Finding

Dogs, books and the past

I was at the Arthur Findlay Spiritual College (also affectionately known as Hogwarts) last week for their “Open Week”, which actually runs for a total of four days. I went with one of my Soul Sisters, as the other two dropped out. One has been suffering a serious bout of ill health and the other has been submerged in a pit of grief due to the death of her father and, less than six months later, her mother, then unexpectedly, her best friend. These things really put a spotlight on the vulnerability of being human, even with the benefit of being light-workers, there’s still stuff to deal with. Nevertheless, with brighter days and warmer weather arriving, things are improving for them both.

At the College, I attended workshops and tutorials, which were as diverse in style as the individuals running them. The subjects weren’t confined to spiritualism and physic sciences. I went to classes on Shamanic Dreams, Energy Fields, Mind Power and Music in Mediumship to name a few. I now have the titles of some books that I would like to read and a play list of beautiful music, including a Hindu Prayer and a Buddhist Peace Chant.

The village Book Club had “Wuthering Heights” as its selection for the month. I have read it twice before and this return visit confirmed that I find it gloomy. I originally read it as a teenager, because the film (starring Laurence Olivier) was scheduled for screening on television, but my mother wouldn’t let me watch it, because it wasn’t a “children’s film”. I read the book again a couple of decades later and found it far less romantic than I had first thought. I finally finished it this time, since I was finding it a bit of a struggle, one night when I couldn’t sleep, whilst staying at a motel near Hogwarts.

The book I’m currently reading for interest, rather than pure pleasure, is “Fingerprints of the Gods” by Graham Hancock, which was a bestseller in 1995. The reason I picked it up again is that my younger son, Jack, and I were talking about the purpose of the pyramids, Tesla’s theories on power generation and whether there could be a directing mind beyond the confines of Earth. He mentioned several books that he had listened to in audio format, including Hancock’s, and I said that I had a paperback copy somewhere. He has asked to borrow it after I’ve finished reading it.

Jack has swapped digging holes, with big machines, for driving to earn a living. Whilst he is out on the roads, he listens to audio books and podcasts, rather than music. I think there are some things he listens to that have the whiff of conspiracy theory about them, but he is sensible enough or sufficiently grounded enough to know that some knowledge has been lost and only fragments of the past can be truly known.

In East Anglia, the Horse Chestnut trees are in full bloom with their creamy, shell pink candles adorning the branches. Whilst bright yellow rape plants compete with the soft paleness of our native cow parsley on the verges. The former has escaped the confines of the farmer’s fields after decades of being grown as a cash crop. The hawthorn is also in blossom, shining bright white against the steel blue sky. The wind is strong, the pollen count high and my hayfever is running wild – welcome to my world!

Ruby, the Beagle princess, was an escapee this week too. She decided to go on an adventure, after she squeezed past David, as he took the lawnmower out through the side gate. His intention was to mow the ditch that separates our property from the road, which he has been doing for ten years now. He continues to do it, despite the UK Highways Agency laying claim to the ditch, recently. Anyway, he didn’t do any mowing until the following day, because Ruby had trotted off on an independent journey.

David spent the morning searching for the dog. In fact, he walked miles and only stopped when he had a large blister on his foot. I searched as well and so did the lad from next door and the neighbour across the road. We took separate routes along the paths where she normally goes on her walks, but she wasn’t over the [disused] airfield, nor down Blue Jays Path, nor waiting outside the village shop. I thought I heard her barking in the farmer’s field behind our back fence, so we decided to circle around, meeting somewhere in the middle. She didn’t come when we called her name and totally ignored the rustling of her dog treat bag, which is generally guaranteed to have her sitting on your feet.

I wasn’t worried, because my instinct wasn’t alerting me to anything untoward, but David had a need to keep on looking. I suggested he take the car and drive out of the village on a rarely used circuit. Molly our old dog loved to walk miles and this was one of her favourite outings, but Ruby isn’t so keen, so it was a long shot. She wasn’t there. However, when David parked the car by the garage on the site where we are building the eco house, Ruby was sitting on the concrete slab, which forms the foundations. She happily trotted up to him when he whistled. We are glad to have the little minx home.

My poem this week is about an actual candle and not tree blossom, although the underlying thought is about more than a physical object. It comes from my sixth collection, which is called “Tender Storms”.

CANDLE FLAME
Atop the lighted candle
is a dancing yellow flame,
swaying slowly
as the wick burns lower.

The milky white candle shines
against the glow of the light,
a last few moments of glory
before dying out.