaks that kept the village warm and protected from the icy winds of winter. She was loved and trusted, but lived far enough away from the village that visitors only came with a purpose

She was a solitary woman, happy that way. But everyone who came to visit her to inquire about a cloak was fed a meal by her and soon became a friend for life because she was unforgettable. She was not like the other women in the village. She was humble and kind, shy but with a wonderfully dark sense of humor. But she was also wild, and no one doubted or questioned that. She wanted it to stay that way. 

Her days were mostly the same, and time didn't matter. Only the seasons and the ebbs and flows of the moon, kept her to rhythm. Sometimes she dove into the sea. Some times she ran along the shore. Sometimes she stayed in her home, like a bear in a cave. Happy in the dark, trusting the light would return. 

One day, the nearby village was set on fire by invaders from a different land, who had come to spread the word of a new devotion. She could smell the smoke and the fear. She felt afraid that she would lose her freedom to her own inner wild, a freedom she would protect with her life and all she had. When they came for her, she had already left, crawling through the thickets of the Scottish highlands with nothing but her cloak which was so big and enveloping that she disappeared inside it. 

They set her home on fire, and her spinning wheel. She knew it without knowing it. She knew she could never go back. She spent the rest of her life hiding who she was, in fear of persecution. 

She clung to her wild nature, kept it locked inside her, wrapped up in her cloak of invisibility. Never again would she pray to the wool with which she spun in devotion, Never again would she offer her creations to the people that she loved to keep them warm and protected. Her own protection became her armor, and inside she turned to ice. 

What is wildness if it is held too tightly? What happens to a heart of ice?

When the swan came, she was still wandering. An old, old woman, frozen with sadness. We took her to the waters edge, the swan and eye, and we asked for the help of all our guides and ancestors to bring this woman back to joy. 

Her grandmother came, emerged from the sea. Same blue eyes that showed of a life of laughter snuffed out too soon, turned to ice. She was ancient as the cliffs and wrapped in seaweed, We cut her loose, unbound her arms and her throat and her stomach where the kelp had wrapped itself around her, enveloping her and dragging her deep into the inky water. 

She took her granddaughter’s face in her hands and said, "Be free, child. You are released as I am released"  and the woman removed her cloak, took her grandmother’s hand and together they transformed into wild geese, graceful feathered wings, warm blood and dark eyes they took to the sky, following the swan towards the horizon.”

www.roxiejanehunt.com

Vow to Forever Fight

Artist: Arthur Rackham

The Vow to Forever Fight

Swan Lore Story

“In the moment of the beloved’s death, in the fear of losing tribe and land, my ancestor vowed to forever fight for the next seven generations, to keep them safe, to guard their power, and to ensure that no ‘other’ force took their freedom.”

Today I share Hollie's Swan Lore story of the Vow to Forever Fight and how she released herself from this old vow of her lineage. Warrior's oaths such as this carried out of time can create a sense of heavy responsibility in our present lives often for situations and events that we cannot control. These types of soul vows also carry a fierce need to defend and protect the lives of the people we love and even whole communities that we hold dear, while the integrity of these feelings is beautiful what this can create is a need to be 'ready for battle' at all times and a lifetime 'at war' which is exhausting.

I was honoured to hold this Swan Lore session for Hollie who has such integrity in her work and path teaching young women and girls the cycles nature and magic. To let go of the vow to forever fight has released Hollie from a responsibility that would have been impossible for one person to ever carry so that she can now continue her work helping and speaking up for others with a new relationship to herself and community.

Swan Lore Story:

"I met/merged/revisited/became an ancestor at the time of the first Roman invasions to Britain-Brigga. In a round hut with an earth floor, there was a man, a beloved, dying from wounds from a battle where many lives had been lost. There were hounds in the hut, of course there were hounds. And there were women gathering with children.

In the moment of the beloved's death, in the fear of losing tribe and land, my ancestor vowed to forever fight for the next seven generations, to keep them safe, to guard their power, and to ensure that no 'other' force took their freedom.

The gathered women would keep the next generations safe by separating – going it alone; each taking a group of young people to disappear into the forest, join with other tribes, save what can be saved, even if it meant being alone. A deep wound was torn in leaving the land of our ancestors, but a new promise was held in the potential for a future that kept the children safe.

