Category: Art

Six s’s of Sister Patience that will live on

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With the Monastery of Annwn, I took vows of simplicity and sustainability. I simplified my wardrobe, cutting it down to three sets of winter clothes, three sets of summer clothes, a couple of things for in between, and gym kit. All but my fleeces, coats, and waterproofs fit into my great-grandmother’s chest of drawers. I never buy clothes or shoes unless I need them. I once had altars to many Brythonic gods and various spirits, but as they were little used (the only thing worse than no altar is a neglected one), I rearranged them to reflect my near-henotheistic devotion to my patron God, Gwyn ap Nudd. I walk or cycle within my limitations as someone with knee issues and a cheap bike (after my last one was stolen), and do my best to buy local or at least British food.

Solitude has always come naturally to me. I love being alone (with my Gods), and only the call of the awen or the fulfilment of my shamanic vocation can happily draw me out of this state. Silence has been one of the greatest blessings. As an autistic person, exterior quiet has long been essential for me, but it’s only since exploring Eastern methods of meditation and Christian methods of prayer that I have managed, on occasion, to attain the inner silence needed to truly listen to the Gods.

I’ve lived in the same house in Penwortham pretty much since I was four years old, so stability really accords with me. Increasingly, I have no desire to travel. I’m happier and happier deepening my relationship with my home, garden, local valley, and walking and cycling in the local area. 

When I learnt I must give up the name Sister Patience, I feared her sanctuary would have to go with her. I was saddened to think of the departure of its spirit. Yet Gwyn came along and asked that I dedicate it to Him by His older name Vindos. I was absolutely delighted. It felt so right (although I had a sneaking feeling that He might have been planning for this all along…).

Another word, which I can’t include as it doesn’t begin with an ‘s’ but does have ‘s’s’ in it, and forms the spiritual core of all the ‘s’s’ is godspouse. It was as Sister Patience I married Gwyn, as a nun of Annwn, similarly to a Bride of Christ. I’m glad to say that we’re still happily wed and our relationship will live on. In retrospect I guess it makes sense that a year after we get married He moves in!

Beneath is an image from the cover of a poetry book about our marriage called ‘The Heart of Annwn’ that I wrote for Gwyn and was planning to offer to Him when I retook my temporary monastic vows this year. The book wasn’t quite good enough and the vows will not be made, but I’m hoping I might one day rework it. For now, here is the image I was planning to use as cover art.

The Spirit of the Sanctuary

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As I prepare to step up to beginning working with clients in shamanic energy healings the Spirit of the Sanctuary appeared to me in meditation and said She wanted to act as a guide and revealed Herself to me a form that She wants to make public for the first time. She appears here as a dark-haired woman with a halo of red roses and a black serpent wrapped around her lower half (both are symbols of the sanctuary).

Animal Power

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This collage was pieced together from some of the encounters and messages from animal spirits experienced by clients during shamanic journeys on my introduction to shamanism course and during power animal retrievals. It forms a celebration of the work we have done together to date. I would like to thank those who I have worked with for permission to share. I’m continuing to offer student rate shamanic guidance HERE and free shamanic healing (including power animal retrievals HERE).

A Black Butterfly in Your Heart

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There is a black butterfly in Your heart.
I cannot decipher the meaning
on a bright spring morning
when the May flowers blossom
and all the hawthorns are in bloom.

There is a black butterfly in Your heart.
I cannot decipher the meaning
at midday when the sun burns bright
and Maponos strums a song on His harp
with chords of sunlight brighter than the fires of Bel.

There is a black butterfly in Your heart.
I cannot decipher the meaning
at sunset as the blackbirds sing
the sun down and burning happy dancers dance
and talk and do the things that people do.

There is a black butterfly in Your heart.
I cannot decipher the meaning
until midnight comes and I follow
the funeral procession of the sun into darkness.
Until I walk with the dead sun into the depths of the Otherworld.

~

“Dead sun, dead sun, what are we doing here,
what are we doing here in this darkness,
darker than the dark side of the moon,
darker than the dark side of the sun?

“Dead sun, dead sun, what are we doing here,
what are we doing here in this silence,
more silent than the silence
when the King of Annwn died
and Maponos ceased to play His harp?

“Dead sun, dead sun, what are we doing here,
what are we doing here in this stillness
stiller than the places between
the dance-steps of His faery dancers,
the hoofbeats of the horses of His hunt,
the spaces between the beats of His heart?”

