holywell spring, eastbourne… a few days back on the cusp of st brigids
water drips down, seeping through rock, across foilage, chalybeate, i gather in the cup of my outstretched palms, then sip… in my heart, a simple clear summoning, of those in need of healing
…tho in truth, such the loong dirge of winter, we could all do with the balm
I love this unadorned form of folk religion, you see it in india everywhere, else in the piled cairns of stones along the camino
world teems with the sacred… earth, air, fire, water… spirit swirls throughout, yet coalesces in the particular
the belief that this ancient tree is sacred, else, here, where water oozes from the land, a spirit dwells
its diy ethos, ‘this is how i wish to worship’, taken back from books, stepped away from temples, this kitsch intimate sweetness… gods, goddeses, ours
and the gaurdian of this well?
today, i ‘see’ her, the pink Rose bloomed at the heart centre… lithe movement, as water flows… hair, green from frond and foilage… shining white as chalk, shining silver as water
i find one smoothe, flat pebble from the beach, tongue stuck out with reverse jenga concentration, carefully place it atop the pile
love and blessings for all beings