I saw the ancestor partaking in various teaching activities. She crossed many tribes/cultures. I was aware of power-full healing modalities, plant magick and the creation of hand crafted, woven creatures that could hold medicine. The ancestor travelled many places, taught skills to many people, with faces different form her own. I recognised her ability to heal in ways that didn't need explanation. She had unique techniques and she engaged her Self as a process of the work.

Her next generations were kept safe and she went on to share wisdom in other places, past Brigga, onto ships and beyond worlds she'd ever imagined. Toward the end of the vision the ancestor lay on a pellet on a ship, moving along an unknown waterway. Although there were more people, she was set apart. Finally, she lay in a field of aromatic plants, somewhere on the Mediterranean coast, and I understood that this would be where she would die. I recognised all elements of this story. The fight for youth place and space, grief and dispossession of ancestral connection, isolation and going it alone, living in the counter-culture, travelling the edges, and working with techniques that can't be explained...

And yet, releasing the binds of the ancestor's vow allowed me to shift from creating the pattern to supporting the need. Cutting the threads released the pressure of having to fight, to supporting a process. Although the ancestor was successful at providing/supporting/saving the next seven generations, her greater body of work, and that which was the largest gift to the world, was actually that which could not be named – her expert Self.

It has been some time since I had my Swan session with Julia. Writing usually comes easy to me, yet I could not write this piece. More recently I entered a vision and to my surprise, the story picked up at the place where the Swan left off.

The ancestor was in the field, with the many plants, and indeed she was dying. She was there, in the place of plants to leave her wisdom for the next generations. She passed her healing to the plants, and the message was clear : Tend these same herbes and you will access the wisdom. My deep truth is that plants are a spiritual practice. All the wisdom and healing that I would seek, is built in to the process work of the garden. It's all right at my fingertips. As provision and security, the garden is an act of wisdom for the next seven generations that is healing, powerful and continues to emerge.

I'm mega-grateful for this work as an aid to unravelling the complexities of wisdom and vow and truth. The forgiveness process in the Swan Dreamer session is perhaps the most power-full. It's one thing to see your story. It'a another to let it go. Julia's skilled facilitation allows both in such a supportive and nurturing way. Truly, an edge walking Wise Woman! I like to call her Aunty Julia."

Hollie B.

www.instituteforselfcrafting.com

The Last Town Witch

The Last Town Witch

Swan Lore Story

“All my grandmothers surround me in the water... I am free from this vow of loneliness. I am blessed to become all the light that radiates from within me. I rise up to become one with the sun above me, feeling the weightlessness of my soul self. The swan takes me upon her back and flies me back down to earth - to my home. ”

— Becca Piastrelli

Today I share Becca's beautiful Swan Lore story of 'the last town witch' and the freedom that comes from releasing an ancestral vow to keep medicine and old ways safe even if it means living a lifetime alone as 'the other'. 

"As I looked into the well, I saw the face of my mother’s mother - but different and older. She was afraid, telling me “They won’t believe me!” with such urgency in her voice. As we held hands, she bid me to enter into her life story. 

Suddenly I found myself in a town square with a well and horses and people bustling about. She was cloaked and asked me to quickly follow her to her home - outside of the main town in a hut with a leaking roof. It is rundown but this was the only place she feels safe. There’s a cat in the corner and fire in the hearth, with bottles of medicine and herbs hanging from the ceiling all around her. She is a medicine maker - making medicines to heal the women of the town who call upon her in secret during the day when the men are out. She goes to them and helps heal them, but there is a feeling of anger and resentment in her being. These women see her as other. They know they need her medicines, but don’t want to get too close or get caught being with her. She is the last town witch, and she is constantly in danger for what she knows. This makes her feel so sad and rejected, but she has made a commitment to the medicine and to pass it along. 

She made it when she was eleven to her nanny, who raised her and was a mother figure to her. Her mother was gone and her father was a powerful man with a bad temper and drinking problem that she felt she must obey. She and her nanny would play in the bath, putting flowers and herbs into each other’s hair. They would walk in the garden - the nanny teaching her everything she knew. And when she was eleven, the elderly nanny asked her to promise to preserve the mysteries and keep making and sharing the medicine. She makes this promise earnestly. 

