Chapter Six

Two horses galloped side by side, kicking up dust into a cloud behind them. Their snorting, steaming noses were exactly in line; their necks strained in time with each other and their muscular chests contained the beating hearts within. Their hooves drummed the ground, ‘eight by eight, eight by eight’, sending rhythmic vibrations through the hard earth. Leather rubbed on leather, squeaking and stretching, and jangling metal rang like jailers’ keys as saddles and bridles held the riders to their beasts.

The race ended when the dry track ran out at the edge of the wood, and the horsemen pulled the heads of their horses in by the reins. They skidded to a halt, in a cloud of so much dust they couldn’t see each other, then coming around and finally stopping.

“I won!” shouted Roger, punching his gloved fist in the air.

“I don’t think so, my friend!” shouted back Thomas. “Neck and neck, methinks!”

They stared at each other with growling frowns then exploded into laughter, throwing their heads back with the exhilaration of contest.

“Come on, I’ll race you back for that leg of lamb and some good red wine from the cellar and we shall see who wins the race!” said Roger, as he gathered up his reins to start again.

“No, wait” said Thomas. “Let’s walk back along the river bank this time and let the horses stand in the water down by the bridge and drink. It’s unusually hot for a spring morning.”

Roger conceded and changed his hold on his horse’s rein. They turned into the trees and followed the narrow path winding through the wood, one behind the other, ducking to miss the overhanging branches of fresh green leaves. The floor of the wood was lush and thick with fresh wild flowers, their scent wafting like a magic potion in the air. A cuckoo called.

“He’s early this year.” Thomas observed. “We haven’t had the Blackthorn Winter yet: he’ll regret coming this soon. We haven’t had the early rains, either. Did you notice how low the river was when we came before?”

“And look at the earth: it is dry enough to be late summer, not early spring,” added Roger. “It’ll change, you’ll see, like it always does after the full moon.”

They came to the bridge just as a sparrow hawk swooped across their bows like an arrow loosed from its bow, and then disappeared ahead of them along the bank. “Hawk!” cried Roger, “Best keep our wits about us: the animals are speaking their messages to us this morning”

The two riders stayed mounted while the horses stepped into the cool, shallow edge of the river, and released their reins to let them drop their heads to drink. It was blissfully peaceful down there: the dappled shade from overhanging branches on the river bank and the glinting sunlight on the water was a backdrop of light and colour to the chorus of birdsong. Early bees were seeking out the new blossom flowers, drinking nectar in unrestrained pleasure.

“I had a dream last night,” said Thomas: “a message I have not interpreted yet. I dreamt I was in a cave, and outside I could see a figure. It was bent over, carrying a huge bundle of sticks. I could see she was a very old woman and I asked her if I could carry her sticks for her – you know me, always the knight in shining armour! She said she couldn’t possibly allow me to do that but there was something I could do for her. I said: ‘Anything, just tell me what!’ then suddenly she was a young girl, or rather, a young woman.

“What was it that she wanted you to do?” Roger said, curiously.

“I don’t know. That’s all I can remember.”

“Oh, I hate that, don’t you? When you only get half the message? Why can’t dreams just be more obvious and easier to fathom!”

As they chatted on, they failed to notice a crow flying overhead. It was collecting sticks for its nest, like every other bird that day and as it flew over the river, it dropped one into the water.

Chapter Seven

Brieze had walked and walked. It was relaxing and enjoyable walking along easy paths and level ground. She could look around her as she went, to enjoy the scenery and views, breathing in deeply and finding a comfortable rhythm to the pace of her step. The clean fresh air, perfumed by spring blossom and wild flowers filled her whole body with enthusiasm and vigour. After a long morning, she decided to rest, and eat something. She found a fallen tree-trunk where she could sit and look out over the valley below. ‘That’s a place I wouldn’t mind living in’, she thought absent-mindedly, opening her bag and taking out the honey bread. She closed her eyes and let herself relax while she was eating.

Her attention was suddenly taken by an impression that her bag was moving away from her and, opening her eyes, found a little black and white dog beside her, nose deep inside her bag and tail wagging fast enough to make the animal take flight. “Hey! Where did you spring from?” she said, pulling him out of her bag. She looked for a collar or a tag, but there wasn’t one. “What’s your name then, eh?” The dog woofed once and pricked his ears, then promptly sat back on his haunches and put one paw on her knee. “What do you want - my honey cake? I’m sure you do, but I can’t let you have any. I have a long way to go and you need to go home. Go on! Shoo! Go on! Go home!” She pointed to somewhere ‘out there’ to give him a clue. He took his paw off her knee, backed away a few yards and woofed again, just once. Then he went on down the path, nose to the ground and tail wagging. She immediately questioned herself ‘Why did I just do that? Why did I send him away?’ In the distance she heard a vixen call and immediately thought of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, and the nape of her neck tingled.

It was time to move on. She had to find somewhere to stay overnight, before sun-down. Walking briskly now, she covered a good few miles across the hills and then came down into a dip, where there was a small house. The oak trees here were grand old things, with bulging midriffs and knotted biceps and obscure shapes in the bark that looked like faces. The path she was on branched out, one way directing her towards the house and the other leading on back up to the hills. It was now early evening and down in the dip the light was shadowy and dark. The wind brushed past her in a hurry to get to somewhere else and she shivered. She walked cautiously towards the little stone house: its thatched roof hung right down over the windows in a wave shape, like heavy eye-lids, and the garden in front of it was like the floor of an outdoor room, laid out with old flag-stones. The edges of the stones were highlighted with creeping plants and little yellow flowers; spring bulbs were flowering in old pots, buckets and boxes, all around the small courtyard. There were overgrown bushes encircling the garden which meant Brieze had walked right up to it before she could see it properly. It had such a secret atmosphere about it she suddenly felt as though she was intruding. She felt out of place and wondered if she should move on. She was waiting behind a thick elderberry bush deciding what to do when a very small person appeared from the side of the house, walking towards the front door.