“Come deeper, come deeper,” says the dead sun,
“beneath the world’s chatter and words and images
that paint butterfly colours, come deeper, come deeper.”

~

The dead sun takes me to Your tomb in the Castle of Cold Stone.
Reminds me of how Your castle fell from the skies of Annwn,
circling four-cornered, from the songs of the mead-feast,
from the revelry, from the boiling of the cauldron,
from the passing of the mead-cup,

down, down, down,

into the Abyss,

into the place between
the end and the beginning of life and death,
the end and beginning of words and of worlds…

~

You’re dead – there are no words to express my sorrow.
You’re alive, only sleeping, there are no words to express my hope.

You’re dressed in black as if ready to attend Your own funeral.
Your hair is white and silver as the light of the moon
and the hairs in the manes and tails of the horses of Your hunt.

And Your heart, Your heart is red as the reddest
of the roses of Your queen who forever betrays You on May the first.

For You I plant five red roses in Annwn and a single rose above.

~

For you I sit here in the darkness, the silence, the stillness.
I listen to Your breath and the beating of Your heart.

At first it is felt, not heard, not seen.

Then I hear it, then I see it –
the dark flutter of the butterfly in Your heart.

“What is this? What is this?” My heart flutters in concern.
“Why has a black butterfly come to abide
in the heart of the King of Annwn,
the heart of the Otherworld?”

“Worry not.” Even death does not faze You.
You do not speak like a corpse
but like the most living of the living
and the brightest light in Annwn’s darkness.
“You are the black butterfly who flaps her wings in my heart.”

~

“Did You hear that?” I ask the dead sun. 

The dead sun has already fled – it is morning. 

“Did You hear that?” I ask Maponos.

He has already gone to play His harp.

We’re alone now, my King and I, butterfly and heart,
in the darkness, in the silence, in the solitude,
for a moment before the world’s call forces us to part.

I created this painting at a Beltane focused seasonal creative workshop with Two Birds Therapy and wrote the poem afterwards. It’s based on the dichotomy I always feel at this time of year between the beauty and energy of nature and the sadness of Gwyn’s death and my need to be alone with Him whilst others are celebrating. The black butterfly was the result of a mistake wherein I tried to make Gwyn’s heart redder but instead smudged black into it. For me this gave the piece its meaning.

On Singing in Chains

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In the Monastery of Annwn meditation group we have recently been exploring the medieval Welsh poem ‘The Spoils of Annwn’ from an Annuvian perspective rather than from the views of the ‘victors’ Arthur and Taliesin.

Last week, in the guided visualisation meditation, we journeyed to the first fortress, Caer Siddi ‘the Fairy Fort’, on our magical monastic boat and gained personal visions based on lines from the poem:

Maintained was Gwair’s prison in Caer Siddi
throughout Pwyll and Pryderi’s story.
No-one went there before he did –
into the heavy grey chain guarding the loyal lad.
And before the spoils / herds of Annwn he was singing sadly,
and until Doom shall our poetic prayer continue.

I found myself standing before Gwyn wearing chains with Gwair in a scene resembling the Devil card from the Rider Waite Tarot. Whilst Gwair was imprisoned in a heavy grey chain I was wearing only toy-like silver handcuffs and felt they were close to breaking and to my being released.

Gwyn said:

‘As long as you sing you will be in chains.
In the silence of meditation you will be free.’

Gwyn’s words reminded me of the shift in my path from being a bard in the mead hall to becoming a Nun of Annwn. To moving away from performing poetry to a more monastic and shamanic path.

Another way of looking at it was that the singing is the voice of the incessant thoughts in my head and that only when I’m silent in meditation will their song and the chains be gone.

Nodens Father of Sea Horses

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Recently, in one-to-one sessions with another monastic devotee of Annwn, we have been exploring her intuitions about Gwyn ap Nudd’s associations with the sea. Gwyn’s father, Nodens / Nudd, is equated with Neptune at Chesterholm in an inscription which reads Deo No / Neptu. This suggests, like Neptune, He is associated with freshwater and the sea, seahorses, and with horses more widely (Neptune was worshipped as Neptunus Equestris – God of horse racing).

Little is known about the myths of Neptune but there are many about His Greek counterpart, Poseidon Hippios ‘of the horse’, the Father of Horses. When Demeter fled Poseidon’s lust in the form of a mare He took the form of a stallion and mated with Her and She bore a colt called Arion ‘Very Swift’. In another tale He mated with Medusa and She gave birth to Pegasus.

