Mabon is coming

Mabon is coming. He started creeping in quietly through the side door, I hardly noticed him at all. His cool, soft breeze flowing through the hallway making curtains softly billow and doors that had been still for some time, creak from the gentle ebb they now found themselves in.

Mabon is coming. I first realised he was on his way when I felt the hairs on my forearms stand on end one morning as my bare feet hit the cold kitchen floor tiles…prickling suddenly as if to warn me of some silent danger. That’s how he makes me feel sometimes, as if he should come with a warning; a big sticky yellow and black label that says “It’s time… all change”. I filled my black kettle and put it on to boil while I fetched a jumper to release my skin from its sudden, and bumpy prison, and once I’d poured the clear, warmer-than-warm liquid into my favourite mug, thoughts of him disappeared once more. But not for long.

Mabon is coming. When the season changes and once more, the darkness stealthily takes over from the light. When transitions start to happen, slowly, without us noticing at first, until it’s too obvious to ignore. When the nights grow longer and the days shorter. When leaves start falling from the trees in the same way that we often start falling away from ourselves.

Mabon is coming. When what is no longer of service is released whether we like it or not. When the equilibrium must be restored, and with it the Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine are dragged into alignment so that we may be the very best version of ourselves. When the lessons that such an alignment requires, means we face painful truths and uncomfortable realities within ourselves, and there is no alternative to be had other than staying stuck in a Summer that no longer exists. So we face the pain, and sit in the truths, and we spend some time lost in thoughts of grief and loss, so that we may once again feel the light of the changing season fall upon our faces, and as we do so, we heal those parts of us that we didn’t know were still raw.

Mabon is coming. When the outside reflects the inside, and the inside reflects the out. A journey with nature to perfect balance…human and earthly. Gentle in his arrival but sometimes brutal in his delivery of the changes that must come now. And come they do; what once were gentle nudges in the right direction become more forceful prods into the paths that we may have been choosing to shy away from, and as the leaves turn and fall and the flowers fade and seed, we are reminded of the perpetual cycle of life and how in order to blossom again, we must first take stock and shed the layers that won’t withstand another Winter.

Mabon is coming. When the slightest changes can seem like a mountain to climb but with the reassuring force of his wind against your back pushing you forwards, you know deep within that the peak can be reached, and that once you get there, the view will be filled with a carpet of crispy, brown and ochre leaves, and a horizon so clear that you’ll be able to see the next Spring to come.

Mabon is coming… don’t be fooled by his silent footsteps, or scared of the truths and places he will show you, for this is your time too, and once he is done, you will be ready for Winter, and all that comes with it.

For Maggie x


Rose Water

Little bits of crumbling mortar from the red brick outhouse lay sprinkled on the floor inside. No artificial light flooded the small square room; only a dirty shadow fell in through the tiny side window, making the atmosphere low and shadowy. The half-eaten-away 4 plank door creaked slowly as it swung on its rusty hinges, it’s lead paint old and weather beaten, causing it to decorate the outside pathway with a flurry of black flakes. Cobwebs filled the corners, and the concrete floor gently rustled with every placement of my small feet. This was not a place of conventional beauty, but to me, it was beautiful no less… it held its own against the pristine guttering of the house who’s garden it stood in, and the perfectly manicured hedge and driveway that ran alongside it.

Pale pink roses flanked the side of the garden, their soft, gentle petals falling to the floor with grace when it was their time. Darker pink dog roses weaved their way through the privet hedge, finding what escape they could to burst into life. Their dark yellow stamens reaching out as if grasping for more air, and their smaller, but more intensely coloured petals falling to rest with their velvety cousins, forming the prettiest of blankets.

I always waited until it had rained; somehow the freshness in the air, and the puddles that formed in the cup-like petals seemed just right.

The empty glass jars I’d been collecting for two weeks stood waiting for me. Their labels and contents now removed, and the thick glass sides, and metal lids bare; empty vessels waiting for their next purpose.