When she is 22, she falls in love with a man who is equally in love with her. But he knows they cannot be together, as her father does not approve. He does not make enough money. So he leaves her behind - heartbroken and bitter, knowing she cannot disobey her father - she fears him and desires his approval.  She is never to love or find companionship again. When her father dies suddenly, she buries him and then lives her life free and devoted to the medicine. But she is so so profoundly lonely - it aches her heart. 

She gets very very sick and almost dies. She has no one to care for her in her house at the edge of town. But, by the miracle of her medicines, she lives. This frightens the town and she is even more feared and seen as dangerous for her wisdom and healing magic. She is further isolated by this.

When she is old, she discovers an abandoned baby in a stream. The baby is unwell. Even though she is old, she takes the baby in and nurses her back to health. The baby becomes her apprentice and is by her side as she dies. She dies still with the promise to preserve the medicine, even with the loss of her love and belonging in the town. She has kept her promise to her most beloved nanny.

I feel the weight of this anguish - this vow to protect the medicine and be alone and isolated for the rest of her life. It is a boulder weighing down her heart and mine. I take this boulder and place it in my own chest to take it from her and ask her to forgive herself - she did the best she could. I am now covered in a clay chain making its way all around my body. The well witch appears and gives a hammer to break the clay. I smash down right over my belly and the clay slits into a thousand pieces - allowing the boulder to fall from my heart and become nothing at all. The well witch blows on my heart and seals the hole from where the boulder came from. She takes me into the water and lays me down where I float.

All my grandmothers surrounded me in the water, blessings me with herbs and flowers and songs and ancient chants. I am free from this vow of loneliness. I am blessed to become all the light that radiates from within me. I rise up to become one with the sun above me- feeling the weightlessness of my soul self. The swan takes me upon her back and flies me back down to earth - to my home. 

I am free and joyful and home. I proclaim it 3 times. It is so."

Becca Piastrelli

Thank you so much Becca for sharing your story. You can read about Becca's practice and work at www.beccapiastrelli.com

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Story of the Exile

Artwork: The Norns by Lara Veleda Vesta

Story of the Exile

Swan Lore Story

“Last night I had one of the most profound journeys of my life thus far... in Swan Dreamer, discovering through vivid story the source of my wounding and power.

It was ancient and indescribably beautiful. For much of the journey, which passed in the timelessness of no-time, tears streaked my face as I remembered belonging, remembered my medicine, the sacred ones that live in me, and why I am so fearful of exposure. I located my witch wound, and loosed the bonds of another’s oath.”

— Lara Veleda Vesta

Today I share the Swan Lore story of the Deer Healer and her exile by ancestral worker, artist and mythic storyteller, Lara Veleda Vesta. I was honoured to hold this session for Lara as her ancestral work and teachings are so rich and deep.

The story of the exile is one that many people carry deep in their bones. For many of us we carry ancient memories of the sacrifices that were made in the past around medicine and healing and the vows taken to have permission to carry it and use it. These vows made perfect sense in their time but they are very confusing for us to hold in our present lives. In past lives and in the times of our ancestors decisions had to be made to use healing medicine in a way that broke these laws but protected and saved the lived of others. These were extreme times and they called for extreme measures. What happens when the soul remembers and holds the trauma of these events? Very often these memories and soul promises activate similar events again in our current lives as the spirit tries to understand and heal this pattern. 

Lara's story is of a healer taught in a tradition of the Deer Women who had to break her healing vows to save the lives of her community. Rather than breaking the hearts of her people who looked up to her she chose instead to protect the integrity of the Deer Women and their ways by exiling herself from her home, her land and her people. In Lara's present life this story has kept playing out and only recently she experienced an illness and deep initiation back into this story. I believe that by cutting away these stories and histories we won't heal, instead we must let go of the ties and bindings to them through old promises and vows. In this way we are not cutting off we are integrating the story and coexisting with it. We can then learn to embrace the teachings and most importantly the deep ancestral wisdom of these times. This is the coexistence of alchemy and this is Lara's Swan story.