Her sense of being an intruder made Brieze duck down behind the bush and hide. She watched, peeping through the leaves, as this miniature person shuffled along then stopped by the door. It appeared to be an old woman but she was so enclosed in brown woollen shawls and skirts and a scarf over her head, it was hard to see. Brieze was put in mind of a hedgehog - all round and brown. Next, another very small person came around the corner of the house. He was not so round, more stick-like – tallish and slim, but just as brown: his hat, jacket and trousers acted as camouflage against the tree trunks and thatch and stones of the house. Brieze stared on, amazed at his white beard. It started from under his hat, went around his face, stretching from one ear to the other, completely hiding his mouth then trailed down his front right to his boots, thinning to a point. Only his weasel-like eyes and nose were just visible. He sniffed the air and looked in her direction and Brieze wondered if he sensed her presence. He was pushing an old wooden wheel-barrow filled with logs and stopped at the front door. They both unloaded the barrow into the porch of the house, stacking the logs against the wall. When the couple had finished, they disappeared, one behind the other through the front door. A little mouse followed them in and the door closed with a thud.

Brieze wondered what to do. She gauged her own height against the height of the front door and realised that she was too big to go in, so she moved quietly back along the path. The air was damp and cooling fast and filled with smells of moss and wood-smoke. There was a barn set back from the road where it divided and she decided that it may be a better option for her over-night accommodation. She walked up to it cautiously, on guard for the sudden appearance of any other small people and creeping in behind the tall main doors of the barn she decided she was right - it met her needs very satisfactorily. One side of the barn’s interior was filled with clean, dry straw and small bales of hay, while the other side was occupied by two small horses - so small that they only came up to Brieze’s waist. They turned their heads to look at her, flicking their ears forward and making low muzzling noises. In the corner was a stack of boxes filled with apples and carrots. The smells were comforting to her: apples, warm horses and hay. She took a small carrot to each of the horses to engage their co-operation in sharing rooms with her and then took an apple for herself. She made a nest for the night in the straw, pulling some over her as a blanket. Through the barn’s old timbers she could see wisps of dark clouds moving speedily across the old full moon, the light of which stretched across the floor of the barn in silvery ribbons. An owl called and Night arrived.

A cockerel, announcing that Dawn had brought the new day, roused Brieze out of her sleep; she hadn’t noticed Night passing by. After putting another apple into her bag for later, she patted the horses to say ‘Thanks; good to meet you; see you!’ and tip-toed out of the barn then walked on up the hill.

That morning the weather had changed. It was overcast and cooler, with a mischievous breeze. She pulled her coat around her to keep it from intruding and pressed on. She walked with purpose, across the hilltops, down through little villages in the dips and up again along the high tracks. The wind was behind her now, pushing her forward, which enabled her to make good progress. She noticed how her mood had changed: when she set off from Lizzy’s Tower, she felt no urgency, it felt like just a walk on a Sunday afternoon, but now, knowing she was coming into her third night, she felt more compelled to keep up a good pace. Instead of just walking she was walking to somewhere; she was going somewhere important and the next day or so may not be quite so easy. By late afternoon she had come to the entrance gates of the Castle Windharpe Estate and was very aware that she may start to find company. The gates were grand wrought-iron masterpieces, with twists and spirals and eagle finials. The footpath took her straight through them and her intuition told her she was right on track, and right on schedule. The wind had become noticeably more aggressive, and it was getting decidedly gloomy. Overhead, gathering clouds were threatening rain, so she decided to make camp for the night somewhere under cover. At the edge of the castle grounds there was a wood and in the wood she came across a small stone animal stall: three walls and a roof but open on the fourth side. ‘Perfect!’ she told herself, ‘just the job!’ She put her bag in the stall and went in search of fire-wood. There was plenty of dead wood lying around and, thankfully, it was all dry. She laid her coat on the ground and covered it with a good pile of small branches then pulled up the edges to contain it. She pulled the bundle up onto her back just as Thomas entered the wood. She had just reached the stall by the time he rounded the bend in the path. He pulled his horse to a standstill. Brieze froze in her tracks without turning around, not quite knowing what might happen next.

‘Can I help you with that bundle of sticks, my dear?’ called out Thomas in his very chivalrous voice.

“Er, well, er, yes, that’s very kind of you, Sir, but I’m sure I can manage. Thank you,” stuttered Brieze.

Thomas jumped off his horse and strode over to Brieze. He lifted the bundle off her back as though it was a feather and laid it down by the stall. Brieze exhaled her nervousness, not realising that she had been holding her breath until that moment. She turned and looked at Thomas and Thomas looked at her.

“Excuse me! I mean, pardon me, miss.” He lowered his head and swept an arm through the air in a bow, enjoying the chance to perform for a pretty face. “I don’t mean to pry but are you thinking of sleeping overnight in this stall? Are you on your own? Aren’t you rather young to be alone here? I don’t mean to be rude but you are not what I expected to find. I thought you were one of the peasants at first, but you are clearly not a peasant! You’re a stranger around here, are you not?”

“Which question would you like me to answer first, Sir?” Brieze smiled, very slightly. “I am on a journey, a mission if you like, and I was looking for shelter and warmth just for the night as the sky is about to deliver something very wet!

“Then you must come with me! You must stay overnight in the castle, not out here! Come, let me help you…” Thomas’s dream flashed across his mind in a realisation that this was it - he was in his dream! But what would happen next?

Sunrise June 24th 2008 approx 5.45am

Holwell, Dorset, England

love letter, whisper, political speech, inspiration, lies, poem, shopping list, thoughts, message in a bottle, story, birthday card, text message, last will and testimony, graffiti, story, news paper, meditaion, letter- heading, logo, epitaph, argument, gossip, dream, secret document, bill, label, testament, biography, advertisement, email, declaration, exam paper, encyclopaedia, history, song-sheet, cross-word, mantra, public notice, recording, prayer, data file, essay, … [CONTACT ME to add another]

In the beginning was the word….or so they say.

The spoken word is the sound of thought.

What did my thoughts sound like today?

Think before I speak…

If I have nothing valuable to say, I shall say nothing at all.

What are the next words I will say? What impact will they have on those who hear them?

What am I thinking to myself?

Where do my thoughts come from?

If my thoughts manifest according to their nature, what am I manifesting?

I think therefore I am.

Actions are better than words?

Are you having trouble with thoughts or words? CONTACT ME

What are your most powerful words?

