Gwythyr’s Ants

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In How Culhwch Won Olwen there is an enigmatic episode wherein Gwythyr ap Greidol is ‘travelling over a mountain’ and hears ‘weeping and woeful wailing’ ‘terrible to hear’. He rushes towards the sound, unsheaths his sword and cuts off an anthill at ground level, thus saving the ants from a fire. In return they bring him the ‘nine hestors of flax seed’ previously sown into tilled red soil that has not grown to be resown in newly ploughed land to make a ‘white veil’ for Olwen at Culhwch’s wedding feast. This is one of the impossible tasks assigned to Culhwch by Ysbaddaden Bencawr, Olwen’s father. The ants complete the task, the lame ant bringing the last seed just in time.

Recently one of my guides suggested I should look deeper into this story. So, I journeyed on it, and this is what came as an origin tale for Gwythyr’s ants.

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During the time of Arthur Gwythyr ap Greidol joined forces with the warlord against the giants, the witches, the monsters of Annwn, their rival, Gwyn ap Nudd.

At the height of summer he was leading his warriors through the mountains of the north, driving the giants from their mountain fortresses, from their seats in the craggy heights where they liked to look up to their kindred, the stars.

“There,” he pointed to a crag in the distance, even in summer circled by mist. 

“No,” his men shook their heads, “that belongs not to a giant but the Grey King.”

“Take it,” Gwythyr commanded, “build a new fortress on its summit in my name.” Their battle-leader left them for another task of marauding with Arthur.

As they approached a Spectre-in-the-mist appeared and warned them, “If you wish to remain men turn your back on this summit and return to your homes.”

“No way.” “This mountaintop will be ours.” “You’re nothing but a trick of the mist.”

As Gwythyr’s warriors battled against the spectre and his misty minions they noticed not their armour becoming carapaces moulded to their skin, their two legs becoming six, their spears becoming antennae. “We won! We won!”

They build their fortress on the summit thinking they were carrying great boughs when really they were building from twigs, leaves, pine needles.

When Gwythyr returned he found not a new fortress but an ant hill. 

“Accursed ants!” he raised his flaming sword to destroy the useless thing.

“No, no,” shrieked his warriors, “can’t you see it is us – your loyal soldiers?” 

When Gwythyr looked closer at their red-brown armoured bodies and their spear-like antennae he saw they still had the faces and intelligence of men. 

“We won the battle.” “We built our fort.” “Only one man was lamed.”

As Gwythyr cursed the mist rolled in and he heard the laughter of the Grey King.

Image wood ant (Formica rufra) courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

Tiny Gwyn (from Thornsilver Hollysong)

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Thornsilver Hollysong is a fellow monastic devotee of Annwn who makes pocket-sized crocheted Gods from his own hand-dyed yarn. I recently commissioned him to make me a tiny Gwyn based on lines from a poem I wrote when Gwyn and I first met:

His spectral shine shimmers white as moonlight
His hair floats fair about his phantom limbs
His warrior attire is black as night.
The eyes of the hunter of souls are grim
As the howl of his hounds on Annwn’s winds.

Tiny Gwyn has finally arrived and He is perfect. I love the textures of His moonlight white hair and the powerful sway of His black cloak. He has a guardian-like quality and has assumed custodianship of my bookshelf from where He is watching over my room in preparation for the return of big Gwyn. It’s lovely to have some of the energy and craftsmanship of a fellow monastic and Gwyn devotee in my home.

You can view Thorn’s Teeny Tiny Gods and order your own commissions HERE.

If the birds in my garden were the spirits of the dead

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You, blue tit, in your blue hat, were that guy who worked on the log flume at Camelot Theme Park. When I took cash on the gates I was envious of how you worked yourself up from the Go-Karts, Sir Lancelot’s Chargers, Pendragon’s Plunge. Neither of us were knights but both of us dreamed of drowning under water and I was sad to hear of how you went down and didn’t surface again with splashes in your face to the flash of cameras.

You, sparrow, were that woman with the orange lipstick and fluffy cream and brown coat selling yourself near New Hall Lane at 4am as I walked past in my fishnets and army boots avoiding the cars that might ask if I was on the job. I saw you get in and kind of guessed you might not get out again. I walked on, and on, and on, guiltily glad I had not your desperation.

You, blackbird, were the wannabe magician who worked in the gaming store.  You found out about how John Dee and Edward Kelley attempted to raise the dead at St Leonard’s Church in Walton-le-Dale but had no interest in necromancy nor summoning angels. It seems demons were your thing, smoky mirrors, circles of salt, vanishing. I met you in the Zoo Cafe smelling of sulphur and looking vaguely lost on that night you vanished forever.