Elen of the Ways by Lara Veleda Vesta

The Deer Healer

And I bathed in the pool by my grandmothers who dyed me with woad and garlanded me with bay laurel and rosemary and hawthorne berries and star bright flowers and sang to me and set me free to run with the deer beneath the sun, with the swan singing and my own voice singing and opening to the freedom that is our birthright, I return the song, I return to the women of the deer, I carry them with me. Their freedom, their healing, their community, their belonging, their land of oak and meadow, their scent of blood and bone, ash and stone. We are one.

'In the ancient time of swan and wind there lives an undine.  She waits not, for in the portal of the waterfall pool she drifts up and holds my hand.  Her crown sways, her eyes portals too, slits of pure gold and grace.  The silver thread around my finger connects to her webbed hand, her skin ever changing aquamarine, deep blue, green.  We fall into the pool and are in the creek of my childhood, the water warm, stones brown and copper bronze beneath us.  On the floor of the creek there is a golden key.  The undine has me take the key in my right hand and swims us deeper along a dark channel where there is a narrow passage with a round wooden door.  Looking up I can see the blurred alders above and remember I can breathe underwater.  I insert the key in the lock and turn and the water rushes out into a meadow.  

In the meadow sits an old woman on a stone in a circle of stones.  The circle is surrounded by oak savannah and rolling hills.  She is crouched there wearing a red skirt and a green shawl, her hair long and silver grey, her face pained as she looks down the valley.  Her heart hurts, there is a pain too deep to skillfully bear.

Down the valley in her line of sight, through the portals of time to a village.  She is young there, wearing a skirt of red and a green embroidered vest with silver clasps, her hair in a long braid.  On the town green there is a festival starting and she has the work of strewing the flowers and herbs, blessing the circle.  The townspeople love her and honor her.  She feels whole.

To the north of the square is her home, a round house with two levels, a fire or hearth in the center.  On the fire is a cauldron, and in the cauldron is a medicine brewing thick with herbs, purple in color.  She adds a handful of hawthorne berries and stirs the mixture.  A spiral forms on the surface, doubled, moving in both directions.  She sips from a heavy cup and it tastes of honey as the door opens.  It is her work today.

She heals hearts with this medicine, scooping it cheerfully into cups, offering herself in story.  Literal hearts, broken hearts.  Her work is love and joy.

In the forest, but not far from the edge of town there lives her teacher.  At six she was sent for initiation and study with the woman of the deer.  The woman of the deer is sometimes many women, sometimes one.  She has long white hair and wears white robes, and the deer around her round house are dappled white.  Something shines in her hair, something like stars.  The girl learns the ways of the deer, learns when to pour out and when to conserve.  There is a sacred knife stuck into the table block and she watches it for many years, through growth and learning, until her moon blood comes. One night when the moon is just past full she is taken into a field and her left hand is cut by her teacher down the palm, her blood dripped into a cup in the stone.  She makes a vow by her blood to serve always and without question, to preserve life and to listen to the deer.   She is celebrated, she has her purpose and her path, and the women of the deer live on for another generation.

Sometime in her mid life a moment of choosing comes.  An aching betrayal.  The village suffers abuse and violence, destruction, a year without crops, another, the deer are dying from lack of fodder in the hills and the people are dying from the greed of men.

The greediest and cruelest of all lies before her now.  A shadow.  She carries a vial of poison.  To end his life is forsaking her vows, but to not end his life is forsaking her community which she has committed to serve, the land which she is promised to, the deer to whom she owes her spirit heart.  If he doesn’t die all of this will be gone.  And if he dies at her hand she will save it, though she must die too—at least, appear to.  She must disappear into the wood and not return.  She will leave her cloak in the stream, smeared with blood.  They will believe her victim of another’s crime.

This she knows and still tips the bottle to his blistered lips.  Then she goes.

Run run run.  Run with the deer.  In exile, she can’t ever return.  No one knows, it is a secret.  She lives alone, serving only the deer, healing the deer.

She dies in the circle of stones, still bound by her oath and the complexity of the forsaken.

And her oath became mine.  To serve without question.  Her choice became mine, to lose and lose again home and root and family.  

When we met she was all ages, ever changing.  When we embraced she was so familiar.  She smelled like me.  The binding on me was wood and metal, like a barrel and staves with a lock.  She drifted into wholeness, becoming our whitehaired teacher, woman of the deer.