‘Her Stories’, Story 1, Part iii

Chapter Five

It was dark and cool inside the tower, out of the warm morning sun, and now Brieze was inside, she relaxed again. Standing in the grand hall, recollecting the old musty smell, she looked up at the small slit window and watched the flecks of dust sparkling in the beam of sunlight streaming through the gap; it looked like a sprinkling of glitter dropped from above. It all looked the same as she remembered it: the dark oak settle against the wall and the old Persian rug on the floor. There was a small inset in

the wall behind her, in which was placed a copper bowl. She went over to it and, just as she remembered, found the bowl contained some water with rose petals floating on the surface. She dipped her fingers in the water and drew a cross and a circle on her fore-head. In the corner of the room there was a little door that led to the stairs and a thick blue, tasselled bell-pull beside it, hanging from a hole in the ceiling. She walked over to it, took the rope in both hands and pulled hard, once.

A clang resounded dully somewhere above her and then faded away. She waited. After a while, just when she was about to try again, the little door opened and out stepped Lizzy, just like a swarm of bees leaving the hive.

“Well, well, well! Hello my dear! How lovely to see you again! I had heard you were coming to visit me. How are you? And how is Tom? Did you get in alright? Yes, of course you did, you’re here, aren’t you! Silly me! Come on; come upstairs. Let’s go and have a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me all your news!”

Lizzy turned on her heels with a swoosh of her long, full, multi-coloured skirts, all puffed out with petticoats, and left a whiff of wood smoke, lavender and mothballs behind her as she stepped up the stone stairs again in front of Brieze.

Brieze loved Lizzy, so bizarre and funny without knowing it and Kindness herself. She watched Lizzy’s tiny feet as they climbed the stairs, tapping on the stone steps one after the other, and peeped at her blue and white striped stockings under her skirts. She followed her into the upstairs room which was as warm as summer and so bright Brieze had to shield her eyes for a second. The curtains, carpet and chairs were all patterned with colourful flowers and there were little vases of wild flowers in every available space: it was like being in the herbaceous border in Grandma’s garden.

“Sit down my lovely, over here next to my chair, and take the weight off your feet. Not that you are carrying any extra weight, are you? When did you last eat? Did you have breakfast this morning? No! I bet you didn’t. You girls! You just forget, don’t you? Other things on your minds, I know. Boys I don’t doubt. Here, look, I’ve got some tasty honey bread, just made, and some mint tea. Or would you like something else? Berry juice? Warm milk? No? Alright, maybe later! Have this to start with, I have plenty more where that came from, I can tell you. Can’t go without our honey bread, now can we?”

Brieze thought the old woman would never stop to draw breath but she knew there was no point in interrupting Lizzy until Lizzy had decided to direct her attention to her visitor.

“Now,” she said at last, “tell me how I can help you. What question do you have for me?” Her skirts deflated around her as she sunk into her chair; she picked up her cup and saucer and sipped her tea.

Brieze cleared her throat of honey bread crumbs and took a quick sip of tea, then said, “Lizzy, can you help us? We want to know what our Soul’s purpose is.”

Lizzy swallowed quickly with a little cough and filled her chest with air, her bosom rising several inches. “My! Goodness me! That’s an awfully big question for a young girl! Are you sure you’re ready to know such a thing? You know, it’s a great undertaking to seek such an important thing? You do realise that Old Saturn has to go around the Heavens and come back to the front door before you can be ready for these matters? Old Saturn is very strict about that, you know, he won’t have anyone jumping the gun!”

“It is time. My earthling has sent me to find out. She has come to her 28^th birthday and she is waiting for me to come and find the answer for her”. Brieze paused, eyes fixed on Lizzy’s face. There were small flowers decorating her grey hair, framing her kind, wrinkled face and she watched it, waiting for the moment when her mouth would move with the words she needed to hear.

“Mmm? Now let me see. I think I must take some advice on this. Let me just get my crystal orb.”

Lizzy’s skirts inflated again automatically as she stood up; she brushed some crumbs off her blouse onto her plate and put it down on the table, then went to a small cupboard over by the window and removed a large round object under a black velvet cloth from inside. Bringing it back with her, she returned to her chair, next to Brieze. She removed the cloth, folding it neatly to one side, and held a sparkling, midnight-blue crystal orb in both hands. Lizzy and Brieze both stared into its depths with the expectancy of children looking at a carefully wrapped present.

“I see your path goes on from here to the edge of the River of Sticks. There I see two knights who will take you on the next stage of your journey. You must go with them to meet a woman – yes, I can see her - in the City of The Martyr. She will show you what you need next to help your Earthling.”

“Oh, thank you!” Brieze paused. “There’s something else,” she said quietly. Lizzy looked up from the crystal orb, blinking. “When I crossed the bridge just now, I looked over into the water and my reflection told me that I would see what I saw before. It made me jump and I feel afraid. And why was the key not in its usual place?”

Lizzy frowned and stared back into her crystal orb. “Mmm. There is a problem. There are always many things that are changing in the world and sometimes the changes are difficult: always have been, always will be. It seems you may have to return to a time you have been in before to overcome some difficulties, but if you have learned all the things you have been taught, there could be something useful you can find for your Earthling. And the key? Well, since the Master sent the Janus Storm, we haven’t been able to find it. All the keys seem to have been blown away. I have taught the butterflies to show visitors how to open the door without the key. They are very clever, aren’t they? They are such willing helpers, but they are not here for long so I have to keep teaching the new ones. Now, first things first,” she said without ceremony. “Let’s get you on your way. I shall put this honey bread in a napkin and you can take it with you.” She popped the parcel in Brieze’s bag and walked ahead of her, out of the room and down the stairs back to the front door, impelling Brieze to follow. Outside, Lizzy, like an animated feather duvet, enveloped Brieze in a long embrace, but then held her arm before she could move away. “Take care, my dear one: don’t forget your directions, and heed this warning: there is a trick you must watch out for. The trickster will fool everyone unless they stay alert. Keep your senses awake and remember: wait for the crow!” Lizzy popped a small object into her hand and then gently pushed her in the centre of her back to encourage her to get going. Brieze popped the object deep into her pocket.

“Goodbye, Lizzy! Thank you! I’ll come again one day.” Lizzy pulled a white lace handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it exuberantly in the air, then rubbed it across her nose before pushing it back up her sleeve. Then with a swirl and a whoosh she disappeared indoors, pulling the great door shut behind her.

A Time Traveller; a Time Lord,

Moving with ease through the cycles of history,

A Warrior who stands like a king-pin, a pivot, an anchor,

For his Clan, his family.

Surrendering to his burden, the weight of responsibility,

As though there was no choice, yet choosing nonetheless to forego his freedom.

His Clan is everything to him: his parents, his siblings, his children,

And against the world he draws them in close,

Wrapping them in his mighty cloak, the Clan Leader.

