Many of you will know about inktober where individuals are encouraged to draw something each day that fits a particular prompt. This year I’m joining in with a variant called Witchtober with prompts from @saffrussellart and @jacquilovesey. I’ve never done anything like this and I’ve had encouragement to give it a go from the ever wonderful Tom and Nimue Brown.
I’ve been posting most of my efforts so far on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook (mainly because my Instagram account is linked to my Facebook account). One effort, a poem has been posted on this blog. For me this has become a multi media art project as my efforts have now included poetry, modelling clay, paint and pencil.
I’m finding the process of doing this to be fascinating. I look at the prompts well before I try and do anything and I think about how I can express the theme. As…
I like to attune myself, imaginally, to significant moments in time, place and culture. I have always done this but I now think of it as an aspect of my Druidry. I have become more conscious about it.
Here I am contemplating an alignment of 1930’s Britain, Brean Down on the North Somerset coast (Bell Head in the book), and the occultist Dion Fortune. I am especially thinking of her determination to “bring back into modern life something that has been lost and forgotten and that is badly needed”. Rather than being a review of her book The Sea Priestess (1), this post is a reflection on spiritual ancestry, and an acknowledgement of her project’s success. As the publisher of the 2003 edition happily notes, “The Sea Priestess is a classic occult teaching novel with romantic overtones, and a foundation work for modern Wicca, paganism, and ritual magic”.
Yes I am writing a novel that is in Anglo Saxon Dartmoor. Here is the beginning. I will put a bit more on every week. It begins in south Dartmoor near present day South Brent.
It was summer when the dusty stranger came up the lane. Brunwaru saw him while milking one their brown-coloured ewes up on the moor and nearly forgot what she was doing. The ewe sensed this and Brunwaru grabbed the wooden pail before her leg knocked it. From where she was the stranger was a shape who moved in and out the shade from the hazel trees on the heavily worn lane. She stood up taking the bucket in one hand. The ewe was already going, calling in her throat to the other sheep on the rough lands. Brunwaru was heading down to the drift-way that left the moor for her home known as Badaworthy, trying…