Wye’s Woman Workshops

Wye’s Woman …

Source of the Wye

I live by the river Wye, Afon Gwy, one of the mother rivers of Britain. she rises on one side of the Plynlimon mountain and flows down to join with her sister, Hafren, better known as the Severn. The Afon Hafren, the longest river in Great Britain and rises at around 2000ft on the other side of the mountain of Plynlimon and flows for 220 miles eventually joining with sea, and the Wye, at the Bristol Channel.

The Wye is the fifth longest river in Britain and forms much of the boundary between Wales and England … the Shadowlands, Twilight lands between the worlds where I live. Journeys have shown me I have deep links to this part of the Land, Clas Myrddyn, Merlin’s country that go back over 4000 years – it’s a humbling thought :-).

The Wye is a mighty river and in full spate can be quite overwhelming … as can all goddesses, especially Mother Goddesses. I love her dearly and she is asking for people to come and work with her … hence this page.

Wye’s Woman comes from her – I am her woman, as are many who work hereabouts. I sit at her banks and climb her hills, walk beside her. The workshops are about that. It’s a form of vision quest that’s very Celtic, we don’t just sit in one place but walk the Land, asking the Land to feed us with vision and inspiration, ideas and teachings. For the Celts, the goddess is in the Land itself as well as everywhere throughout the cosmos, not either/or but and/and, inclusive.

The workshops come out of my walking and working. I’ll take you to 8 places along the part of the Wye valley where I live, sacred places, used for thuosands of years by folk who know the Land and know the River – Earth and Water that supports us and enables us to live.

Exploring the Goddess

We’ll explore the goddess’ relationship with her Guardian, the god, how he serves her and cares for her … and we’ll learn our own relationship to her and our own way of serving and guarding her by connecting into her sacred places and listening to her. We’ll also celebrate her with ritual and bring her gifts.

The workshops are 1-day, Saturdays, close to the eight Celtic festivals of the year … Samhain, Midwinter, Imbolc, Spring, Beltane, Midsummer, Lammas and Autumn. Some of them will last through the night when we, or you individually, “sit-out” and will include Staff Singing, a method of inducing a receptive state for the Goddess to speak to us and for us to be able to hear her.

We will also be making spirit dolls and houses, dressing trees, making a group totem pole and other ritual talismans from the things around us in the Land where we work. The Goddess always gives what we need … the trick is learning to see it :-).

Cost £600 (£75/day)  if booked all together

or £85/day if you book individual days.

Elen Sentier
… behind every gifted woman there’s usually a rather talented cat …
writer artist gardener shaman
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Celtic shaman – Elen Sentier British Native Trees

  • Places we will work at include …
Arthur’s Stone
Yew Tree Cauldron
Vowchurch Alder Roots
Eaton Camp
Kilpeck Goddess
Mordiford Bridge over the River Lugg
Symonds Yat

Monardas & Rain

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Although the garden is absolutely gasping for rain – this is the dryest year since 1974 so far! – the monardas are looking gorgeous. So have the tiger Lilies :-).

Plants are amazing things, the want to grow and they do their damnedest to do so whatever is thrown at them. We have heavy cloud but it just seems to be a bit too high to rain, although you can see the clouds are full of it. I’m doing rain dances …

Elen Sentier

writer artist gardener shaman

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Celtic shaman – Elen Sentier Coughing up bones …


Gawain & the Green Knight

Gawain, Gawain, tumbling down,

falling, falling, falling.

Here is a Hall. A King’s Hall.

The smell of smoldering peat and apple-wood,

of roast meats, old bones and wet dogs.

Where am I?

Here, says the voice inside your head.

Come in! Come in! I welcome you.

There is a lady, dark and fair, with raven hair.

Green eyes melt you.

Sitting now, you hold the wooden table hard,

fearing to float again,

the Hall will melt and you be

falling, falling, falling.


Thunder at the doors.


Again the thunder roars.



The doors fly open, wind whistles the snow around your ears.

Blind, you see the darkness fill the doorway.

Your heart makes thunder softly in your breast,


Fire sparks from the stones under the green hooves.

Wisps of straw catch light, smolder a moment

and fail in the dampness of the season.

The hooves come closer.