“Put your shoes on” she’d say firmly, all the while knowing her request was futile. It was a mantra she knew all too well, and one that fell on deaf ears and a stubborn heart.

“Ok” I’d say, as I picked up my shiny clear collection and an old wooden spoon, and step outside onto the cool, damp floor. My naked feet feeling every inch of the ground beneath me, almost sighing as I placed them in the fresh rainwater puddles I purposefully sought out. Toes wriggling for a second…just enough to feel the splash of the water between them and make my mouth reach wide across my face in the happiest of smiles.

The latch on the door clunked it’s familiar and pleasing clunk as I pressed it and stepped inside. On other days I would stand and raise it up and down, my thumb pressing against it’s round metal pad over and over, examining its workings and listening to it’s sound like it was the most mystical of things, but not today. The air was thicker due to the rain, it laid heavy like a cloak but was comforting in a way I didn’t understand. More dislodged mortar was falling from inside the small chimney, and the sound of it hitting the floor echoed slightly. Sometimes the tiny fragments would bounce in my direction and I’d feel them tickle the tops of my feet. As I moved around I’d find them once again, but this time with my bare soles, and I’d have to adjust my weight so as to avoid the “I told you to put your shoes on” sentence that would be administered with love and a fresh plaster. The glass jars were now lined up in a row on the Victorian cold shelf that ran adjacent to the four-pane tiny window, with its wafer thin glass and rotten wooden frame, their lids placed neatly behind them.

“Why is it called a cold shelf?” I used to ask myself as I felt the shiny black bricks emit their wintery temperature through my thin skirt onto the tops of my thighs. The thought never stayed long enough to be considered properly, and I carried on preparing; my excitement building with every next step of the ritual completed.

The thick black downpipe ended its journey in the mouth of a greedy rain collector. The huge wooden barrel with its cast iron stripes, stood full to the brim with the liquid that fell from the skies. I took off it’s thick, rough, rubber lid, and plunged in my watering can, and as I did so, the surface rippled, it’s tranquil moment ruined by an external force it wasn’t expecting. As my lily white hand grew cold from being submerged in nature’s nectar, I’d watch tiny wriggling creatures flitting around in the deep darkness as if searching for something, and yet seemingly never reaching their unknown destination. With a full can, I’d cross the pathway back to the old outhouse, and place it on the hard, crumb covered floor underneath the sturdy shelf.

My heart would start beating like a butterfly’s wings. I’d feel it so clearly in my chest as I’d hurriedly skip outside again to the opposite side of the garden. The beautiful blanket of rose petals laid silently in front of me, some older than others, but all still wonderous to me. I’d crouch down, sitting my bottom on my now dirt sprinkled ankles, and gently start picking them up, choosing carefully which ones held the most frangrance, or had the perfect colour for my needs. As my hands filled, the teardrops of water that lay in their bowl-like shapes made them heavier than they were used to, and some of them stuck to my skin. It was hard to see where they stopped and I began, their colour almost matching the youthful tone of my arm, and the transparency from the wet making them more like skin than my own. Satisfied, and with my arms full of fluffy pink clouds, I’d carefully make my way to the open door of the outhouse. Unlike the first time I did it, I’d left space for the roses so that they didn’t spill onto the dirty floor and get tainted by dust.

With my practice perfected, I’d pour nature’s magic water into the awaiting glass jars, eventually filling them all half full so that I’d have room to add the petals effectively, but before that, filling them all at different levels so I could run my fingertip around the top of each one, or hit it gently with the spoon, and see what noise they would emit. It rarely worked well, but I did it anyway.

