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Showing posts from December, 2015

a moon-tale for christmas

The moon loves the ocean. She lives in it, but every night she rises so that she may sail through a different sea - the heavens. She is like a coracle, round-bellied, hardy. She navigates currents, storms, cloud-swamps. And her seaweed-coloured eyes look down upon the waters, and her smile is solemn. At the last she dives down again into the ocean, for no matter how much the sun may adore her, it's the dark she wants most, the peace of the deep.




We went over the dusky meadow, looking for the moon on Christmas night, but could not find her. Finally, as we were walking away, one of us happened to glance back - and then, in the smallest moment, glimpsed her behind clouds. So we sat in the grass and waited.

And when she rose into view, we lit a little candle to welcome her.




She was the fullest I've seen her in a long while (although she looks crooked in these pictures taken by my inadequate camera.) Fat with summer light, and with all the glory of the king on this special day when…

mythic-hearted

When they ask me why I use the internet when I could be reading books, wandering forests, talking to friends in coffee shops, I tell them that I do all those things but I also love the way the internet opens my life to kindred spirits and awakened dreams from right across the world.  There is currently a meme on Facebook about mythic art, and the fact it appeared in my feed via one of my favourite artists with whom I sometimes share a word or two - this, it is magic to me. After a lifetime of feeling different, strange, alone, to have conversations within the mythic arts community is deeply heartening. I'm sharing it here today for all the people not able to talk about faery and art within their "real life" community.

Who is your favorite living mythic artist?  So many! It would be unbearable to choose just one. But honourable mentions go to Catherine Hyde and Terri Windling. Who is your favorite mythic artist from the past?  Again, so many! Probably Edmund Dulac, Henry Ju…

the landscapes of storytelling

Although I wrote mostly about the space between people, I've learned that I can never befriend a story, and find words for its writing, until I have understood the place it represents. Sometimes that means a fecund valley, or hillside gnarled by too-much conversation with wind, or an old, arthritic house; sometimes it means the shift of light in a storm-hearted sky. Deep in the Far Away grew out of my exploration of Linden Cove - the meadow, the hillshadow, the path laying infront of a little house, the places I could not go although I kept pushing to get there. It was my wandering about looking at trees and horizons which found me all the broken little pieces of plot. This happens with most of my tales and poems. They either begin or deepen as the weight of their particular setting nudges against my mind, enticing me into story.

Few of the places exist in this world, but that doesn't make them unreal.



Even a story like The Quick & the Undead, which has no particular setti…

the medicine work of stories

Maybe you are the kind of person who hugs trees. Or lays a hand upon their hard, wrinkled skin to draw upon the age and weight of them and balance yourself in this uncertain world. Maybe you like to stand cloaked in tree-shadow, and feel like a priestess or secret, half-lost queen, or nameless wild thing. If that's true, you won't think today's post too strange, I hope.




I walked amongst trees today and felt as though I was walking through stories. It pulsed silently from their bodies. Trembled from the weathered edges of their leaves. Danced slow, heavy-boned, in the shadows between them. They were stories of wind that bore a spit of western waters, and pohutukawa debris, and the warm musty smell of old suburban streets. Stories of stones underoot, and bird songs, and aches, and the languid caress of the sun between rain showers.

The stories seemed so much like my own old memories that I thought the trees were somehow dreaming me, telling me to each other.

But story does t…

holding space for the wild spirits

I don't really like to do things. I am the one you will find sitting under a tree, in the shade, on the sidelines, while everyone else is having fun. You may think I am sad or pathetic, but watching is my preferred way of participating. (Either that or quietly wandering about appreciating nature and taking story notes or photographs.)

I have quiet energy. A receptive energy. Sitting there on the sidelines, I am not just being a bystander. I am opening my heart to what is happening, and experiencing it in stillness.




I write the same way - not working towards a story goal, but opening my heart, letting story enter. All too often I forget this though, and spend days, weeks, even months, searching and trying and drafting, in an effort to build story. It never helps me. Only when I literally sit back and realign my energy to reception, to witnessing rather than doing, can my creative process truly begin.