Upwards climbs your eye,

the soft green fetlock,

the shimmering green leg,

the green ripple of shoulder muscle.

Almost you shut your eyes. This cannot be!

But the voice within your head laughs …

Dare not? … Dare not? …

And your eyes betray you forcing you to see.

Green silk reins, bridle, green-gold bit.

Ah! A change.

The horse’s eyes are golden, like a cat,

first slitting then opening so wide you are engulphed.

Retreating, you turn your eyes,

follow up the reins.

The hands are green.

Green wrist emerge from silken green-sleeves.

One hand holds up a holly bundle.

The other holds the Labrys,

two-faced in her own sincerity.

Reaching upwards you find the face, crowned with holly.

Green, green eyes hold you, freeze your blood.

The King is bored, he will not eat

until some one has told a tale to sharpen up his appetite.

Ho! The Green Man calls. Who reigns here?

Who is master of this Hall?

The King’s eyes light, lazily he leans back in his chair.

Why, I do, he says softly.

And wouldst thou game with me?

For I would game, now, at the turning of the year.

And I would game with kings!

Nay! The King laughs.

I cannot game with thee.

I am the King.

My lady holds my head within her hands

and would not let it go.

He eyes the Labrys knowingly.

Then is there any other

who will stand in for the King

and play my game?

For I will surely game before I leave this Hall.

Silence reigns.

Breath is stilled.

Even the flames pause

in licking at the carcass on the spit.

Silence holds sway.

Even the wind pauses in his circling of the towers,

waiting a response.

Silence grips your heart.

Holding hard to the wood of the table you rise, shaking,

legs of jelly threat to buckle and dissolve

and pitch you in the damp straw.

Holding hard to the wood of the table you stand.

And standing thus it seems the hall revolves about you,

twisting light and dark in streamers.

You shake your head. Vision grows.

I will game with you for my lord King,

you hear yourself proclaiming.

Your voice goes on apace despite your reason.

And letting go the table so you stagger forth

and stand beside the huge green horse and his great rider,

an ant beside an elephant.

Haaaaaaaaa! Haaaaaaaaaaaaa! Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

The great laugh rolls around the hall shaking the banners,

even the flames leap with the wind, scorching the pig.

And down he climbs, down from the horse.

The earth rocks as his feet touch ground.

He stands before you, holding up the axe,

the holly gone behind the saddle now.

This is our game, he tells you,

that I will bear from you one blow of my great axe.

And I will not fight nor flinch

but will allow you do your best or worst upon me.

And all I ask in return is that you then, a year from now,

bear one blow in return from me and my axe,

and that you neither flinch

nor turn away nor offer any defence.

Will you play my game?

Again your voice betrays your mind.

I will, you say.

It seems as the Hall turns on its axis once again

wedding you both in the eye of the storm.

Slow and stately now he offers you the axe.

He kneels before you.

Parts his green silk hair to show his neck

and bows his head.

Labrys’ body, silken holly shaft, slips easy in your hand.

Lift me, heft me, she whispers.

Am I not graceful? Sharp? Incisive?

Do your hands not delight to hold me?

And it’s true.

Your hands caress her silken curves

and slide to grip her firmly for her work.

You feel her rouse and rise.

You feel her speed as she pulls your arms down for the mighty stroke.

You feel the inner sound as she screams for joy,

tasting blood.

The head rolls at your feet.

What have you done?

A life?

A life is gone for you and for the game?

How did you do this?

Ah! She whispers.

No man may resist my calling.

I am Labrys, eater of kings.

Now the world turns backwards.

Slowly, the Green Man rises,

gets up from his knees.

Reaches down to grasp the head and holds it on his arm.

Hast made me a body shorter, laughs the head.

And saying so the body leaps lightly to the saddle.

The green horse turns,

the man reaches down

and plucks the Labrys from your grasp.

She goes lightly, laughing,

returning to her lover.

In one year’s time, the head informs you.

In one year’s time.

And out into the snow they ride.

The doors fall to behind them.


It seems forever since you heard the sea.

The dessert rises and falls before you and behind you.

Is there no thing in all this wasteland?

Your horse carries you forward.

It is long since you had the wit to direct him and he knows,

he knows where you must go.

Mist rises.

