Summer Delight

Sweet October

Waking up the Dragon

Waking Up the Dragon

“This is your medicine,” she said, her blue eyes gazing into mine. “Remember.” The shaman outstretched her arm and placed a small rock in my hand.  Curling my fingers around the stone, I felt her warm hands surround mine.

I peered down, opened my palm to see a salmony pink motif of a fire-dragon outlined  in the centre of  this ancient dark stone.  Turning, I ran  back through the gathering darkness down the dirt path, knee-length grasses brushing against my legs, back towards  the village of drummers circled-up on the beach.  “BOOM, boom, boom, boom.  BOOM, boom, boom, boom,” the sounds of the drums intensified as I drew nearer my clan, my heart racing with wildness. Welcomed in with whoops and hugs, I was.  Without delay, the next journeyer set off, racing down the path, skirts flying towards the shaman gatekeeper silhouetted on the hilltop.

Our journey that evening was into a fairy glen on the Isle of Arran.  Our assignment was to take an individual journey into this mysterious place, whilst being supported from afar on  the beach by  a ‘clan’ of fellow journeyers. The clan’s job was to keep a strong and steady heartbeat drumming, singing, dancing, chanting; calling in Creator Spirit as protection, guide, and support for each journeyer.  One shaman guarded the ‘gate’ or doorway to the glen, ensuring safe entry into and exit from the magic place.

The waves on the ocean were gentle that night; the sun warm and golden when we first arrived and took some time to choose the spot on the beach where we would set up our support camp.  How we came to choose that specific spot was a mystery to me.  However, when I turned around and looked out to the sea, I  shivered when my eyes landed upon the clear outline of a ‘sleeping dragon’ - a large black outcrop of rock rising out of the ocean, meeting our beach.  Did anyone else see this figure?  I stayed quiet.

The drumming was hypnotic and strong, allowing for deep safety as each journeyer made her (his) way into the glen.  I could not forget the ‘sleeping dragon’ who lay before  me and I dared to venture down to the black rocks in the middle of this ritual.  Stretching out flat, belly down, I closed my eyes and let myself be carried by the drum; allowing myself to sink into the rock.  My belly began to warm, my face, my hands.  In truth, the rock was warming in the coolness of the evening.  This made no sense.  I felt myself being lifted gently, then dropped. The rock was breathing.  Up and down.  Up and down, gently.  I clung to this living breathing rock.  Was I going mad?  

Inside my body, I felt a rush of sensual energy rise from my root and travel throughout my body.  The long haired shaman leapt towards me, navigating the rough rocks with ease, her forest green shawl dancing in the wind. Her smile was big.

“Do you remember?” she asked, waiting, bracing her hoop drum. Her eyes were soft and wild, taking in the rock, the sky, the vast ocean.

Yes, I remembered.  I had been a dragon lover.  My yoni was wet and dripping now and I felt like an infinity of energy had been accessed through this merging.

“When the dragons were forgotten and the world of magic was feared and forgotten, the dragons, in their sadness, went to sleep.  They died.  They became solid rock, like this one.  You look, you will witness them everywhere.  This dragon is happy to know YOU remember, so happy, he has come to life!”  She pointed to the rock, an arrow of light gleaming from her eyes, bounced off a wee crystal held in the blackness of the dragon. Without words, she took the crystal between her finger and thumb and dropped it into my hand.

She danced with glee over the rock back to the clan of drummers and dancers, leaving me there in my ecstasy, the strength of the drumming holding me in that place for some time.

______________

What was this fairy glen all about anyhow?  And why were we here?  And why did we need so much protection?  And why from so far away down the beach?  Why, why, why?

“Trust, trust, trust,” was the voice I heard in return.

It was my turn to enter the fairy glen. Once ‘in’, I quickly battled some thick deep purple raspberry canes, sharp and thorny.  “Trying to take me down, are you, nasty little fairies?” I muttered.  I had learned that the faerie realm was taken with  a much more serious air in Scotland, unlike our North American ‘cutesie’ approach to the fairy world.  The path led me to a large pool of water fed by a waterfall above, gushing.  The surrounding area was thick with a brilliant green carpet of moss.  My nostrils opened like an animal’s to the potency of this place. Stripping off my clothes, I submerged myself into the dark pool, letting myself be taken by the coolness and the depths. 