With each clear jar half filled with water (that had a strange yet enchanting shade of natural about it), I’d pick up the soft rounds of the roses and lovingly sink them into their new homes. Every now and then I’d find a particularly beautiful one and would stop to repeatedly roll my thumb over its perfect surface, feeling it under my skin and taking a breath so deep my now cold toes would tingle. As the jar’s bellies grew full, I’d use the handle of the old wooden spoon (always the same one; the thinnest one that looked like it belonged in the same era as the outhouse itself, and the only one that it ever crossed my mind to use) and push the fleshy contents under the water, taking away their air, but giving them the opportunity of a beautiful rebirth. Watching them closely, I’d notice crease lines turning a mild ochre colour, like the petals themselves suddenly developed new veins to help them breathe in their new liquid filled houses. Once full, I’d whisper a little poem into the top of the jar, consuming the heady yet subtle scent of roses and rain before tenderly screwing the metal lid on, and labelling the jar with a pen whose residence was with the dust, and the silent weavers of the cobwebs. And all of a sudden, it was done, and there would be a line of jars all neatly lidded and marked in my big, bouncy hand writing;

“Rose Water”

Jars filled, and time passed, and yet it seemed to stand still for me. Every second I was there I’d feel myself more consumed by this wild practice that came from deep within my bones, loving every moment, taking consummate care of my ingredients, and paying such attention to my craft and yet not even knowing the magic I was creating in that little shed.

I don’t know why I ever decided to make potions, or when exactly the first time was, but I was very young, and I do know that it wasn’t just something I did for fun like most children. There was always something so magical about the whole process that made my small heart race and my eyes sparkle and widen. It was more than “a thing children do”, it made my soul soar and I felt a deep and ancient wisdom coming to life within me that I couldn’t have possibly comprehended back then.

With my feet cold and wet from the constant tooing and froing between the garden and the shed, my heart so happy it felt like it could burst, and my soul replenished, I’d go through the back door into the house with the wooden spoon from a bygone era in my hand, and whilst I dried off and tried to cover up any minor injuries to my bare soles, I’d work out what I was going to do with my stockpile of Rose Water when it was ready; steeped in a magic that, back then, I didn’t even know I’d created.


Soft and gentle like the velvety petals of the biggest of roses in bloom. Your subtle and yet intoxicating scent catches the air… it dances in the breeze leaving a map of the path you’ve been walking.

Love trails in your wake, every action risen from the words that fill your thoughts day in, day out …

“What would love do…What would love do?”

Vulnerable and fragile like the finest of papers waiting for an ink stain to flood its surface. Your open and willing heart ready to accept the changes that are coming for you, good or bad, for you know that through acceptance and gratitude, even the most unwanted of ink blots can transform into the most beautiful of images.

Strong and powerful like the fiercest of storms. Never underestimating your capabilities, for you know that you can rise up…not against those that might harm you, but for yourself, and all that you now stand for. You will protect your honour, and stand your ground without fear, for you have withstood the harshest of winters before, and know how to harness your own power now.

Honest and pure like the words of a small child who hasn’t learn the complexities of emotion yet. Your capacity to trust and be trusted has not been tainted by those in the past who have used you for their own gain, despite the pain that might have caused…here you are, still as crystal clear, and your truth flowing just as easily, as the freshest of mountain spring water.

Sensual and full of feeling like tender arms wrapped gently but firmly around you after hours of love making by someone who’s soul deeply knows yours. Your passionate nature and wild spirit giving all that you are to the ones that you love, with no expectation of anything other than what “is” right now.

Determined and consistent like the passing of time, never slowing or faltering, always just “being” … ticking away silently. Your strength of character carrying you through the more challenging moments, like a mother carries her child, knowing that one day soon these moments will be nothing but a memory that reminds you just how far you’ve come on this beautiful journey you’re on.

And in all of these things, it plays in your head on repeat…

“What would love do?”

Let me tell you…

Love would tell you that you’re a Goddess. It would surround you, kiss you, scoop you up in its arms, and speak nothing but affirmations of how beautiful you really are into your ear.

It would hold space for you, nurture you, support you and advocate for you in all things.