A shimmering tower spins before you.

A thing has come to you in all this wasteland.

Will you enter in?

Your horse walks on,

carrying you forward willy, nilly,

into the spinning mist.

You try to close your eyes but yet again they fail you,

forcing you to see.

The mist glows golden.

The light stills.

Warmth and moisture surround you.

Looking now you find yourself within a castle yard.

Silence reigns.

Your breath is stilled, halts in your throat.

What is this place?

A footstep sounds behind you.

Dare you turn?

You must.

Step down sir knight, he tells you.

You have traveled a goodly way.

Come in! Come in! I welcome you.

You climb down, weary,

the earth shudders as your feet hit ground.

Your horse walks over to a stall and is content.

Come in! He says again and turns towards the Hall.

You follow him.

There is a lady, dark and fair, with raven hair.

Green eyes melt you.

Sitting now, you hold the wooden table hard,

fearing to float again,

the Hall will melt and you be

falling, falling, falling.

She brings you food, wine.

Leads you to a fair chamber.

Takes off your armour, like a page

and helps you into bed.

Sleep! She says.

The touch of her hand on your brow is all you know till morning.

Come! He says.

I would go hunting.

I cannot, you reply.

I must go on to the Green Chapel.

I have promised.

I know, he says.

And I can show you your way when your time is come.

Now, while we wait let us have sport.

I am weary, you tell him.

Aye! Then I will hunt about the forest

and whatever I bring home I will give to you.

You will be here

and whatever you find during the day

you will give to me in exchange.

Agreed, you say, wearily, just wanting to be still.

Later, the Lady comes to you.

Anoints your head and leaves you then to sleep again,

giving you only one kiss.

At eventide he comes.

On his shoulder is a fine stag.

See, he says, what the gods have given me today.

How did you fare?

You take him by the shoulders and plant a kiss upon his brow.

Next day again you lie abed.

The Lady comes.

Her breath is honey and roses,

her skin like a peach, her hands cool.

You melt within her eyes.

She pours the unguent on your head.

Bending down she kisses you on the lips.

The taste of sweet wine lingers all the day.

At eventide he comes.

A fine boar on his shoulder.

See, he says, what the gods have given me today.

How did you fare?

You take him by the shoulders and plant a kiss upon his lips.

Next day you lie abed again.

The Lady sits with you.

I know your quest she says and you will fail but for me.

Take this girdle now and hide it next your heart.

When your moment comes none shall harm thee.

She kisses your lips and leaves.

You hide the green girdle deep within your shirt.

At eventide he comes.

A bright red fox over his shoulder.

See, he says, what the gods have given me today.

How did you fare?

Again you take him by the shoulders and plant a kiss upon his lips.

This night he looks at you,

a smile hovers over his mouth.

His lady too looks up from under her eyelids and almost smiles.

You eat bravely, for tomorrow is your day.

The morning is bright.

Your horse is rested,

stamping, champing, restive, on the go.

You climb aboard and touch your breast.

A smile breaks out upon the Lord and Lady’s faces.

Go forth, they cheer you on.

Your horse knows the way.

All the luck of the morning be with thee.

And they turn, take hands and go within the hall.

The shimmering mist surrounds you.

Coming out you find yourself in deep forest.

Trees arch and bow over your head,

the bracken stirs about your horses hooves.

The smell of autumn.

Pacing on, the track brings you up and up

and suddenly you come out in the grove.

Towering mountains spy between the trees.

Before you is the Green Chapel.

Slowly you climb down.

Some thing whispers, Welcome! Come in! Come in!

The earth feels soft and gentle beneath your feet.

You walk into the chapel.


You know that voice.

And wouldst thou game with me?

For I would game, now, at the turning of the year.

And I would game with kings!

You turn and come out through the door.


It slams behind you.

He is there.

Green silk reins, bridle, green-gold bit.

Green hands emerge from silken green-sleeves,

one holds a bunch of holly.

The other holds the Labrys.

Your eyes travel up to find the face, crowned with holly.

The green, green eyes hold you, freeze your blood.

It is my Lord.

My Lord of the spinning tower.

He smiles.

And down he climbs, down from the horse.

The earth rocks as his feet touch ground.

He stands before you.