I had an offering to make in the fairy glen.  Reaching up, I suspended one, two, three...eight fairy charms from the tree branches overhanging the sacred pool.  The fairy strands wiggled and played as I let go. Strung together by children from the other side of the ocean - in Nova Scotia -  these colourful, magical and treasure-filled strands were now hanging in this hidden mysterious glen on the Isle of Arran.

“Thank you. Thank you.  Thank you,” they whispered, delighted by the swirling, twirling, wildly dancing strands. “Let the children remind you of the magick!”

“Soak it in. Swim with it.  Be with it.  Merge with it.  Dance with it.  Carry it home!” they called out.  Pulling myself out of the pool, dripping and unafraid, I dressed myself.

______________

“This is my medicine,” I am reminded, “dragon medicine.  Don’t ever forget it.” I squint as I look into the stone and see the salmony pink fire-dragon reveal itself.

“Honour the dragon.  Honour my dragon.”  What does that mean?

My wildness. My power.   My roar.  My sexuality.  My inner knowing.  My wisdom.  My magick.

Be unafraid of your magick, Sarah.   It is time to wake up the sleeping dragon.  Make haste.  Call your dragon up out of the stone.  Fire it up.  Fly with it.  Dance with it.  Ride the dragon.  Invite others to ride with you over on the heavens.  Free and wild. Soaring.

Everyday, call in the dragon to be with you.  Protect you. Guide you. Love you.  Let the dragon teach you of sensuality, fire, breathing, loving.  Celebrate your sensual existence here on the Earth.”  My gaze is transfixed on the dancing fire-dragon. I squeeze the stone as this message settles into my bones.

__________________________________

When I write this, it is now seven years since my experience on the Isle of Arran.  The small dragon stone has been carried with me from home to home on the South Shore of Nova Scotia. Gradually, I am remembering and opening to the dragon’s medicine.  I feel this energy rise up within me.  It is not always a comfortable feeling.  Nor is it so ‘friendly,’ nor polite.  My dragon is very angry she has been ignored all these years.  Not just my years, but the years of those who have gone before, afraid to show up with this medicine.

I have lived much of my life feeling unseen for my gifts, feeling unnoticed.  Actually feeling invisible.  Worthless and troubled for my magick.  Alone.  I have been the one who has forgotten and been afraid of my medicine, and so my dragon has gone asleep.  There is grieving for all the lost time and all the forgetting.  Tears have poured from my neglected dragon.  Tears of abandonment.  

So where does this take me now?  I am called to follow my calling and embrace my medicine, trust it and all that it holds in store for me.  I am called to admit my fears to myself and to others.  I am called to speak my truth and share my story, with love and without shame. I am called to own my gifts, nurture them and offer them where they will be received in honour, for the highest good of all.

It is time for me to ask, ask, ask for what I need to live a thriving magical life; to be supported in sharing my gifts fully.

This is a new beginning of the bold and daring life, embracing who I came here to be.  Fire-dragon.

At your service.

Help me remember.



~ written by Sarah McClure (May 2012 - Sarah was part of  Mahone Bay Centre's Life-writing Spring Session)

Perhaps

Perhaps

My Brother's Pants

Fresh, crisp cloth. Green, yellow, brown vertical stripes. My brother’s pants were a work of art.

My mother’s gift to each of us children each September was an outfit crafted by her very hands, imbued with her love, patience, and tasteful sense of fashion . It was her way of making sacred our first day of school, sending us off cloaked in her protective magic.

Standing with my brother, Matthew, by my side at the end of our country lane, I remember the cool air on my bare arms and legs. It was summer turned into autumn with promises of heat and wasps in the midday sun. I can feel my mothers’ eyes and warm presence watching her two of three children leave for school, the first day of school.