Holding the Sword of Truth as his emblem, that all time honours,

He steps out first on the Road towards the Sun.

His Clan, inspired, follow.

As each elder passes to the World Beyond, bequeathing ancient wisdom to the leader,

Each newborn is placed in his arms to hold as though it were his own.

Clan Leader; Time Traveller,

He has no name but ‘Friend’

Though friend may become lover, brother, son or father.

And though he is nameless, he is known by all the Mother’s children.

Sometimes we will meet him, warrior to warrior, in combat;

But when bodies are bloodied, souls are not.

And sometimes we will know him - in the guise of Wolf, Eagle or Shark,

And we will understand it all completely.

To Der, [and Arife and Aylin Niamh], with Love.

‘Her Stories’, Story 1, Part ii

Chapter Thrtee

The opening to the cave was high enough to stand in upright easily’ and wide enough to touch each side with out-stretched arms, measured now by Brieze. There were little ferns clinging to the edges of the rock and an Ash tree seedling was growing out of the side, seemingly in no soil at all; the rock was smooth, rubbed by wind and rain and was warm in the late afternoon sunshine. Brieze watched as two little spiders played hide and seek near a small hole. She loved the little world. She could down-size her imagination and pop in to visit, just for a second or two.

She spread her brown leather coat on the ground and, easing the strap off her shoulder, unloaded the weight of her bag, dumping it on the ground. Then, stretching her arms and flexing her back to expand her rib-cage and fill her lungs, as a newly-emerged butterfly would, freed from its pupa, she breathed in her Otherworld. She sat down, removed a stone from under her buttock, and then pulled some raisin cake and a water bottle out of her bag. Munching happily, she looked out at the view before her. It was only a couple of hundred feet up but she could look down over the plain stretched out before her unhindered, right to the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to descend. She felt like a bird of prey in its eerie, looking down over its territory. Little clouds of mist rose up from the green face of the valley like hot breath on a cold evening and the rows of trees edging the fields looked like bushy eyebrows, meeting in a frown over closed lids. Rooks flying home to the woods called across the fields to bring their mates back to roost.

“Oh, this is lovely!” she said out loud. “Lovely!”

She watched the great vermillion balloon of the sun slip down behind the edge of the world and as several geese flew across it in silhouette she decided she would move as soon as it had disappeared completely. ’It moves so quickly’, she thought. ‘You don’t notice that until it’s sinking.’ Within a few minutes she had put her coat back on, slipped her bag-strap over her head onto her shoulder, pulling the tapestry-cloth bag up to a comfy position, and stepped back onto the path. She looked across at a pair of beech trees standing up on the ridge and a small hut close by, which was where she was heading, and wanted to get there before it was truly dark so that she would have enough light to get herself organised. As she walked up the track, flanked by open fields like the shoulders of the valley, she gazed out at the dusky sky, marvelling at the colours - how the turquoise and violet merged with the fiery orange glow and how the sparkle of the first star punctuated it. It was one of those evenings when the traveller can see the stage of Nature’s Theatre, on which all the players want to perform together. As the sun left the scene on one side, the full moon entered on the other, rising silently into the spot-light to perform her part.

Brieze had been away from home at night before, especially to sleep in Hunter’s Lodge, because she had known Tom the Hunter all her life and sleeping in his lodge was like sleeping at home it was so familiar to her. He wasn’t exactly her grandfather but he had been a friend to her grandmother ever since she could remember. He was old-fashioned, always under a flat hat, always smelled of pipe smoke and leaf mould, and whose clothes were kind of rough but woolly, worn like an old blanket. He used to disappear into the woods for hours, then come out with a dead animal dangling in his hand and Grandma would always know what to do with it.

Brieze remembered when she was fourteen, listening to her Dad telling Tom to watch over her. With a laugh and a slap on his back, he’d told Tom: ‘Keep your eye on her for me ‘till I get back, there’s a good man!’ as though he thought she may be a bit of a liability and that it would only be for a couple of weeks. Her father did what he did best and went off to be a soldier. He never came home. They said they couldn’t bring his body home, and she had never questioned why, so she only had her memories and some photos, not a grave, to remember him by.

She faced the door of Tom’s lodge, which was not much taller than she was, and lifted the small key-bag from its little hook under the thatch. ‘Tom must have left the door open for me,’ she thought, finding the little bag empty; ‘that’s unusual!’ After trying the door and finding it open, she went inside. Her priority was warmth. She went quickly to set a light to the dry kindling in the hearth, finding the matches in an old baccy tin, then added a couple of logs to keep it going. They hissed and spat, like a couple of old cats fighting, which made her smile inside. She remembered Grandma’s cats, Whiskey and Gin, as different as two animals could possibly be; they were the most unlikely bed-fellows yet they always slept in the same chair, curled up into one furry thing. Sparks exploded like little fireworks and she stayed to watch, easily mesmerised by the flickering flames. When she was sure it going well, she moved on to priority number two: food. Tom had shown her before how to open the small cupboard where the things she would need were kept. It had a small lock on it and she knew where the key was kept. This time, though, it was already unlocked. Was he already here somewhere? He never left things unlocked. No, he couldn’t be here because the fire wasn’t lit, and the kettle wasn’t on. She took out a jug and a bowl from the cupboard, a kettle and a pan and a small bottle of lamp oil and a box. She moved over to the table in the corner. The box held biscuits, hard dry cheese, some rice, a few nuts and dried apples and some leaves to make a brew of tea. She lit the lamp, (a mouse scurried into a black hole), and then took the jug outside, bringing it back after a few minutes with some water in it, collected from the stream that trickled past the lodge. Within a short time, she was settled in Tom’s big armchair with a supper of warm food and a mug of tea. She put out the lamp and just enjoyed the glow of the fire while she finished her food. Within a shorter time she was asleep.

As soon as she was aware of her surroundings again she found she had company. The outer areas of her consciousness were blurred but coming into focus in the centre was a form she recognised. “Tom?” she whispered, “Is that you?”

Tom came closer. She rubbed her eyes and pushed herself up out of the chair.