It would remind you that you are human too, and in those moments that you think you forget who you are, it would show you that it still sees you…that you’re still right there, and that “there” is exactly where you are meant to be.

It would shout you from the rooftops, lift you high and show you to the world just as you are. It would celebrate you in every possible way, and when you asked yourself again what love would do, as is your way, it would softly whisper back to you …

“Love, would do exactly as you do, Woman.”


You saw my light; you flew to it like a moth flies to an illuminated window in the nights darkness. I allowed you in, and let you take what you needed to fuel your insatiable appetite for your own selfish wants, and as you feasted on all that I gave you I started to forget my own name, and my light started to dim.

“Who needs a name anyway?” I’d ask myself daily as the letters started to fade from my memory… and with the death of each one, you got stronger, and I felt weaker.

And then one day I awoke with only one vowel left … that 23 letter name that I’ve never managed to fit into a signature box, became a single mark, and you thought you’d managed to finally keep what was left of my light as your own life source. But what you didn’t understand, was that a light like mine can’t be completely taken, and that for all that time I had clung on to the most important letter of all…

I …took my freedom back

I …turned my shame into fuel

I …built myself up

I …made bullet proof plans

I …turned off the mother fucking lightbulb in the window, and shut the fucking blind

I …left you outside and went deep within myself

And with time I turned my light back up so fucking much that no other human being would ever be able to draw from it unless they had an equal amount of their own light to bring.

The letters of my name slowly reformed, and each one that did shone brighter than it ever had. I heard my name ring in my ears over and over, and eventually it formed into a song that I won’t ever forget again… a song that I love to sing without changing any of the fucking words.

I … hope you find some peace this lifetime

I … forgive you, and I forgive myself too

I … hope there is some rest for your soul one day, but most of all…

I … thank you for forcing me to create the best fucking song I’ll ever sing.

Take me back

Take me back to the place that my soul longs for; where the grassy hills rise into vast mountains that fill the horizon, and all I can hear is the call of my name being whispered by the trees. Where the paths are mainly untrodden and take me on a journey into the unknown wilderness of my own self. Where there are no journeys except the ones I want to take; purposefully setting one foot in front of another, filling my lungs with the heather filled air and remembering…always remembering.

Take me back to the place where, with my bare feet planted on the ground, I am instantly and fiercely connected to all that I am, and all that I ever have been. Where the power of Mother Earth surges through my core, I am no longer separate from her, and she reminds me of the infinate possibilities that lay ahead of me.

Take me back to the place where the sky doesn’t end and the edges between dimensions are blurred. Where I can lift my arms to the cloud filled blueness and open my heart to receive all that is waiting to be given; allowing it to nourish me from the inside out, and give me exactly what I’ve needed ever since I was last exposed to it’s raw power.

Take me back to the place that I left a thousand years ago; the place that chose never to forget me even though I sometimes couldn’t remember her. Where the music of the land floods my ears with it’s haunting, ethereal beauty and there is no sound that I am afraid to hear.

Take me back to the place where the water is sacred and lays in swathes of deep, nourishing basins. Where the smallest of ripples lovingly affects the furthest steady surface, and doesn’t resist its duty to begin a cycle of change that affects its being.

Take me back to the place where the ancient oaks stand. Where the jougs that once kept me hostage can do so no longer for you have the key, and the bondage of times past is undone…as it was always meant to be.

Take me back to the place where the sun often lays low and the damp fills the air. Where I can stand baring my sometimes fragile soul, and let it be replenshined by the cool rain as it lands on my skin, and runs down my face like tears that have been waiting to be shed all these lifetimes.

Take me back to the place where it all began. Where it will always be for me. To the place that I don’t know how to be without. Where my magic is sourced, and will always draw its greatest strength from.

Take me back to where we lost each other all those lives ago, so that we might find more of each other’s depths, and finally complete the circle. Where we can find the scent of home within each other even in our darkest moments, and know that it won’t ever be taken from us again.