Distant rumbling announces the yellowy-orange school bus with its low spiralling dust funnel travelling along behind on Stephen Township concession #5. The doors of the bus open with a squeak and a jiggle and my eyes meet the beady piercing cold blue of Roxy Weber’s. Her auburn hair is piled high. Her lips are an astonishing fire-engine red. Her whole being seems to tremble with a fragility I had never before witnessed in an adult. She was our driver.

My brother, clad in his green, yellow, brown striped pants of wow, steps up the big steps with me following in my lilac dress with an Irish wool cape with strands of spring green, pink and lavender woven through. Clutching the handle of my shiny blue plastic lunch bucket, I am struck by an intense mélange of scent: a combination of new vinyl seat coverings off-gassing and potent peanut butter fumes leaking from the many school children’s lunch buckets.

My brother and I enter a hole of silence. Everyone is looking. Everyone is staring. I feel like I want to use this powerful energy to vanish myself and land magically in the warm, sunny, safe kitchen of easy mornings and child’s play close to my Mother.

The silence is broken by whisperings, then the single malevolent voice of a stranger seated near the rear of the bus, calls out, “NICE PANTS, GIRLY-BOY.” Quickly, I realize this venomous attack is aimed at my brother and his pants of wow lovingly made by my Mother. My heart sinks and I reach into the wounded heart of my brother sitting next to me. Not a word I dare utter, respecting his ability to handle this attack.

The bus ride through Crediton and up past the fertile marshlands to Stephen Central Public School seems eternal. The voices of children playing and the rhythmic groaning of the swings welcomes us into the schoolyard.

I watch my brother step off the bus and without hesitation, draw his yellow lunch bucket back and swing it through to strike the nasty boy on his ribs and back. Carrot sticks, a bologna sandwich and an apple are strewn about the pavement; a thermos, rolls to a tinkling stillness onto the gravel shoulder.

The authorities scramble from the corners of the schoolyard to ‘handle the situation’ and haul my brother away for discipline.

I am speechless, yet unafraid. Inside, I am, in a surprising way, deeply proud of my brother for taking the law into his own hands. My brother had taken his place and stood up for himself, unafraid of the consequences. My brother had not chosen to bury these hurtful words deep inside, to be looked at perhaps later in his life.

Green, yellow, brown vertical stripes. Fresh crisp cloth. My brother’s pants were never worn again.

written by Sarah McClure

October 13, 2010

Come to the Temple

Come to the temple

for the sacred rituals,

my brothers and sisters

and be not afraid

of what is Natural

and True.

For you to be awakened

by this very Earth

and her Magick.

By her holy elements

holding you,

rolling you,

lighting you up,

inspiring you,

swaying you,

sweeping you,

lightening your step.

Let the temple be your

place to come Home

and be lifted,

carried off,

at once.

Sink in.

Fly.

Forget everything you have been taught.

Remember your essence.

Remember the tune that plays

within you,

your holy instrument.

This is all I ask of you.

written in the air between Halifax and Toronto

by Sarah dancing temple Priestess

on her 47th birthday (Friday, May 13, 2011)

Kiesha Little Grandmother speaks on 2012

Click here to experience a message from Kiesha Little Grandmother as she speaks on 2012.

"Tickle, tickle"

Artwork by Hanna Borkowska Kirk (age 8)

Pleasantville, Nova Scotia

"Tickle me hard"

"Tickle me hard," said the young Trika, invitingly.

I want another job!

"I want another job."

"I want another job."

"I want another job."

This was the beautiful chant I heard sweet SummerHawk sing to me last night as she was helping me make cookies.

When I awoke this morning, I heard her voice singing in my heart: "I want another job...give me another job!"

I am reminded of the fairies and all the other helpers who are available to us and who are so ever-present and willing to be put to work. The fairy in me, the fairy in you. Waiting to delight!

The more we call spirit helpers into service, the more they will flutter around, awake and ready to assist.

And we must simply ASK.

My heart is singing with this chant, thanks to this radiant four year old reminding me of how we can live our life totally.