“There you are, Brieze, I thought I would miss you. Are you alright?” Brieze nodded and yawned without censor. “I’m sorry I’m late. I went across to Fiddler’s Field to make sure the stream wasn’t blocked. When the rain starts, as it must soon I hope, that stream will become a river. Are you ready to go?” Brieze nodded again and stretched like a cat. “Come on then, get your skates on and let’s go. Follow me”. Brieze pulled on her coat, grabbed her bag and, closing the door behind her, followed Tom, running to catch up with him because he had walked so quickly. The path was stony and she had to miss the pot-holes, but she raced on, keeping Tom’s broad back in front of her eyes. For an old man, he set quite a pace using his stick as a third leg.

The morning was still forming and the grey light held the trees in silhouette. Every creature that could make a noise was making a noise, like an orchestra tuning up, only in tune. After about an hour, going this way and that, through a maze of paths, they turned a corner and came out of the cover of the trees into a clearing. A building stood right in front of them. Only Tom knew these woods well enough to find this place. The small single tower was linked to the path they had been hurrying down by a bridge, which spanned a deep ditch filled with green water and lily-pads. The sun made his entrance on the morning stage again and shed new light on everything. A butterfly flew across her path, narrowly missing her nose and she ducked to make sure they didn’t collide. “Oh, be careful! Look where you are flying!” she said, as the butterfly swerved upwards in a bright yellow sweep.

The tower was just how she remembered it: only two stories high, squarely built of dark grey stone, with little turrets around the top and small slit windows in the wall of the ground floor; bigger windows were set into the upper wall and the great wooden door was symmetrically centred at the front. It was about the height of a tree.

“Will you be alright now, my sweet?” said Tom.

“Yes, fine, don’t worry about me: I know where I am going!” Brieze rose up on her toes and kissed Tom on the cheek and, touching the fingertips of his big hand reassuringly, said goodbye. Tom lifted the hat off his head and promptly slapped it back on again, turned to walk away and then stopped, looking back at Brieze.

“Go on! I‘ll be fine. Are you forgetting I have been here before?” She smiled at him and Tom saw her mother’s smile. He stood still for a few more seconds taking in the memory of her mother then turned and walked away; he raised his hand in a quick wave and was quickly taken in by the trees.

Chapter Four

The last time Brieze had come here she had found the key in the special hiding place as usual and she would go to that place now. She walked over the bridge, pausing to look over the wall into the water to see if there were any fish. The reflection of her own face looked back at her and frowned.

‘What you saw before you will see again,’ the reflection mouthed.

Brieze jumped back away from the wall and threw her hand over her mouth, with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, my God! What was that?’ she thought loudly to herself. Her heart was beating too fast and she ran off the bridge towards the great wooden door, instinctively running for cover; she tried to turn the heavy metal ring handle, which creaked and moved a little, but didn’t turn enough to open the door. ‘Damn!’ she thought, and ran away to the left of the door, round the side of the tower to a small garden. There was a bird bath at the end of a dew-laden, grass path. She tip-toed to the bird-bath, unconsciously not wanting to disturb the colourful droplets on the grass and, lifting the top of the bath up with one hand she felt underneath for the key. ‘Oh, no, where is it? Where is it? I have to find the key.’

Another butterfly flew straight past her face again. ‘What do you want? Go away!’ She bit her lip and tried to think quickly. ‘Follow me,’ she heard a voice say. Brieze looked around to see who had said it, but the butterfly just flew back across her face. Wide eyed, she searched the space around her for an idea as to what to do next. ‘Follow me’ the voice said again. This time she looked at the butterfly and sighed, realising the where the voice was coming from. “Ok” she said, “I’ll follow you, but don’t play any tricks on me! I have come for a special reason and I can’t go back until I have got what I came for.”

Brieze pushed the overgrown branches away from her as the butterfly led the way and she followed. It flew up and down, to the left and to the right, but roughly followed the path back to the front door. ‘Push’ said the butterfly.

Brieze stepped forward and lent against the door, pushing as hard as she could. The door didn’t move. ‘Close your eyes. Imagine the door opening and then push’. She followed her instructions and tried again. The great timbers yielded to her small hands and gradually moved inwards. She opened her eyes quickly in disbelief but saw the door ajar. The butterfly flew away, up into the blue sky. Brieze could have sworn that she heard a faint giggling sound, although it may have been the water gurgling under the bridge. She stepped inside the tower.

]]> http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/06/04/her-stories-the-book-part-ii/feed/ Avia footpath http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/06/01/her-stories-first-installment/ http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/06/01/her-stories-first-installment/#comments Sun, 01 Jun 2008 17:29:21 +0000 wendysalter http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/?p=38

‘HER STORIES’, a novel by Wendy Salter.

I am thrilled to announce the arrival of my new novel, a four-story continuing adventure of a woman, called Brieze, who discovers her own history by traveling beyond earth time, into the past and the future.

Here, on this blog-site, I shall be writing short excerpts from the book and invite you to enjoy them in the comfort of your arm-chair, online.

Over the past twenty years, I have discovered that I am not just an insignificant blip in a questionable reality, but that I have a past and a future that stretches beyond this life-time and an ability to travel to them. I have written these easy to read stories for you to enjoy and whether you believe that we can all re-discover these forgotten memories or not, I hope that you will just enjoy the adventures. Because I am a woman and I have children and grandchildren, I suspect that these stories will appeal to women from between about eleven, [the age of my grandaughters] and eighty-seven [the age of my mother]. I hope that men will enjoy them, too! [they are not exclusively about girl things]; the stories visit known historical events and Brieze’s adventures are very much about human relationships in those times, now and in the future.

‘Her Stories’ Story1, France 1788, Part i

Chapter One

She watched as a single drop of blood fell onto the earth. The dry grains of soil soaked it up and it was gone. A second drop fell and followed the first. Another followed on behind and the earth accepted it without question. As each drop fell a small circle formed, a little patch darker than the earth around it and moist. She stared at the little pool, now sticky and shiny and felt her mind going away.

She slipped slowly and quietly into sleep. The whisper of wind-in-trees became fainter and fainter until it was no more. She surrendered herself into the deep pool of unconsciousness, falling, falling, falling.

Chapter Two

When Brieze was a baby her mother had brought her to this place, holding the little girl in her arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket. She came alone, except for the black and white collie called Shadow. Shadow, of course followed her everywhere. Her mother, Mary, never came without a gift. This time she had brought a shell, an oyster shell, because she loved mother of pearl. She had never seen a real pearl and looked down at it wondering what it would be like to find one. She wondered where she would have to go to see one; what part of the world, which ocean? She placed the shell in a small hole between the stump of a branch and the trunk of the Great Oak Tree, kissing it first then letting it fall into the secret place.

