Over one week without your worst addiction and favourite creative block does things to you. To me, a broken computer—and a very exciting visit to the Witchcraft Museum in Castilla Y León—made me finish three books I’d been ‘reading’ for the past three months, write at least two songs, walk the Labyrinth on a daily basis and, best of all, go back to my magical log book, which I call ‘Book of Stars’ instead of the usual ‘book of shadows’. My Book of Stars feels very clearing, infinite and full of bright gems to me.
I had been keeping records of my Otherworld visits, synchronicities, skills learnt, tools acquired and general experiences since when I was 11 years old, but I made that a solid habit and a diligent procedure in 2003, which was perfect timing, right when I went really down with one of the hugest depression crises to date.
Taking stock opens the doors to Wonders. Clowns, faeries, ghosts, and all the fantastic fauna pressed and squashed between the pages are able to breathe again, and come together with you, to heal, recover, and retrieve a natural and very healthy sense of Pride. The kind that usually fades out when you move in with somebody else, a long way from the place you first called home.
All lives are filled with wonder. We all fly to the Stars, excavate ancient treasures and swim the Waters of Life on a regular basis; we are just not trained to remember that when quotidian life tramples over the delicate signals we receive all the time. Without a travel log, it is easy to forget how a hazelnut guaranteed the passage to the Mystic Grove, and how a shower with water of white roses prepared one to meet the Lady of the Lake in Her underwater castle.
But as you recollect and reminisce, you marvel at how present the wisdom and the learning of it all has always followed you, everywhere and all the time.
Plans to expand the circumference of my praxis magica have already been put to practice. And some others for a more systematized Book of Stars are soon to be, too. As I have grown denser and more comprehensive with age, I feel the need of a corresponding travel log, especially for easier reference and wiser record keeping. I’ll probably be glad I did it another four years in the Future.
Onward, I turn. Spiralwise.
I had been keeping records of my Otherworld visits, synchronicities, skills learnt, tools acquired and general experiences since when I was 11 years old, but I made that a solid habit and a diligent procedure in 2003, which was perfect timing, right when I went really down with one of the hugest depression crises to date.
Taking stock opens the doors to Wonders. Clowns, faeries, ghosts, and all the fantastic fauna pressed and squashed between the pages are able to breathe again, and come together with you, to heal, recover, and retrieve a natural and very healthy sense of Pride. The kind that usually fades out when you move in with somebody else, a long way from the place you first called home.
All lives are filled with wonder. We all fly to the Stars, excavate ancient treasures and swim the Waters of Life on a regular basis; we are just not trained to remember that when quotidian life tramples over the delicate signals we receive all the time. Without a travel log, it is easy to forget how a hazelnut guaranteed the passage to the Mystic Grove, and how a shower with water of white roses prepared one to meet the Lady of the Lake in Her underwater castle.
But as you recollect and reminisce, you marvel at how present the wisdom and the learning of it all has always followed you, everywhere and all the time.
Plans to expand the circumference of my praxis magica have already been put to practice. And some others for a more systematized Book of Stars are soon to be, too. As I have grown denser and more comprehensive with age, I feel the need of a corresponding travel log, especially for easier reference and wiser record keeping. I’ll probably be glad I did it another four years in the Future.
Onward, I turn. Spiralwise.
Image: One of Lady Cottington’s victims, displayed in her ‘Pressed Fairy Book’, by Brian Froud. Do not pity him. As soon as the book is open, he’ll be alive again.
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