It seems the grove turns on its axis,

the chapel spins.

You stand again in the eye of the storm,

wedded to your fate.

Slow and stately now he holds up the axe.

You kneel before Him, bow your head.

You can hear how Labrys whistles

and then screams for blood as he brings the blade down.


Nothing has happened.

You are still here.

Your head is on your shoulders.

That’s one! He cries and rises up the axe again.

And Labrys screams again.

You flinch and the blade nicks your neck.

Red blood flows.

Ha! He cries. That’s two.

Now be thee still for third time is the spell.

Labrys climbs the sky

and towers in the clouds above his head.

Down and down she screams, slicing the wind.

And nothing.

You still kneel upon the fallen leaves,

your head upon your shoulders.

Now show me! He demands.

Show me my lady’s gift.

Show me now as you did not the other night

but like the fox you hid from me.

And like the fox

I find you in the end.

With shaking hands you draw out the green girdle and offer it.

The light shimmers

and She is there beside him.

I will take back my own, she says

and takes the girdle,

runs it through her hands.

Hast earned it?

She turns to the Lord.

Aye, he says.

She holds it out to you again.

You did my bidding as I asked, she tells you.

The girdle is yours. Keep it close.

Call me, and I will come.

She turns now to the towering Lord,

standing a tip-toe she kisses him as he bends to her will.

The light shimmers

and she is gone.

Fires come down from the skies,

the winds tear through the grove.

The Man begins to laugh.

Laughing so, his body comes apart,

his face, his limbs.

All fly up swirling in the winds.

His body torn to shreds.

You find yourself

within a whirling vortex built of leaves.

Golden leaves, all shades of gold.

They surround you, hold you,

spin you with themselves.

Up you go,

into the eye of the storm.

Gawain, Gawain, tumbling down,

falling, falling, falling.

Here is a Hall. A King’s Hall.

The smell of smoldering peat and apple-wood,

of roast meats, old bones and wet dogs.

Where am I?

Here, says the voice inside your head.

Come in! Come in! I welcome you.

There is a lady, dark and fair, with raven hair.

Green eyes melt you.

Sitting now, you hold the wooden table hard,

fearing to float again,

the Hall will melt and you be

falling, falling, falling.

Tell me, says the King.

Tell me, says the Queen.

And you begin your tale …

Elen Sentier
… behind every gifted woman there’s usually a rather talented cat …
writer artist gardener shaman
My Blog
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Celtic shaman – Elen Sentier Coughing up bones …

Ogham – Tinne: Holly

400 yr old Holly at Greencombe, Porlock

T – Tinne: Holly

The Moon-month for Tinne runs from 8 Jul – 4 Aug

The holly tree at Greencombe, Porlock, Exmoor, is anciet and very magical. I’ve sat within his multi-stemmed grove and dreamed several times.

Holly is the tree of the Tánaiste – the twin and often the killer of the king.

What is a Tánaiste?

This is from wiki and may surprise you J …

The Tánaiste (Irish pronunciation: [ˈtɑːnəʃtʲə]; plural: Tánaistí [ˈtɑːnəʃtʲiː]), or, more formally, An Tánaiste[2], is the deputy prime minister of Ireland. The Taoiseach (prime minister) nominates a member of the government to the position of Tánaiste. The current Tánaiste is Mary Coughlan, TD. TánaisteIrish word for the heir of the chief ( was originally the taoiseach) or king (rí), under the Gaelic system of tanistry. Before independence, the British Viceroy was sometimes referred to in the Irish language as An Tánaiste-Ri, literally ‘the deputy king’.

The office was created in the 1937 Constitution of Ireland, replacing the previous office of Vice-President of the Executive Council that had existed under the Free State constitution. The Tánaiste acts in the place of the Taoiseach during his or her temporary absence, and, until a successor has been appointed, in the event of the Taoiseach’s death or permanent incapacitation.

Holly berries

However, the role of Tánaiste is far older than 1937.  Two of the most famous holders of the office are Gawain who was Arthur’s Tánaiste and Gronw who was Tánaiste to Llew Llaw Gyffes. In the latter case Gronw is called to kill Llew in order to open him from being a personality-oriented brat so that he can become king, it is part of Blodeuwedd’s training of him. Blodeuwedd is the Queen of the Night and Lady of Dreams who agreed to inhabit the body made for her from nine flowers by Math and Gwydion in order to find a wife for Llew.