"I want another job!!! Put me to work, Great Spirit, Great Mystery. I am delighted to Serve."

with love and blessings,

Sarah dancing temple Priestess

Inner Rhythm

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

My heart leapt out of my body

Sun setting

Ice melting

Waters opening

Clock ticking

Children growing

My heart has leapt out of my body

chasing the chocolate eyes of my only child

I wonder why it is he dines with a strange, orderly woman tonight?

I see her at the Parent-Teacher meeting

pretending

to be his Mother

She is not.

So, here I nap.

the Sabbath nap

in a funny man's house

He collects egg shells in a jar on the kitchen counter

and smashes them with a mallet as the jar fills up

pulverized bits of calcium

once ovalic homes for little chicks

smashed to bits

Security of the Mother

loving her Child

Will you show me the art of Mothering and living abundantly from my Heart?

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

My heart leapt out of my body

watching the wordless girl

clacking rocks together

blowing feathers around the room

dancing with the flame

See how she is True?

See her follow?

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

My heart leapt out of my body

when I witnessed the Dark One,

Latisha,

speak her Truth

with her whole body

looking straight into the eyes of the

Patriarch

he dissolved before her

and found himself

in a puddle

reborn

She positioned herself

before me

I became her 'back', so tho speak

She became my voice, our voice,

the voice of the collective feminine divine

returning

The circle was the community

witnessing

In circle we are one

Holding her

Her pain

is mine/ours.

My pain

is hers/everyone's

Her power is

my power

My power

is her/everyone's power

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

My heart leapt out of my body

when the red-headed, freckle-faced boy

leapt over the fire

so naturally,

so gleefully

This is not your average

day at school

Chaos reigns here

New moon

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

Inner rhythm

My heart leads my body

Listen

Living like this requires Coeurage

My heart

March 2011

by Sarah dancing temple priestess

Love Magick

This piece of art was created by Sarah this Valentine's Day. Deeply inspired by the love and creativity that moves through and touches all, whether we are in a sacred partnership with another or not, this love is an offering, a blessing of Magick.The spell of forgetting would be broken and eyes would widen with wonder and miracles would come forth and LOVE would burst forth for the truest memory of LOVE is everywhere and within everyone.

from Gail Swanson's, "Heart of Love - Mary Magdalene Speaks"

Snow fort

home of whiteness

glowing castle magick

oh how I love to sculpt this stuff

Fortress

Sing We Noel

I was lifted and opened by the sweet voices of this year's Mother & Daughter choir which performed at St. John's Lutheran Church in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia on December 22, 2010. Here is captured one of their pieces, an Ethiopian piece called, Issay!Issay! Directed by Leslee Barry of Clearland (near Mahone Bay) and supported by an amazing team of talented instrumentalists including the young 15 year old, Kathryn Wagner you see on piano in this short video. Enjoy!

If you have a relationship,

you tell the truth.

If you don't,

you have an entanglement.

Most communication can be cleared up in 10 minutes

if people are communicating heart to heart.

Gay Hendricks

We can never know real intimacy until we befriend all our feelings and inner states, including the ones hiding inside our fears. Only then can we be open with others because we are no longer afraid of what they may touch in us. Then, we can be as intimate with other people as we are with our own being and with Life itself.

Alan Lowen

The Art of Being

A November Saturday in Halifax

This film was created after a trip to Halifax with my son, Roan.

Life is always an adventure with you, dear Roan.

I love you dearly!

Lovesong Sacred Ceremony

Here is a taste of what the Lovesong offering is. We are a core group of sound healers and energy workers who are creating a safe container for you to receive a bath of sound and movement intended to renew, purify, awaken, nurture you deeply. Suzanne Hollett of Peggy's Cove is the creator of the Lovesong. Players shown in this clip are Suzanne, Kelly Beale (guitar,vocals...), Paul X Newton (didgeridoo), and me, Sarah McClure. We are now prepared to offer these healings to the public - both individual and group session work. Please contact me: sejmcclure@gmail.com or Suzanne: suzanne@thelovesong.ca with LOVESONG in the subject line. We are delighted to be of service to you!

Temple Talk with Sarah