And the water witch in the falls gave me a glowing wand which sliced through the past, the broken oath, the exile, like liquid and the bonds slipped away.

And I bathed in the pool by my grandmothers who dyed me with woad and garlanded me with bay laurel and rosemary and hawthorne berries and star bright flowers and sang to me and set me free to run with the deer beneath the sun, with the swan singing and my own voice singing and opening to the freedom that is our birthright, I return the song, I return to the women of the deer, I carry them with me.  Their freedom, their healing, their community, their belonging, their land of oak and meadow, their scent of blood and bone, ash and stone.  We are one.'

Lara Veleda Vesta, Dark Moon before the Solstice 2017

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You can explore more of Lara's work in ancestral mythology guided by her Norse ancestors at Lara Veleda Vesta. I hope her generous offerings, experience and wisdom help you to find the trackways back to your own ancestors.

** Two days after holding Swan Lore session for Lara I went for a walk in Sherbrooke Forest and finally saw the White Deer that lives here. I have been waiting 5 years to sight this beautiful creature that I had heard so many stories about. This was a wonderful confirmation that by connecting with others who can share dreams and inspiration.

The Plant Healer

Artwork: Compassion by Patricia Ariel

The Plant Healer

Swan Lore Story

“I find myself in a forest I recently visited in a blood vision. Cool, dark, green. A sacred place of my ancestors. A path between the trees. A feeling of longing washes over me so deeply that it registers as sorrow. A longing for this place and it’s longing for me”

Today I share Phoebe's Swan Lore journey and story of a lifetime as a plant healer where she had taken a vow of silence. When it came time to release this vow Phoebe felt hesitation in cutting away this old binding promise but what she received was a new gift - a song from the sea. Sometimes when we are bound by a promise to medicine and gifts in another life we can keep ourselves from receiving the gifts that are waiting for us in this new incarnation. After her session, Phoebe sat down and wrote about her experience, this is her Swan story:

"I find myself in a forest I recently visited in a blood vision. Cool, dark, green. A sacred place of my ancestors. A path between the trees. A feeling of longing washes over me so deeply that it registers as sorrow. A longing for this place and it's longing for me. A longing for this home that I once knew I belonged to. Every part sacred to me and I sacred to it. I find myself at the pool from my last vision. Dark water, a bottomless pond surrounded by women in the tree shadows. Surrounded by trees with arms, voices, faces. 

In the surface I see a woman. An animal head covers hers and she has a cloak of skin and feathers. She has deer antlers and a face that looks part human, part animal. She reaches her hand out and draws me in. We swim down into the dark pool and it becomes the sea of All Memory. We continue deeper until finally we are back in the same woods I have been walking in above. I am following her from behind. She takes me to her home which is round. In the center is a stone circle with a fire and big round pot with a spiral carved on the side. There are work benches with boards and knives, bunches of dried plants hanging. A sleeping area on the other side piled with furs. 

She lives here alone. She is a plant healer. People come to her for healing and they feel respect and awe for her. I can see her face now and it has ochre coloured tattoos on it. Lines and spirals and dots. She has bushy eyebrows and long greying hair, about 50 years old. I feel her sadness and her longing too. Or is it mine? The sadness and longing for this place echo off each other, a mirror image. 

I am now being shown how she came to work with the plants and know their medicine when she was younger. I see her with her ear against the earth, listening. Her ear against the trees, listening. They are teaching her directly. There is no mentor. She just listens to the forest speaking. She has chosen a solitary life to be out here listening and working with the plant medicines. I see her stretching her hands out towards plants and they are speaking. Between her hands and the plants, spiralling on currents in the air, are symbols and codes written in a bright bluish green that is almost white. This is how they talk. She is walking through the forest in a wash of these swirling symbols, speaking, hearing, knowing, light, safe, joyful, fully absorbed in her work. There is nothing else for her to do but this. I feel rapture and contentment. 

Then I see her inside her hut and there is a bag around her neck, a little pouch of yellow flowers. They are being driven into her heart, absorbed by her body. I then see that men are there that she doesn't know who are strangers to this land. They have metal on them, helmets. People of this land do not have metal garments. They have come for land and they know that killing her is like plucking out the heart of the people. One has blue eyes, trimmed beard and light blonde hair. My stomach churns to think about it. He is holding a knife to her chest, an old hand-wrought triangular blade. He slits her throat. She falls to the ground. I am crying, tears running down my face. 