Her mother had died when Brieze was three, so her grandmother told her these stories. When an alien ‘flu, Russian or Chinese they had said, had come to the village her mother, being an herbalist, visited the sick with teas made of dried herbs from her collection. Her mother, apparently, was more than an herbalist. Grandma said she was a healer who loved people and spent her whole life caring for anyone who needed a bit of help. It wasn’t just the herbs, she would wash-up or walk their dog, or just sit and listen to them talk about what was bothering them. ‘Get-it-off-your-chest-time’ she used to call it. She knew that when people were sad they kept all their sad things on their chest. She tirelessly tended the sick people, making soup and washing bed-linen. One day, when the epidemic seemed to be subsiding and the village folk were recovering, Mary had gone out early in the morning to pick herbs to replenish her store-cupboard. She had come here, close to the Great Oak Tree and searched for the best fresh leaves and flowers. She had gone beyond the tree, out across the field close to the cliff, looking over the edge for those flowers that like to cling to the earth while getting the moist, salty air from the sea and the bright sunlight right out away from the trees. When the men of the village found her, draped over the rocks below, her hand was still clutching the tiny pink blossoms.

Brieze hadn’t come here, to the Great Oak Tree, to weep over her mother’s grave. That was over there, just beyond the tree. She had been before and done that many times. The grave was just a large stone, her own personal monolith, where they had scattered her ashes, but now it just looked like a part of the scenery. Nice, she thought, very understated and private.

No, she had come here for a special reason. Her grandmother had brought her up and taught her the ways of the old folk and she knew that by coming here today, around her 28^th birthday, she could do something that would give her something special, a present to herself. She was going to call on the Spirit of the Tree, to open a door into the Otherworld, to find her Soul’s purpose. She would do it tonight, the night of the Spring Equinox, very conveniently bright with full moon light and mild and still. She needed to prepare herself for the journey.

Brieze had gathered some sticks, carefully, making sure that they were all from the Great Oak Tree: twenty-eight small sticks, one for each year in her life. She then set them on the ground in a tidy pyramid shape and stuffed some dead ‘Old Man’s Beard’ flowers in the middle. She hit the two flints that she had found together hard and after the umpteenth strike she got a small spark, but then she put the flints down and took the lighter she had brought with her out of her pocket and lit the fire. The kindling took light quickly and as the sticks began to burn she placed some larger dead wood around the fire. She had brought a bottle of water and a small kettle and after placing the kettle of water over the fire, she steadied it with two large stones. While she was waiting for the water to boil she spread her ground-sheet and sleeping-bag under the great tree, under the canopy of crooked branches and the frill of delicate green, newly emerging leaves and close to its huge roots, which bulged out of the ground like knobbly knees. She burned some cedar wood shavings to purify herself and the area around her bedding then placed four smooth round pebbles close to its edges, to mark out the directions of the Northern Winds, the Eastern Dawn, the Southern Seas, the Western Woods and one in the centre for Godness.

She hadn’t made up her mind whether her God was male or female, or both, or neither, or just an ‘Infinite Cosmic Mind’. Infinite cosmic minds were hard to have a relationship with; she didn’t know how to talk to an infinite mind, it was too big. It was much easier for her to talk to the Great Oak Tree. Here it was, big and beautiful, touchable and permanent, for her life-time anyway. It was living and she could talk to it and it would listen. She knew it would keep her confidences. Was it an ‘it’? No, it was a She-He. A grandparent. One day it may be a grandfather, another day it may be a grandmother. She could hug it when she was feeling lonely and He-She would let her.

As soon as the water was boiling, she plunged the blade of her little ceremonial knife into its bubbles and steam and counted to twenty and then poured the water over some lemon balm leaves in a mug. Holding the knife’s edge against the skin of her fore-finger, she hesitated. She waited and looked out at the darkening world around her and up at the first star of the evening. It was the 21st of March, and the days were bright with warm spring sunlight, but cool and fresh at night. She grasped the mug and took cautious sips of the hot tea. Moving back to her bedding she wriggled down into her sleeping-bag. She propped herself up on her elbows, facing the fire, which had settled into hot, flickering embers and it warmed her face. She placed the knife back on her finger.

“Greetings to the Spirit of the Sun, the Moon and all the Stars! Salutations to Mother Earth and the Spirit Winds from the Sunrise, the Noon-time, the Sunset and the Night! God bless my mother, and Dad, wherever they are, and Grandma and Tom, and all the animals, and the trees - especially this one, the Great Oak Tree, and the fire, the sea, the sky and the stones…and me…and ” Brieze paused to search her mind for anything she may have forgotten. “…and the Angels.” Looking above her in case there were some angels listening, she prayed. “Please help me find my Soul’s purpose.” She looked back at her finger and the steel edge resting on it. “Oh well, here goes…”

The sharp blade slid across her pale smooth skin like a dash on a page and a row of little red beads appeared. She winced but didn’t feel anything - yet. She unscrewed her eyes and watched the ruby red droplets form, then let them fall onto the earth one at a time. After they stopped Brieze wrapped a tissue round her finger and lay down to sleep. It wasn’t long before she slipped through the Doorway of Time.

ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY W H SALTER www.wendysalter.com

]]> http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/06/01/her-stories-first-installment/feed/ Avia http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/05/31/a-happening-in-dorset/ http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/05/31/a-happening-in-dorset/#comments Sat, 31 May 2008 08:12:32 +0000 wendysalter http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/?p=28

A HOLISTIC GATHERING IN DORSET, AUGUST 3RD, 2008

Quickly! Book by end of June…

We had a wonderful day on Saturday [17th May], with over 30 people joining us. Thanks to all. There were many who couldn’t make it for various reasons, and would like a second chance, and some who would like to come again, and some new friends who would like to join in, so…

We are holding the next gathering on 3rd August. If you would like to come, just click on ‘CONTACT ME’ and send me an email. I shall reply with more information. We shall be moving around, so let us know where you are, and we shall try to come to your area.

These gatherings are to bring holistic practitioners, with all sorts of healing skills, togethe

r with those who are curious and would like to know more, or would like to meet some therapists. We look at the serious side of healing, experience healing techniques, share stories, join in meditation and have fun. We will all have a chance to speak, laugh, share news and views, and demonstrate our craft.