It's not really surprising that I forget this. Sometimes I think everyone else…

writing what you love

I once heard a woman say that she was her own favourite photographer, because after all if she wasn't taking photographs she loved, what was the point?

It's a little different with writing, or at least it is for me. The element of freshness, of revelation, is an important part of what I love about reading a story, and I can't create that for myself (except during the writing process.) The courage of the reader; their surrender; their fragility before the inclinations of the author; their hopes and fears taken by that author and weighed, sometimes manipulated : it's all very beautifully scary. And it's missing when I read my own work. My favourite writers are those who give me that revelatory sense, sometimes over and again with the same book.



But I can say that, in general, and when I'm able to turn off my editing instinct, I do like my own stories. We're not really supposed to admit things like that, are we? But I guess it makes sense. After all, I write t…

the new book

As you know, my daughter is an athlete, and we regularly fundraise to supply her with equipment, training, support, and so on. The summer season is upon us and so once again I am offering a new book in return for donations to our fund.





This ebook is a collection of twelve stories that drift through strange places and enchanted hearts to find the illumination of love. Touching here on the armour of a new king, there on the loneliness of a young river witch, each story draws forth the magic, moonlight, and secret wishes that bring a wild weather to our souls.

The book also contains original art and photography, a soundtrack, and notes on the stories.

The book is my gift of thanks to anyone who donates $6.00 to our sports fund.

GO HERE TO OBTAIN THE BOOK. Simply click donate and you will be taken to Pay Pal. Because the other books are also still available, please remember to state which one you want.







Thank you with love and heartful gratitude to all who have offered such support over the…

Twelve Wind-Knit Tales

I said eleven, but a twelfth whispered its way in at the end.

Twelve stories that were written in moments between the dark and the light, the mist and the cheerful sunshine. When I look at them now, I wonder how I ever got them done. Most tumbled out of the sky and onto my screen and it was really a matter of finding time to type the words into shape. Several were found amongst the weedy remnants of other stories. Television inspired two of them, which is why I like having that visual storytelling device in my house. More than one would have been a novel of its own if I'd had the stamina.




Twelve stories that wanted to be told, in their own words, on their own terms. Dragon tales and rivershadow tales and all of them tales of people in love of some sort. As I gathered them, they gathered me; they took me to quiet, foggy inlets where crooked little hills murmur poetry as they grow out of the brown sea, and to wind-singing towers, and the world from where stories come - from where so…

tale-gathering, swan-watching

I am busy these days putting a few final touches on the little storybook I hope will be available at the end of this week. The weight of worry and shyness presses upon my heart and slows me down. I probably should be doing things to advertise the coming publication, but can not quite manage it. Which is unfortunate, as a piece of essential sports equipment broke today, so I very much hope this latest fundraising project is effective!

(So if you are wondering about what to get that dreamy bookish friend for Christmas or Solstice, or are wanting a little something for yourself, and you have a spare six dollars, maybe you would be interested in a small digital book containing eleven moon-soaked tales.)




This has been perhaps my most difficult project. The year proved long and the seasons threw all they had at me. A parched summer, a winter of unexpected storms, a spring of love and strain and promises. Through it all, I gathered a few quiet stories, often in a dream, as the wind shook me …

the measurement of a woman

Women talk a lot about body size, but do you ever think about the size you are inside? Never mind the measurable width of your bones; do you feel stronger when you imagine them hefty, like oak rooted deep in your self, or stone? Or do you feel stronger when you sense your bones have a delicate spirit, bird-fine, dream-light?


credit: rusty mcdonald

As for your hips, thighs, breasts - forget a moment their weight or size. How do they feel as they move through the world? Do they sway languorously, as if you are slow-dancing? Or do they barge against everything and send shudders through your soul?

My wish for women would be that we stopped listening to the voices of the media and diet industry, and instead listened to the wise and beautiful whisper that lives within our own bodies. If you feel jagged and dry inside, then that is more skinny than any outer measure of thinness, and it needs balm, a lavishment of oil, a warm softening of sweetness. If you feel bulbous, dolloped on the world, …