This is a complex story that has been much dumbed-down by Victorian and later writers who have made Blodeuwedd to be a soulless, heartless trollop who cheats on her man. Such is not at all the case. Blodeuwedd is a powerful goddess and initiator, a king-maker, one who draws us from the illusion of form into the reality of essence. Her totem, the owl, is the wise bird of legend, one who can see in the dark and the barn owl – with the heart-shaped face assigned to Blodeuwedd – is able to fly silently and to pinpoint the smallest sound with her incredible hearing. Ponder on the symbology of all that for a goddess … and for what she can see and draw out of you.

Back to the Tánaiste … the wiki piece above says the Tánaiste was the deputy-king, and indeed that was so, but what does it mean and how is it relevant to us?

second-in-command, assistant, agent, representative, helper, supporter, envoy, emissary, ambassador, negotiator, mediator … these are some of the offerings for the word deputy from the Thesaurus. All are relevant and pondering on them will give you more of an idea of what it is to be Tánaiste. Both Gawain and Gronw are these to their respective kings.

I recently gave you the story of Ragnall’s Wedding where Gawain takes on the job of marrying Ragnall in her hag-form in order to get the answer to the questions “What do women most desire?”, and so save Arthur’s life. It’s a wonderful story and shows what all beings, creatures, people want … the ability to choose. Gawain is vital to this as are his qualities of perception and generosity, and his willingness to ask, to hand over decisions to another when appropriate.

Gronw usually suffers badly at the hands of story-tellers, becoming the cuckolder, the stealer of another man’s wife, the nasty piece of work. He’s none of these things. Without him, Llew would continue in his hunting and pleasuring and never take the slightest care of the Land … and for the Celts, the Land is the Goddess who is our whole care and duty. You can see Llew, until Gronw speared him, was a complete waste of space as far as being guardian to the goddess was concerned!

Robert Graves gives the line for Tinne, in the Song of Amergin as …

I am a Spear: that roars for blood

This is the spear that Gronw makes, with Blodeuwedd’s help, in order to drink the blood and pierce the ego of Llew, so drawing him into his totem, the eagle, and forcing him into aloneness in the wilderness of the eagle-mountain, Mother Snowdon, to find himself as king. Without Gronw spearing him he would have been useless.

Often, the Tánaiste is also the “twin”, and his twin’s executioner as Gronw is in the this story. There are many Celtic stories of  twins, usually a dark one and a light one … the ubiquitous two sides of one coin that permeates the whole of the Celtic tradition.

These two heads are the same … if you turn one upside-down you get the other. They were inscribed on coins from the Celtic period.

The relationship of Tánaiste to king is like this, they are two sides of one coin.


There is much lore about holly in the British tradition and it is a magnificent tree if allowed to grow to its full height, often 50ft.

Holly King by Christopher Bell

In Celtic grammarye the Holly King is the Green Knight of “Gawain and the Green Knight”. Gawain is Arthur’s Tánaiste who, as we’ve seen, takes the king’s place in dangerous adventures. You’ll remember the story of the Green Knight coming to Arthur’s hall at Yule, carrying a holly bush as his totem, and demanding to be beheaded? Gawain complies and so incurs the duty to find the Green Knight again and allow himself to be beheaded in his turn.

I’ll do the story later.

Holly is also sacred to Llew and one of the Celtic symbols for this tree is the Flaming Spear … after Gronw’s spear that transmuted him from boy into king.

Holly is the first moon of the dark half of the year – i.e. after the midsummer solstice when the days begin to get shorter again. This is significant of the mythos of the Oak King, slain by his twin, Tánaiste, the Holly King. The Holly King then rules until the midwinter solstice when he, in his turn, is slain by his Tánaiste, the Oak King. Oak and Holly are again two sides of the same coin, the end of one cycle being the beginning of the next.

The old yuletide carol – much older than Christmas – says, “of all the Trees that are in the Wood, the Holly bears the Crown” … a good thought to finish on.