The invitation is to anyone who is working in the field of Complimentary Medicine, Esoteric Teachings, World Healing, Environmental Studies, Writing and Publishing, or related subjects, and all newcomers.

The cost of the day will be £14.00, paid at the door if booked in advance.

Please Contact Me via this Blog.

Please bring your own lunch.

Wendy Salter

‘‘CHATEAUX BELAIR’

HOLISTIC HOLIDAY/RETREAT SEPTEMBER 2008.

Would you like to stay in a FRENCH CHATEAUX for a week or two?

Would you like to MEET some interesting holistic people, or writers?

Would you like to EAT gorgeous local home-cooked food, drink wine, relax by a fire, chatting?

Would you like to know that you will HEAR the breeze in the trees, the owls, and other birdsong

And SEE the hares, mountains, fields, trees, sun, moon and stars without light pollution?

Would you like to TALK to me and ask questions? Please read on.

There will be an exclusive gathering at ‘Chateaux Belair’, in France, at the end of September 2008. Those who would be interested would be holistic healers, practitioners, trainers, writers, artists, shaman/shamana, spiritual environmentalists and global humanitarians, and people who love the Earth. That sounds like a lot of people but places will be restricted to a maximum of 9, although there will be more gatherings in the near future.

The purpose of the week will be to engage in self-healing, deep meditation and prayer, group discussion and help with work issues, global and environmental news and views, and Earth/Spirit connections, plus a lot of you-time. The style will be for respite, retreat and connecting in a natural, slow, quiet, authentic and meaningful way.

‘Chateaux Belair ‘ is a Holistic Centre without the commonly found commercial and materialistic paraphanalia. It is in remote rural France, was once a farm and tything office, is huge and unspoilt, the home of barn owls, butterflies and hares and with views of open countryside and the Pyrenees. It is in the process of sympathetic renovation, with much to do. What has been done already is beautiful.

Rooms can be booked as singles or doubles [with shared bathrooms], and all meals, home cooked with local fresh produce, are included in the price. [just £70 a day, full board!]

Travel TO TOULOUSE is the responsibIlity of each guest. Taxi/train FROM TOULOUSE TO ‘CHATEAUX BELAIR’ will be arranged, and in reverse, likewise.

The Total Cost of the week, [7days full board], will be £495.00 per person, not including the shared cost of the taxi/train to and from Toulouse, which will be minimal. There may be an excursion to Carcassonne midweek, at minimal extra cost of the fare and food.

The dates are: arriving 20th September 2008 and leaving 27th September2008.

‘BOOK-WRITERS’ HOLIDAY/SCHOOL’

The week AFTER, there will be a book-writers course/holiday school 28th Sept - 4th Oct, and can be booked alongside the Retreat week. Tom Evans, a sensitive, encouraging and very capable book mentor will be running this week, [see www.thebookwright.com and contact Tom for details and prices], with Mick Stott and myself in tow to wash-up and lend a hand. This is an absolute must for all budding authors, or authors with ‘writer’s block’. [Partners optional. Sorry, no children].

PS, the week BEFORE, 19th-26th Sept], Mick will be running a training in NLP. contact him separately if you are interested. [Fully Booked]

Each week can be booked separately or together, and will be an amazing experience.

click on CONTACT ME for more details and confirmed dates and travel arrangements.

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Around the corner I have a friend,

In this great city that has no end,

Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,

And before I know it, a year is gone.

And I never see my old friend’s face,

For life is a swift and terrible race,

He knows I like him just as well,

As in the days when I rang his bell.

And he rang mine but we were younger then,

And now we are busy, tired men.

Tired of playing a foolish game,

Tired of trying to make a name.

“Tomorrow,” I say! “I will call on Jim,

Just to show that I’m thinking of him.”

But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,

And the distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner, yet miles away.

“Here’s a telegram, sir.” “Jim died today.”

And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.

Around the corner, a vanished friend.

Remember to always say what you mean. If you love someone, tell them. Don’t be afraid to express yourself. Because when you decide that it is the right time it might be too late. Seize the day. Never have regrets. And most importantly, stay close to your friends and family, for they have helped make you the person that you are today.

]]> http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/05/15/a-poem-from-margaret/feed/ Avia http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/05/14/ascension/ http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/2008/05/14/ascension/#comments Wed, 14 May 2008 10:13:36 +0000 wendysalter http://wendysalter.wordpress.com/?p=43

When I look up into the blue sky I feel something extraordinary. I feel a rising of my spirit. I can feel it physically in my chest like a bubble and very often it brings a smile to my lips and small tears into my eyes. It’s not like crying when I’m sad. It’s like something wells up inside me and overflows.

I love the blue sky and I miss it terribly when it is stolen by the blanket cloud that moves over it sometimes. I can remember the first time I went up in an aeroplane, I was petrified and thought I’d never get in the thing, but when we took off and lifted up through the clouds I fell in love with flying forever. Going through the clouds was like being lost in a fog. It looked cold and dismal and floated past the windows like a faceless ghost. Then suddenly we came out above them and the sky was perfectly blue. It was heavenly.

I peered through the little port-hole window and looked as far as I could see in every direction. The blue sky was everywhere, untainted and empty and vast. Far below was the blanket of clouds that now looked like a sea of cotton-wool balls and the earth had disappeared. I had ascended and gone into Heaven, along with a hundred or so other people who were flying to Stockholm.

I am not a child living in a fairy-book fantasy. I am a grown-up, a grandmother. I have a simple belief, and that is this: I believe that the world around us, all the things we see, hear, feel, observe, and know to happen in a physical way also happen in another way, that is not physical. I believe that there is an alternative life that is very similar to the physical life but is different in that we cannot see, hear, feel or observe it with our physical senses. It is only detectable with our 6th sense, or ‘spirit’.

When the aeroplane was flying through the air, I could see the way the sun lit up everything. Up there in my blue Heaven the only thing that was there was the sun. I couldn’t stay there though and after a while the aeroplane started to descend. It brought us all back down through the clouds and then I could see the earth below. Slowly, more and more came into view and I could see the landscape, then fields and towns, then houses and finally, when we touched down and taxied into the airport, I could see other people.

Whenever it is a dull dark day I remember how the sky above the clouds is always blue, and up there the sun always shines, unless I am on the other side of the world. There, on the other side, the sun is hidden from view and the sky is perpetual darkness, except for the stars. The stars fill the Heavens with a myriad of little lights. We can’t see the stars in the daytime, when the sun is so bright it fills the world with its light. But at night, when the sun is absent we can see the stars.

