the garden fence

Today is eight years since me and my husband were handfasted in Virginia City, Nevada, on a beautiful, unforgettable day in July 2005.

This week also marks our first year at our new home in Poplar, just north of the Isle of Dogs, East London. The garden looks beautiful on this sunny day, with mint and lavender, rose and palm and wisteria, pine, eucalyptus and night scented stock. Upstairs a child is singing along to Blondie. We’re having our morning coffee. We have lots to be thankful for.

When we moved in I wrote of what the experience was like, and what a resurgence of innocence, peace and wholeness it was. That’s still so, and I still remember the same stuff, even if I must work at cleansing and purification at times, as I think we all often need to.

The central themes are the same, those of love, and home, and honouring the value of what you have genuinely found throughout the years, including when I was really very young. So my husband, and my life with him comes first. The love of my gods I could not separate out from anything. The simplicity and originality of Richard Gardner and Tammo de Jongh’s work is a continuing inspiration. Alan Garner’s early children’s fiction still lights a part of my life that lives as a lucid and direct blessing. Reiki also remains one of the most simple and beneficial tools.

I also rediscovered the joys of Dennis Wheatley’s “black magic” fiction, and am revisiting a book of JW Brodie-Innes that I last saw in maybe 1975, before it was swiped by my would be exorcising mother (I can almost imagine her with a can of spray polish in hand, crying “the power of Pledge compels you!”). Such delights, and I am happy to admit, the lure of the occult had a good deal of pulp to its appeal, and the Devil should be given his due in my love of the Pagan, and of Witchcraft. It would not offend me at all if my own practices were considered a reconstituted and devotional diabolism. I could only consider that a thoroughly romantic compliment. I really don’t think any gods or spirits I deal with, or the Earth itself (well, obviously), has any care for whether something is considered deva, devil or god, and I certainly don’t care what anybody’s church (or other Pagans for that matter) thinks.

To be truthful, I don’t really feel more in common with most British Pagans I come into contact with than I do the population at large, in fact I often feel rather less. The same goes for most gay men I meet. But indeed, why not? Long live the individual, and whatever your authentic nature may be. The greater human dispensation is open.

Maybe it is something to do with arriving at my mid 50s. In the nicest possible way, giving a fuck is over.

Care about a lot of things for sure, love some things very deeply. Planning on letting the world in without permission? Nope.

My garden has a fence around it, and the buck stops where it is.

So much more peaceful this way :0)

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a little bit of our garden

 

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