These stories remind me of my personal gnosis about Nodens mating with Anrhuna, the Dragon Mother of Annwn, to bear Gwyn and Creiddylad and other children who might have included horses and seahorses. Intriguingly Rhiannon, who like Creiddylad is a Queen of Annwn, is a Horse Goddess. I often wonder if Creiddylad and Rhiannon are titles for the same Goddess who takes horse form. If so this would suggest that Nodens is the Father of Horses and likely Sea Horses here in Britain. That He might be the father of Gwyn’s sea-going steed, Du y Moroedd, ‘the Black of the Seas’.

It also make me wonder if Nodens and Anrhuna might be the parents of white winged horses like pegasus from whom my closest spirit animal, a white winged mare, is descended. March allelog, ‘flying horses’, are known in Wales.

The devotional art above was born from these musings and is based on the mural crown depicting Nodens on a chariot pulled by four seahorses from Lydney and a triumph of Neptune in a chariot drawn by two seahorses from Sousse Archaeological Museum.

When I unburied the Wise Lad

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and polished all his statues
I fell into his smile

and I smiled too

and all the world smiled
and all the universe smiled
and all the people of Annwn.

I can’t rememer how long ago
I forgot how to smile

but here it is –

this sign upon my lips,

not just for me but for you
the Wise Lad’s gift.

When I drew this image it was supposed to represent the unburying of a multitude of meditating Wise Lad statues being unburied from the earth from where they’d lain for eons. On completing it I realised that looked at from another perspective they appear to be hovering over drop down toilets! One of His jokes I think!

The Wise Lad

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Over the Twelve Days of Devotion to Gwyn ap Nudd (25th Dec – 5th Jan) I focused on Gwyn’s boyhood. In all honesty at first I wasn’t looking forward to spending twelve days with Gwyn as a boy on the basis of my experiences with the boys at my primary school who were loud, boisterous, rude and bullying.

Thankfully, following my writing of ‘Vindos and the Salmon of Wisdom’, Gwyn reassured me that I wouldn’t be spending my time with Him ‘as a stupid boy’ but ‘as the Wise Lad’.

What will follow over the next few days is the best of the inspiration He gifted to me during this period. Beneath is an image of the Wise Lad with the Salmon of Wisdom and nine hazel nuts looking pixie-like and slightly sinister. I have been led to believe that, like the term ‘the Fair Folk’, ‘the Wise Lad’ is a euphemism for something darker.

He Sings the Soul Names

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Mither voices through the mizzle,
through the mist, mist-numb mutters.
He fails to muster them at first with His voice.
Hoofbeats louder, huge round hoofbeats of His Horse.

“COME!”

Mistlings mither through the mizzle,
seep, sink, sit, slither in the godless grey
drizzle of forgetting until the voice of a God loud
as the cracking of glass beneath the hooves of His horse calls.

“COME! COME!”

Awake the mistlings remembering,
their misting reassembling into a mither of forms.
They look like something viewed through cracked glass.
They teeter, totter, diused limbs pale, severed, crunch of footfalls.

“COME! COME! COME!”

Oh the baying of the hounds rounding, 
bounding, barks, bristling hackles, woofs reign!
He rounds them up, gentle guidance, touch of red nose,
hand on arm, “Don’t dither,” “remember, remember, remember.”

“COME! COME! COME TO MY FORT!”

Oh these feet know the path, the way
when the mind does not, misty heel, misty toe.
One foot before another soul-forms remembering forest,
foray up river, up hill, up mountain, to the in-the-air turning fort.

“COME! COME! COME TO MY HALL!”

Misted ones mix and dance no longer
mizzle-like but blue and red as blood and water,
the only drizzle sweat upon their brows before they sit
and partake in the feast of holy leaf-meat and ever-flowing mead.

“COME! COME! COME TO MY CAULDRON!”

This drink is not one of forgetting –
they know themselves now and the pain
as He sings their soul-names voice resounding
like the sound of shattered glass is outweighed by beauty.

“COME! COME! COME TO BE REBORN!”

The waters in the cauldron are blue
as the infinite seas of the Deep and filled
with blood and there are stars shining and each
beholds a star and reaches out and becomes like glass.

A poem and artwork that came to me as I was revisiting the traditional lore in recent articles based on my experiences of witnessing Gwyn guiding the passage and rebirth of souls.