Elen Sentier
… behind every gifted woman there’s usually a rather talented cat …
writer artist gardener shaman
My Blog
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Celtic shaman – Elen Sentier Coughing up bones …

Owl Spirits

They came in my teens, rustling feathers and taking up residence at the back of my already troubled mind. Drowning in unfamiliar hormones, ravaged with existential angst and doing all the things teenage folk do, this was just one insanity amongst many. I loved them, feared them, had no idea what to do with them. During A Level art I tried making owl plates in an Owl Service style, and taking owl figures from them, and sometimes that helped. I could feel the scrape of their talons, sharp along the edges of my psyche.

For a long time, the sense of owls in my head was tied up with everything I felt uneasy about. A complex, fledgling sexual identity for which I had no language, a knowledge of difference and an inherent pagan-ness I hadn’t yet found a way to explore. Too strong, too wild, too crazy and carefully trying not to get myself formally identified as insane, I did not feel safe about being an owl person for a long time.

Owls are night creatures. They are silent death, falling from the sky onto unsuspecting rodents. They swallow whole to avoid getting blood on their feathers and later cough up what they cannot digest. They are swift, lethal, beautiful. I’ve lain in the night listening to them calling from the nearby woods, a haunting sound, full of mystery and melancholy. Traditionally seen as a bit sinister, and considered bad luck if you encounter one by day, owls are challenging entities to work with. I’m a vegetarian, and more pacifist than not, but I am frequently drawn to predatory creatures.

Becoming more consciously pagan in my late teens, and learning a few handy techniques took me forwards. An opening up of my own creativity, and time spent meditating allowed me to get a lot more comfortable with the craziness in my head. I was particularly inspired by Emma Restall Orr’s ‘Druid Priestess’ which described a process of communing with other creatures and travelling with them, visualising yourself into their form. It is a form of shape shifting that (probably) happens in the mind, and I began to play with it, learning to find my wings.

Flight for me has always represented freedom, and now out of the fears of childhood, darkness feels like peace and comfort. To fly in darkness would be a lovely thing. Wind in my feathers. In Portland this year, I dreamed I was turning into an owl, which felt tremendously hopeful. A finding of wings and power.

Working with spirit is not precisely the same as working with the living, actual creature, although connecting with the latter helps the former process. It’s more about certain kinds of energy, ways of being and perceiving the world. The spirit of owl is traditionally associated with wisdom, but owls themselves aren’t excessively bright – much of their skull capacity is taken up with those huge eyes, and much of the brain is occupied with processing information from said eyes. To what extent our notions of the spirit essence of a thing is ‘real’ and to what extent just the externalising of human concepts, I can’t really say.

It wasn’t until I stopped being afraid of my own power, sexuality and craziness that the owls stopped being a source of fear and became allies. This was an important lesson. Fear puts up barriers and creates problems. Acceptance and openness paves the way to relationship and understanding. They no longer sharpen their talons inside my mind, and I have learned to close my eyes and take wing. They offer liberation, escape, and hope of better things. I do not know where they will take me next, but have no doubt it will be interesting.

Ancient Calendar: The Norse give us Sunday, The Celtics give us Tinne: July 8, 2010



The Norse step in today with an observance for Sunna, who happens to be their Goddess of the Sun. In many Germanic Traditions, she was called Frau Sonne and the day Sunday in their calendar, is actually named after her.

The Celtic Tree month of Tinne begins today, since Duir ended yesterday. Now I won’t bore you with my gibberish concerning Tinne because I actually found a very nice, neat, and well informative website on the matter. Whoever created this place, did more work than I could type up. Check It Out!


Thursday belongs to the deity Thunor, also known as Thor, who is the God of Agriculture and Thunder.


Thursday are Great for Dealing with Matters or Magical Spells & Rituals Concerning:

Passions & Desires—what do you want in your life?

Political Power—you can influence this for yourself or for what you desire on this day.

Speculating & Gambling—someone have a problem? Do you need help or luck?

Legal Matters, Treaties, Oaths—today is a great day to deal with these.

Harvests—perhaps you buy your food and this doesn’t;t matter to you but today you could make sure someone else has a good harvest. Maybe you could see to it that they have a meal for Thanksgiving?


Thursday represents The Planet Jupiter and The Element of Fire




Wyntress Nyght’s Supernatural Crack :

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