You, nuthatch, were the bricklayer who boxed at Penwortham Boxing Club. I’d never have picked a fight with you even on that equinox at the mixed martial arts day when I was told I had a mean right hook. You, big guy, now in your eyeliner with your big torso and determined legs, could not accept yourself. Was that why the cancer crept in that took all your strength?

You, magpie, I cannnot determine who you are. A black-and-white trickster. I accept your mask as I accept the masks of all who ride on the floats in the procession at Penwortham Gala and I accept the harshness of your mocking call.

*All personages in this prose poem are fictitious but have a loose basis in my memories.

The Art of Coming Home

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‘Gwyn ap Nudd who are far in the forests for the love of your mate allow us to come home.’
~ Speculum Christiani

Going away. Coming home. These two processes every spiritworker needs to master. 

I was away for such a long part of my life, never fully in my body. Struggling with disassociation and derealisation stuck somewhere between the worlds.

Then Gwyn ap Nudd came into my life and taught me to journey to Annwn and, perhaps more importantly, how to come home. Since I met Him I have been striving to lead a life that combines the shamanic and ecstatic with being present in the here and now with the myriad beings on the land where I live.

With more difficulty, particularly since becoming a nun of Annwn, I’ve been getting to know myself a lot better – my body, my mind, my habits. 

I thought that I was getting better. That I’d begun to become more aware of my cycles of driving myself too hard often when operating under some delusion such as that I’m going to become a recognised philosopher, poet, author… then realising I’m being unrealistic and burning out and dropping out.

I thought I’d cracked it but somehow similar delusions crept in around what I might be capable of as a nun of Annwn and aspiring shamanic practitioner. After my shamanic initiation and marriage to Gwyn I came back ecstatic with ambitions of running online discussions and shamanic journey circles and hit the ground with a bump when I came upon the same old barrier of lack of interest in the Brythonic tradition and was further derailed by the consequences of my mistake in reviewing a book by Galina Krasskova.

It’s taken me over two months to come back to myself, back to reality, to my limitations as an autistic person and introvert and to realise I would never have been able to hold space for group discussions or run shamanic journey circles due to my difficulties with reading and communicating with large groups and the huge drain upon my energy that these things take.

I’m fine one-to-one or with small groups of people I know and who I don’t need to mask with such as my fellow monastic devotees. But I’m not the warm smiley front-of-house meet-and-greet person who knows intuitively what each person needs and how to put them at ease fit for leading large groups.

Once again I’ve landed with a bump and a crash but as always I’ve had a wonderful God who is now my Husband to hold me through it. I’ve had the support of my mum, the land I live on, and members of the Monastery of Annwn.

I’ve finally come back home into a state of stillness and presence wherein I can stop beating myself up over my mistakes and accept who I am. 

That being a nun is not about striving to be a celebrity (‘Sister Patience TM’) but leading a life of prayer and meditation centred on devotional relationship with the Gods and the land and the ancestors and journeying to Annwn to bring back inspiration and healing for one’s communities.

Accepting I am enough rather than trying to strive beyond.

Not easy. Not glamorous. But this is where and who I am. A suburban nun. At home in Penwortham with a wonderful God who dwells in my heart and countless deities and spirits and plants and creatures all around me. With Gwyn’s help I’m beginning to master the art of coming home.

Review – And If I Go With Child? by Charlotte Hussey

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And If I Go With Child? is a poetry collection by Charlotte Hussey reimagining the medieval Scottish Border Ballad of Tam Lin as an initiation into Faery. Here she interweaves Janet’s ‘coming of age story’, ‘her sensual, sexual and imaginative awakening’ with her own in a sequence of poetic collages set across place and time structured around lines from the ballad.

In her biography Charlotte speaks of ‘growing up on a sand bar fronted by the Atlantic and backed by a tidal marsh’ and some of the narrative is set in these landscapes. The descriptions are rich showing Charlotte’s knowledge of the ecology of the land, particularly its plants, sweet grass, marsh rose, many more.

The first section tells of Janet going to Cautherhaugh wood where it is rumoured girls might lose their maidenhead. Here Charlotte describes a surprise encounter with a man which would spook any woman anywhere at any time.

‘A bush shakes a man out of it.
He’s stubby as a rough root.
His face is overgrown with hair
and shadows. His back bends
under bundle tied with a vine.’ 