Next, I am standing with this woman, with her spirit, after all this has happened. Our hearts touching, our beings so very close as to almost lose the notion of skin. I give her my love. I sing to her and she sings to me. And she becomes lighter and lighter and is free, flying away above me. I am left standing there knowing that I am different because of this and that this has always been so. I have vowed to be quiet. She never spoke when they came for her. I can feel this vow in my clenched jaw and my grinding teeth. I see living vines wrapped around me, growing up from the earth and binding me in silence. They swallow my head and face and I am as quiet as the forest has now become. No one to hear the swirling light language. With the forest listener murdered, all has fallen silent. Crouched, hidden, unsafe. 

She comes back to me, holding the knife that slit her throat. She has wrapped it in cloth and sprinkled it in herbs. She wants me to use it to cut myself free. But I don't want to use this tool of murder, I don't want to harm these living vines that protect and smother me. She rattles over me and holds out the knife, laying a hand over mine as we make one cut together, near my throat. All the vines unravel, twirling and unwinding in the air as my being becomes larger and larger and fills with light. Light is rushing through my being and I am more light and energy than form. The form I see is a kind of cross shape overlaying my body. 

My tree grandmothers around the pool from the beginning are now singing over me to heal me. I fly up to the sun and everything is burnt away - my body, thought forms and my pain. All that remains is spirit which I see is a swirling constellation of the symbols the plants spoke to me in. That is all I am. It feels so good to be this pure essence. 

Artwork: William Heath Robinson

I find that I am at the edge of the forest on the shore of a moon-lit ocean. I am receiving the blessings of the oldest grandmother. It is then that I see that the ocean is the repository of all the symbol language. It holds all the songs, all the whisperings, all memory. I see myself in the waters, leaping through the surface, singing this language. A name comes to me. I am Sea Singer. When I sing this song, I am signing the oldest song and it connects me to the memory of all things. All life comes from the sea and she remembers all her creatures, even those who now walk and grow on land. I can see the sea song swirling through the waters, running through my body and out my lips, blowing through the forest and forming the great constellations above. The pattern of life giving rise to all things. 

I felt my connection to this woman was past life but it felt so far back that it overlapped with my ancestry. The knowing I received from the sea song was that in the sea of All Memory, we are emanating from this collective of spirit and blood, the white and read threads. They are the two strands of my DNA that give rise to my form. I saw this as a double helix traveling up my spine giving me my body and being. The sea song is my spirit song. It animates all of existence and all life is constantly singing this language. As I learn to let it flow through me, I will be able to hear it, to learn and remember all I need to walk my path. 

What a beautiful, profound, perspective-altering experience. Thank you for being a sure-footed guide and companion on my journey."  Phoebe,

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I'm so glad that Phoebe has let go of this old story and past life vow to be silent, she not only found her voice, but found her song as the Sea Singer. 

The Vow to Never Do Harm

The Vow to Never Do Harm

Swan Lore Story

I made this doll for Kristen after she journeyed through her Swan Lore session. There were many clues and hints in this doll for new surprise and gifts that were coming to Kristen but were unknown to us both at the time. But they were known to the dolls...

Today I share Kristen's beautiful Swan story because I feel it touches on an old belief and fear that we carry as women from the Burning Times - that somehow working with nature and magic means that we are doing harm. Or the fear that what we are doing will be misunderstood and lied about and we will be labelled as our great grandmother witches and healers were and persecuted for it.

When I sat in session with Kristen I was very moved because I could feel how pure and rare her spirit was. It's always a gift and honour for me to sit with others in the Swan Lore sessions because I receive so much too. Something really unique was happening as I sat with Kristen, it was as if an older part of myself somehow recognised her. Often, before a session people tell me that I visit them in dreams. It's never something I intend or do consciously but I'm always happy to hear that this happens as if the Swan has made introductions. It wasn't until she wrote and sent me her Swan story afterwards that she told me about the dream she had before we even laid eyes on each other:

"First I want to tell you about the dream I had the night before the Swan Lore session. I was speaking with you and a friend of yours, a maiden helper- deciding about some sort of round symboled jewels to wear on my third eye. I did not recognize any of the symbols; some had animal spirits, but none of them spoke to me even though they were all so beautiful. We began talking about Iceland, and we traveled together to the volcanic rocks outside of Keflavik along the coast. You shapeshifted into an Elf Woman as I told you a story about my son seeing a troll among the rocks. You were speaking Icelandic, in a trance- your pupils were pinpoints, your ears were slightly pointed. You stayed that way, speaking Icelandic in trance until I woke up."