Take me back to the place that haunts my dreams and fills my waking thoughts. Where the landscape is unknown to my eyes but is seen by my soul, and feels as much a part of me as the intricate patterns on my fingertips.

Take me back for I have never truly left, and I want to remember fully now.

Marmalade Mornings

Can we talk in the morning? Can you whisper soothing words to my soul whilst I’m still half asleep curled up in your arms, bringing me into the new day with calm serenity and grateful heart that’s full of love?

Can we talk in the morning when you fill my ears with words of all the ways you love me even when I can’t love myself? Can you pour love into my heart so it knows what it is to be lovingly held by someone else other than itself?

Can we talk in the morning when I am rested and I remember that the present is all that matters, and we are here, now, in this beautiful story, together?

Can we talk in the morning? Can you speak to me without words, so that I may hear the things your soul wants to say from just the touch of your fingers on my skin?

Can we talk in the morning when I open my eyes and remember that you have chosen to be here next to me? So that I can tell you how blessed I am, for the millionth time, and watch your mouth as it turns upwards into that smile I love so much.

Can we talk in the morning when I can look into your freshly sparkling eyes and swim in your beautiful soul for the first time of many that day? So that you feel me as part of you, and I feel you as part of me.

Can we talk in the morning, when the marmalade is waiting, and it’s thick cut, sticky sweetness reminds me that the road isn’t always smooth but that there is beauty in the bumpy bits too. That the glue that keeps us together sometimes has unexpected, but tasty morsels hidden within it, that can be just as savoured once they are accepted as part of the whole.

Can we talk in the morning when I start another day of remembering you? When we both have the chance to choose each other again. When we both get another day of loving each other more than the day before. When I can see the glimmer from within you and watch it grow brighter once more.

Can we talk in the morning? When the sound of you brushing your teeth and your shower running, brings warmth to my entire being, for its at that moment I rediscover the gift of being the one that shares this space with you?

Can we talk in the morning when tonight’s dancing is done and a new song is playing? When this conversation is still lingering but isn’t in the moment. Loving you in the now isn’t like loving you back then, and I want to be present in every minute that I do so.

So, my love, talk to me now, as you always do, in all of these ways, but …can we talk again in the morning?

Letters from Ra

Show me your wounds and I will heal them with my love; not so you are completely unblemished, but with enough of a scar to keep you aware of your lessons.

Tell me your fears and I will bring them into the light; not so much that you are neglectfully fearless, but enough that you are no longer afraid to move forwards.

Give me your pain and I will replace it with radiant light so that you forget how it felt to carry it; not so much that you take your life for granted, but enough that you can breath freely again.

Whisper me your needs so that I may give you the resources to feel that they are met; not so you always get your way, but enough for you to feel heard, cherished and loved.

Ask for guidance so I may fill you with my ancient knowledge; not so much that you are overwhelmed, but enough for you to go out into the world and teach those who are willing to listen.

Accept my Divine light so I may illuminate your beautiful soul for others to see; not so much that they are blinded, or your ego is built, but enough that they, and you, understand your worth.

Look upwards, search for my warmth and let it fall on your face; not so much that you are never cold, but enough that when the cool breeze blows across you, you are grateful for it, and give it thanks.

Surrender to receiving my infinite power; not so much that nothing ever knocks you down, but enough that you always have the strength to rise again, no matter what faces you.

Search for my fire and I will be there; not so much that you can’t see any other way, but enough that the path is always clearly lit. For I may not always be seen by you, but I am always present…and witnessing you travel around me one cycle at a time is a blessing that is bestowed upon us both.

Above all… remember to cherish the sacred miracle that is your life, for you were gifted to this world for a reason. Your soul is fuelled by my brightly burning fires and replenished by the waters of the Moon, and there is great cosmic beauty in us both, but the greatest divine, sacred and cosmic beauty of all, is that which our gaze falls upon when we search for you.