Is he a lurker? A rapist? A mythic woodwose bringing his own dangers? In this instance he leaves nothing but a bundle and we’re left with guilt at our assumptions.

One of the prominent features of this book is Charlotte’s unique and original descriptions of the characters as they are summoned into our times. Janet begins stiff-laced with ‘plucked eyebrows’, ‘forbidden lipstick’ and ‘a starched white / secretarial blouse’ but this apparel is swiftly undone by the wind.

We first find Tam perching on a van on a cliff top looking over a beach (a deliberately liminal position). At first he appears ordinary and in now way fae.

‘His barely zit-free chin bristles
with a don’t-tread-on-me beard.
My mannish boy! A green sweatshirt
rumples under his armpits.
Thrift store jeans…’

Yet it isn’t long until he becomes more sinister. ‘Eyes / stare, sucked like eggs from their shells / by a snake side-winding through his drug-laced / mind.’

The Faery Queen is deftly described crowned in honeysuckle, ‘almost beautiful’, ‘small lips a bit tight, / tiny nostrils like dark / pinholes against the white’. In accordance with the ballad she’s cruel and punishing, plucking out eyes and putting them in trees and stuffing mouths with moss. An Ice Queen who can strike one dumb and kill with her ‘blighting breath’.

‘Annunciation Dream’ clevery brings together Janet’s impregnation by Tam with Mary’s by depicting her in the ‘crown of 12 stars’ from the Book of Revelations. Janet’s realising she goes with child is subtly written and her attempt to abort, with Pennywort, is wrapped up in nature imagery.

Apocalyptic imagery features again strongly later on in the collection where it is brought together with the appearance of the Faery Riders in the Wild Hunt on Halloween. In a stroke of genius Charlotte sets this at Miles Gas Station, interweaving the ordinary and extraordinary in this liminal setting. 

‘Red Pegasus has faded
and fled this Mobil gas
station, leaving his winged
trace on a worn sign.
Twin pumps go on
guarding their lonely island,
where slack rubber hoses
hang useless as a bridle
not buckled up in time.’

A guitarist ‘clad in a long black / coat, preacher or gunslinger’ summons the hunt.

‘Their hurling
mass sucks fire from the stars
they pass, whooping, riding
hard across the fenceless,
Great Plains of the Sky.

Gutted pumpkins sputter
and glare. Dogs howl.’

The black, brown and white horses from the ballad take on an apocalyptic apparel with Tam, on his white horse ‘vast inside and out’, ‘a rider condensing as if / in an alembic, / unkempt, sun-struck, dazed.’

Janet’s rescue of Tam from captivity on the hunt of the Faery Queen is followed by the famous scene ‘hold me close and fear me not’ where she must keep tight hold of him as he shifts through a series of forms. Charlotte reimagines this cleverly with a ‘pet store girl’ wrestling a snake amongst the tanks and ‘a naughty circus girl’ embracing him as a lion. 

When he becomes a gleed she thrusts him into a well and he is returned as a knight in a poem that uses the alchemical symbolism of the wedding of Sol and Luna. Alchemical imagery occurs earlier in the verses about the horses – ‘A horse head’s a rebis / alchemists say you can fashion / into anything you want.’ This fits with the collection’s mercurial antagonists and the overall feel. 

Safe and wrapped in Janet’s green mantle Tam becomes the vulnerable one. ‘On the first of a cool November, / he shivers, clutching his crotch.’ At once a child and an old man. ‘Is he 21 or 990 years old / like the withered Children of Lir?’

Charlotte speaks of this ballad as ‘a story of captivity and liberation by way of redemptive love.’ It’s deliberately left ambiguous whether Tam’s impregnation of Janet constitutes rape. The reader is left to make their own mind up on the matter and, whatever the case, whether they could love Tam, hold him tight, bring him back. Working with, reimagining, imaginally experiencing these mysteries is all part of the initiatory process.

At the outset Charlotte leaves the question of whether she has been initated into Faery to her readers. On the basis of the magic and visionary impact of her words and their retention of the tale’s mystery I would give a resounding ‘yes’.

And If I Go With Child? is available from Ritona Press HERE.

Dragon of my Heart

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‘Gwyn son of Nudd… God has put the spirit of the demons of Annwfn in him, lest the world be destroyed.’
~ Culhwch and Olwen

I.
Dragon of my Heart black and beautiful
with Your wings filled with ghosts

You take me up high into the sky,
show me how far I am from

the cannon fire, the sparks,
the fuses, the ram of gunpowder,
the sound of cannon balls hitting walls.