And now for the retelling of my Swan Lore story:

'As I looked into the pool, I saw myself- I was young and had very long red, wavy hair. As the well water rippled I saw a woman, ancient and weathered, with hair like mine but white and gray. I followed her and we arrived at her home in the woods where she lived alone. It was a small cottage, well taken care of, but round and the light was dappled and happy though the leaves of the great trees towering above us. She was used to being alone and moved with ease as she led me down the carefully laid stones to the house. On her arm she carried a basket filled with plants and roots and along the pathway and surrounding the house were a number of plants used for medicines. We walked in and I saw more plants hanging for drying, and others that were piled along the table. There was one window in the house- one chair, one table, a hearth and a bed. There were other plants in clay pots and jars on shelves.

I was aware that people would come find her in the woods for her medicines and for her Sight. A woman came for medicine and looked wary of being there. She was cloaked, but desperate for the old woman’s help, for the old woman not only worked with plants but very secretly, very carefully and covertly worked in other ways- in the other realms. Her Grandmother had taught her the ways of the forest, the Old Ways, the Spirit of the Plants and the ways of healing with the Earth. She was so pleased to learn and thought her Grandmother the most powerful and kind of all people. Her Grandmother handed her Rosemary- something very important, a pausing, a way of remembering. This was for her to keep for herself, a totem of the Medicine she was teaching her, the same way her Grandmother had taught her and so on and so on. The ancestral lineage passed on from many lifetimes. I felt so deeply connected and so grateful. We flashed back to when the old woman was a young woman. She was gathering plants with her Grandmother, walking along the side of small cottage which the two of them shared. She was feeling a deep heaviness and like the plants and the life she was bound to was a burden- She felt like she wanted to marry- she was so angry, so angry at her Mother. Her Mother was gone.

It was hard to look. Her Mother had died in a fire, a witch’s burning. She died with three other women who were also burned;  for practicing her Sacred Medicine. Her Mother had long blonde hair. She watched from the very back of the crowd, cloaked and stood next to her Grandmother. Before the burning was complete, her Grandmother hurried her away, deep into the forest and taught her the Old Ways. She was only about 16 at the time and did not understand everything, for she promised to Never do Harm- something her Mother was accused of, although she never actually caused any harm. All of the cycles of life had become confused all around her. She vowed to stay alone, she felt deeply burdened by this responsibility- to practice the Medicine, what her Grandmother told her was the most important thing. More important than anything else. When she died, there was a woman and a child with her, possibly her own daughter and granddaughter. As she took her last breath she turned to face the single window of the house and focused on the doe just outside. As she took her last breath, she saw nothing but the doe.

The bound agreement of the burden of the life of a healer, the obligation of healing, the solitude, and the vow to Never do Harm manifested into thick jungle vines. They wove themselves around me, around my torso and began to tighten like a vice. It was hard to breathe. The well woman gave me a ball of light in each hand to cut the vines, and with this action the Story and the agreements, the burden, the lies, and the confusion withered away dissolving into light.

Then it was me- the Red haired maiden and the Blonde Mother as One- surrounded by all of our Grandmothers from the well woman and her Grandmother and her Grandmother and so on and so on- the circle around us was grand indeed. My crown was made of roses and rosemary, and the White Raven came and rested on my left shoulder. I was washed clean.”

I will say, the following week after this blessing I sat down in meditation and the White Raven came back- this time flying into my womb and settling in for the long haul. It has not left me since. Thank you for this opportunity for deep connection with myself, with my ancestors, and with those to come.

Blessings and Love, Kristen

I hope we can all come to a place of being able to offer the gifts of our lineage and ancestral folklore with love and trust again. Thank you Kristen for sharing your Swan story and your dream.