What does this tell me about ascending to Heaven? It tells me that it is a place where we can get a different view on life. We can see how the world is, in relation to everything else. The world and the planets, the moon and the sun are all moving around each other in a cosmic dance and we can observe it. We can see things that are enlightened but we can’t see things that are in the dark. But the stars give us a glimmer of hope. We can watch in wonder at things and try to understand. It is all there. The world we can see and the world we can’t see.

Everything that moves is moved by something you can’t see. Think about it. Every single thing that vibrates with life, that circles around and changes in time is motivated, moved, enlivened by …something you can’t see. But we can see the effect of this something that moves in everything, and when we ascend we can see it more clearly.

The worst time is when we are lost in a fog. We can’t see where we are going and we can’t see anything that can give us a perspective on things. It can feel quite frightening and we have to trust that the pilot knows how to take us through the fog in the right direction. On earth it can feel quite depressing when we can’t see the heavenly blue sky and there is no sun, and even the stars cannot be seen to give us hope. We then have to have faith that the clouds will pass, the winds of change will come and blow them away and then the sun will shine again and the stars will come out at night.

Our relationship to the sun in particular is paramount in our understanding of our relationship with light, especially the unseen light. The blue sky is only blue to us down here because of our unique atmosphere, yet the colour we see is important because the colour is an energy that affects us. It helps us to be happy. The moon, too, helps us understand and remember the cycles of time. And the stars, well if the stars weren’t there for us to wish upon, we’d have no hope. So the sun, sky, moon and stars represent a non-earthly component to the physical world that we live in. The rest is down here, where we put our feet. Non-earthly things we call spiritual. The virtual world of spirit is for us to know about but not touch, because it’s far away. Or is it?

Sunlight, the radiations from it, the warmth and light, give all living things what they need to grow. Without the sun we would be nothing. The blue sky helps us to feel happy because we can see the great ‘out there’ and then we don’t feel alone. The moon comes around like a true friend, with regularity and helps us remember we are going somewhere. Because it changes its appearance in cycles, we can see how time is progressing, and how we must be progressing, too. And the stars, there are so many of them, they seem like a token of all that has been and all that can be, places we can visit in our dreams, places for the imagination to be inspired.

Look around you and notice the living things on earth that respond in different ways to the things ‘above’ us. Animals look down, towards the earth. Even the birds that fly in the sky look down. Fish hide, protected, in the waters. Insects hide, protected under leaves, debris or the earth. But people, some people, look up. Those of us who look up are different to those who are mostly looking down. Those who look up aspire to something beyond the physical world. They dream, gaze into space for inspiration. They think a lot and wonder at the greater picture. They are connecting to something that is greater than ‘where’s dinner?’ or ‘where’s bed?’ or ‘where’s my mate?

While we are looking up, rising above the mundane, connecting to ‘Spirit’, dwelling on higher matters, ascending towards Heaven, it is really important to remember one thing. Our connection to Earth, the planet we call home is more important than just providing for our bodies. By lifting our thoughts, our imagination and our learning to higher things, we are raising our spirits for an important reason. That is, to bring that enlightenment to Earth. And for that reason we need to keep our connection to Earth by having deep roots that go right to the core of the planet. This way we, as individuals, and collectively as a human soul group, will ascend together with Earth. We will travel as on a space ship towards a higher world, where life is similar, but different in that it is as yet unseen. Heaven is all around us, around Earth, but the Light of the Living Sun will love us and give us life, both seen and unseen, until we re-unite.

I believe we are on our way. We have started the journey home and everyone who can incarnate from the human soul group has done so. We are all on board and heading back. Some will get there before others as we start to become less physical and integrate into the unseen version of life. Those who get there first will not be the winners, or the losers, because we will work together as we have always done, because we are not separated. We have to help each other. We have to work as a team, not in competition, not some exploiting others for their own benefit. It’s not a matter of the wealthy few getting an easier trip, because those who have nothing will have nothing to lose. Anything physical gained in this, the physical world, cannot go into the unseen world. Nothing except our own soul, the spirit that has come to drive the body of our choice, will pass through the transformation into spirit. All matter will disintegrate into its energy form once again, until we are the love and light that we started as, once more. All physical attachments are just baggage that will weigh us down. Release the attachment to these things and the journey for you will become easier and more enjoyable.

Imagine going through an airport check-in with nothing to hold, not even a boarding pass, or passport. With nothing to carry you, your-self, will be the passport and you will glide effortlessly to your first-class seat. Effortlessly you, along with a couple of hundred or so other good folk, together in groups, will lift effortlessly into the air, with no air-con, no duty-free sales, no cramped legs or safety belts, no over-head luggage racks, no safety exit routine, no plastic lunch pack, just a pilot and a couple of stewards to be there for you. Then off you will go, up through the clouds, through the fog of fear and confusion, and out into the wild blue yonder, the heavenly blue sky, towards the sun.

And when you look back, just for a second, you will see that there are others, millions and millions of others, all coming along for the ride, even the Earth itself!

Have you ever wondered where the feelings of sadness come from? Sadness is sometimes described as having ‘a heavy heart’, just as happiness can be described as ‘lightheartedness’. We feel sad when a loved one goes away but the thoughts we have at the time determine how sad we may feel. If we have strong thoughts that our loved one loves us, we may miss them, but feel reassured that they will return to us and our sadness will turn to happiness again.

But when our loved one goes away forever, as in death, our sadness turns to grief - a deep, painful sadness that seems incurable. If we believe that our loved one loved us, as we loved them, we may have faith that that love endures even at their departing.

But if that love was not acknowledged before death we may be left with dreadful feelings of regret. How then do we lift our heart into happiness once more?

With Love. Love transcends all distance, time and boundaries, even death. If you can remember the feelings of joy when you received a letter or card from someone you thought had forgotten you, or didn’t love you anymore, you can imagine the joy you could send a loved one by sending them a Message of Love. Send your thoughts with happy memories, strong feelings, maybe of forgiveness, or asking for forgiveness, and mental pictures of something beautiful, that would mean something to them. Then believe that they will get your message, feel your love for them and be uplifted; their spirit will feel lighter and they may send you a message in return.

How and when that message comes, only you will know, when it arrives. Then the heaviness in your heart will leave and your heart will feel lighter. The Heart is known as the Bridge between the Earth world and the world of Spirit. It is