From the sieges of the past and of the future.

You grant to me Your perspective.
You tell me I must be calm.

II.
Dragon of my Heart black and beautiful
with Your wings filled with skulls

You take me up high into the sky,
show me how far I am from

the machine-gun fire echoing
from my past lives stacatto across
the battlefields where barbed wire is strung.

From the executions of firing squads from the guns.

You grant to me Your perspective.
You tell me I must find peace.

III.
Dragon of my Heart black and beautiful
with Your wings filled with the hung

You take me up high into the sky,
show me how far I am from

the forests of the suicides,
where they hang from the trees
driven to their deaths by who knows what.

From the bullies on the streets and on the screens.

You grant to me Your perspective.
You tell me I must be kind.

IV.
Dragon of my Heart black and beautiful
with Your wings terrifying to angels

You take me up high into the sky,
show me how far I am from

the Gallic Wars, the Crusades,
the Wars of the Roses, the Napoleonic Wars,
from Bergen-Belsen and Dachau, Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

From Vietnam, Crimea, the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

You grant to me Your perspective.
You tell me I must love.

V.
Dragon of my Heart black and beautiful
with Your wings filled with light

You take me up high into the sky,
show me the heights of my privilege.

You tell me I must found a monastery
for one day like You I will bear
the dead in my wings.

To an Apple Tree

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I.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
who grows in my suburban garden,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet.

I fought not in the Battle of Arfderydd.
I was not a golden-torqued warrior.

I wandered not in the Forest of Celyddon.

But I have wandered for thirty years
with madness and madmen
in the wildernesses of suburbia
not knowing what is real and what is not.

I have known my pigs and my stolen berries
and my maidens of the suburban drains,
my Chwyfleian beneath her trap.

II.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
who grows close to my garden fence,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet.

I knew not Gwenddolau and his two eagles
who feast on the flesh of the Britons every day
but I have been devoured by death-eaters.

I did not get involved with the games
of Gwenddolau and Rhydderch
on the gwyddbwyll board,
men gold and silver,

but I predicted the outcome
and did not speak up about Caerlaverock.

I ask that my Lord of Hosts have mercy on me.

III.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
near where the birds come to feed,
where the sparrows pick, the starlings peck,
where the long-tailed tits come to twirl their tails,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet

yet I was torn out of myself

not after the Battle of Arfderydd
but when I was but a child, a fledgling
by the bullies who called me a pig,
knowing not Myrddin’s sweet little one,
when I was only half-pig half-bird.

I knew not what kind of bird.

Not a hawk certainly not a merlin.

Perhaps a blackbird or the big black bird
perching on my chimney-top blotting out the sun.

IV.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
with your blossoms white and pink,
foxglove pink, the colours of the fair folk,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet,

yet I was invited to walk not in Celyddon
but in Avalon with my Lord of Hosts.

Oh happy happy days beneath your boughs
with the long-tailed tits twirling,
picking at the worms

as the snake
returned to the garden
and the Dragon King spread His wings
and they were filled with the apples of the sun.

This poem is inspired by ‘The Apple Trees’ from The Black Book of Carmarthen wherein Myrddin Wyllt speaks his woes to an apple tree after the tragic Battle of Arfderydd. I believe ‘the Lord of Hosts’ referred to in this poem is Gwyn ap Nudd, who is also referred to as ‘the Lord of Hosts’ in ‘The Conversation of Gwyn ap Nudd and Gwyddno Garanhir’. Gwyn, ‘White’, has paradoxically appeared to me in the guise of a black dragon. It’s a poem about knowing in spite of my defects and limitations I am loved.

Building Polytheistic Monastic Practices Part Three – Trance

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Trance refers to altered states of consciousness of varying degress between sleeping and waking in which a person becomes partially to fully unaware of their surroundings and might have experiences of spiritual realities. 

States of trance include dazes, daydreams, reveries, raptures, ecstasies and soul flights. Trance can be voluntary or involuntary. It can be induced by a number of things including prayer, meditation, singing, dancing, rocking, repetitive music, fasting, thirsting, sweating, sensory deprivation and intoxicants.

In most religions trance is seen as less safe and accessible than prayer and meditation. In Christianity it is associated with the more advanced stages of prayer such as St Teresa’s Prayer of Union and with mystical experiences of God. Deep meditation, in Buddhism and Hinduism, is seen by some to be akin to or identical with trance, whereas others argue it is different because the person meditating remains mindful and present rather than unaware.

In indigenous cultures, whilst it is acknowledged that everyone can access trance states, there are respected spirit-workers who are specialists in carrying out spiritual work whilst in trance states for the benefits of their communities. 

These trance states can be divided into two types. One is spirit flight, in which the spirit-worker’s soul leaves their body and they travel to the spirit realms in order to help other community members by finding lost soul parts, extracting negative entities, or negotiating with the Gods and spirits.

The other is trance possession, in which the spirit-worker calls the spirits into their body. This is sometimes for the purpose of healing. In other cases it can be so the spirits can speak with their people and offer guidance and prophecy. It can also simply be a gift for the spirits to be able to inhabit a body.

In the late 20th century Michael Harner and others developed core shamanism (from the term šaman ‘one who knows’ from the Evenki Tungus tribe in Sibera) from these practices by removing the rites, cosmologies and Deities associated with specific cultures and honing them down to their core.

In core shamanism the primary practice is the shamanic journey in which the practitioner travels to one or more of the three worlds (the Lower World, Middle World and Upper World) with the aid of a drumbeat at 180-250bpms to seek advice, guidance or healing for themselves or others from their spirit allies. The term ‘shamanism’ is now widely used to refer to any form of spirit-work.

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Looking at archaeological and written records I have been unable to find any evidence for the practice of voluntary spirit flight in the Brythonic tradition. If our ancestors made drums or rattles as aids there is no evidence but this does not mean they didn’t exist as the organic materials might have rotted.

What we do find is evidence for voluntary trance possession. In his Description of Wales (1194) Gerald of Wales writes of ‘awenyddion, people inspired’, who ‘when consulted upon any doubtful event’ ‘roar out violently’ ‘rendered outside themselves’ ‘possessed by a spirit’. Their answers are ‘nugatory, ‘incoherent’ and ‘ornamented’ (this description is suggestive of the symbolic, metaphorical and often poetic language of myth and the Otherworld). When ‘roused from their ecstasy, as from a deep sleep’ they remember nothing and when questioned again they give different answers. ‘Perhaps they speak by the means of fanatic and ignorant spirits.’

In medieval Welsh literature we find references to ‘witches’ such as the witches of Caer Loyw, Orddu and Orwen, who are killed by Arthur and his warriors likely because they held powerful positions as warriors and spirit-workers.

We also find the stories of people who become wyllt ‘mad’ or ‘wild’ as part of an initiatory process that leads to them becoming people inspired. The most famous example is Lailoken / Myrddin Wyllt. Traumatised by fighting in the Battle of Arfderydd he sees warriors in the sky and an endurable brightness then is torn out of himself by a spirit and assigned to the Forest of Celyddon. For thirty years he wanders ‘with madness and madmen’ before he heals and becomes a poet and prophet who warns about future wars.

The notion of a period of madness preceding becoming a spirit-worker is found throughout cultures and is now commonly referred to as ‘shaman sickness.’

In Welsh folklore we find countless stories about people being transported to the land of the fairies by music, dancing, or seduction. It’s not clear whether some of these involuntary travels are in spirit or in body. Those who go in body face dire consequences for time passes differently in Faerie. It seems they’ve only been away a moment yet when they return a hundred or more years have passed, they are no longer recognised, or crumble to dust. These tales warn us that it is a bad idea to travel to the Otherworld in a physical form.

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In my late teens and early twenties I had experiences of trance leading to visions of the spirit realms when I was going to festivals and night clubs and dancing all night on various concotions of intoxicants. What surprised me was that I was the only one having visionary experiences whilst my friends just reported having a good time, which led me to fear I was going mad.

I went through a long period of mental health problems (anxiety, panic attacks, depression, over and under-eating, self-harm, suicidal ideation and dependence on alcohol) which I only starting getting over when I met my patron God, Gwyn ap Nudd, discovered my visions were of Annwn / Faery, our British Otherworld and I had been seeing His people, the ‘fairies’, and began serving Him, firstly as an awenydd, more recently as a nun of Annwn.

Whether this was a form of ‘shaman sickness’ or was mainly down to my struggles as an autistic person in a neurotypical world remains in question without the knowledge of the elders of a spiritual community to help with my discernment. It’s my personal opinion that it was a little bit of both.

I was first introduced to shamanic practices by attending workshops with a local Heathen, seidr man Runic John, but found I didn’t connect strongly enough with the Norse Gods and cosmology. I also tried core shamanism with Paul Francis but struggled with the psychotherapeutic approach.

I didn’t dare journey alone until Gwyn came into my life and offered to take me to the Otherworld. Without a drumbeat or any other method of inducing trance I just went and I’ve been able to journey whenever I’ve felt the call of Gwyn and my guides or with a few preparatory prayers and songs ever since.

Although I’ve experienced being possessed by the awen and by Gods and spirits when I’ve been writing I’ve only recently started practicing trance possession. One of my practices focuses on the Speaking Ones, seven crow spirits who I invite to come into my body to lend me their voices for oracles. I’ve also recently experienced inviting my spirits into my body during ecstatic dance in a shamanic workshop and am planning to take this practice further.

Since 2013 I’ve been attending shamanic journey circles in core shamanism with the Way of the Buzzard firstly in person then since Covid online. I like Jason and Nicola’s approach because it is well grounded in the landscape of Britain and in the natural history of our land and its plants and animals. 

In response to instructions from Gwyn I’ve just started training as a shamanic practitioner with the Sacred Trust. Progressing from journeying for personal guidance and inspiration to healing others is a big step for me but I see it to be a neglected part of my calling I have fled from, resisted, for far too long.

*

In conclusion to this series I’ll finish by saying for me, as an awenydd and nun of Annwn, as a spirit-worker in the Brythonic tradition, and as an aspiring shamanic healer, prayer and meditation form the bedrock of my practices. 

Without them, without regular prayers and offerings to my Gods, without grounding myself through meditation, breathwork, body postures and other embodiment practices I wouldn’t have the foundations to practice trance safely enough to extend my services to healing other people. 

It’s been a long difficult journey with few way markers along the way. But I’m here now, doing what I’m here to do, and I hope by sharing my writings I will make it a little easier for others who are called to this hard yet sacred work.

Decision to Remove my Review of Galina Krasskova’s Devotional Polytheism

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‘Let us realize, my daughters, that true perfection consists in the love of God and of our neighbour.’
~ Saint Teresa of Avila

In this post I’m explaining my reasons for removing my review of Galina Krasskova’s book Devotional Polytheism. As noted in the review it has been incredibly valuable to me and somewhat of a lifeline on my own devotional journey. 

However, Galina is considered to be controversial in the polytheist communities and I was unaware of the precise roots of that controversy. At first I thought it was simply based around unfounded suspicions of her being a fascist and white supremacist and due to differences in political standpoint with Galina being right-wing and her opponents being left-wing. 

Over the past few weeks I have spoken to a number of people in the polytheist community who have raised concerns about my endorsement of Galina’s book. This has helped me realise what it comes down to is not so much Galina’s politics but her insensitive and provocative behaviour. 

An example which keeps coming up is Galina and her husband wearing Heathen imagery which was appropriated by the Nazis such as the black sun during the Black Lives Matter protests. Galina has also attacked Rhyd Wildermuth and other Marxist polytheists with a vehemency beyond the pale that amounts to more than theological disagreement.

I was blinded to these issues for a number of reasons. Firstly I live in the UK and don’t use social media so my knowledge of the US polytheist communities is limited. Secondly I’m autistic and don’t always read between the lines and pick up on other people’s feelings or understand interpersonal arguments. 

Thirdly I greatly admire Galina’s writings as a devotional polytheist and mystic. Her work has helped me through turbulent periods in my devotional journey and I have felt the need for some sort of elder to turn to on matters of mysticism and devotion. (I have a brilliant spiritual mentor who is open-minded and supportive but isn’t a polytheist or godspouse).

It’s been really painful trying to weigh my own needs against the needs of my community but, for once in my life as someone very selfish and ego-driven, the needs of my community have won out. I’ve decided to remove the review out of respect for those who have been hurt by her remarks and need to feel safe. 

For most of my life I’ve been incredibly self-centred. Since meeting Gwyn I’ve become increasingly God-centred with my transition from being a bard with a big gob to an awenydd to a nun being steps in the dismantling of my ego. I’ve learnt to love Gwyn and my challenge now is to learn to love other people. Before I founded a monastery it was all about me and now it’s not. 

So removing my review of Galina’s book is a step in that direction. I will be leaving the review up for another week HERE so anybody reading this can see what was said and what happened and then will be removing it for perpetuity. 

With some regret, as I really dislike the way the internet makes it so easy, I’m also going to cut my contact with Galina. This is something I would choose to do if I knew her face-to-face as an elder in my local Pagan community too based on my considerations of her behaviour towards others.