Esther Dean on dowsing....

Here's an excerpt from an 2001 article on Esther Dean, pioneer of no dig gardening, where she discusses her use of dowsing.....

"On this sunny morning, the fabled gardener is waiting on her front porch, pet magpie on her shoulder, looking exactly as if she’s stepped out of the pages of a children’s storybook. She’s the classic image of the fairy godmother: bright eyes, apple-cheeked face, hair swept into a neat bun, her manner and figure warm and cuddly.

As she shows you around her garden, introducing each plant with its own little story or homily, there’s a sense of wonder in her expression, in every sentence.

She disappears into the kitchen to get the morning tea, and just as you’re half expecting her to pop back out having sprouted wings and a wand, she does something equally fey. “Do you know about dowsing?” she inquires brightly, plonking down a dish of her favourite dowsing pendulums and various shells, stones, brooches, crystals and rings on strings.”It’s truly so helpful... I’m a member of the British Society of Dowsers,” she adds, producing a booklet.”See all the eminent people who belong to it, all the initials and qualifications after their names. We’re not cranks, you know. Dowsing is an ancient skill, old as time.”

Soon she’s demonstrating her technique, lifting her favourite pendulum, a wooden spindle on a string and suspending it over a plate of apple tea bun. “ Is this bun good for us to eat?” she asks the pendulum, and it immediately starts rotating in a wide circle. “That means it’s positive, or feminine,” she explains. “What about this arrowroot biscuit?” The pendulum remains still. “  Hmmmph. That means its neutral, another one of those dastardly genetically modified products that have to be stopped! You’re looking sceptical dear....”

 “Yes, because it looks like you’re moving your hand to make the pendulum swing like that,” I blurt out. “ Let me try it.”

Doubting journalist holds pendulum quite still over apple tea bun, declaring, “See, it’s not moving!” Leaves hand in place, turns head to look at Deans in the ye and continue the conversation. Then, lo and behold, the blessed pendulum starts whizzing in a circle over the bun, just as it had done for her.

“I don’t believe this.” I say laughing at the absurdity of it, then test the biscuit.

“Concinced now?” queries Deans, preening. “ You have great dowsing skills, dear, you must use them every day of your life. Come her...”

Her kitchen is cluttered with plates of vegetables, bowls of fruit, mushrooms, croissants, salmon and many other things. Above the sink are three wooden pegs, painted red, on string-her dowsing pegs for shopping. “I test everything before I buy it.” She swings the peg over the tomatoes:”Are these good to eat?” Then each field mushroom: “Is this good?...No that ones trouble, out it goes, into the compost. And this cheese?”

How do people react in shops when they see her swinging a peg over a banana? “Oh” her eyes widen, “some look at me as if Im a bit odd. Others ask, ‘What are you doing?’ I reply, ‘Just testing to see if it’s good – do you want to learn how? They usually say no thank you, or shy away.

“I use dowsing when I buy anything, like clothes, shoes. I ask,’is this colour or style right for me?”

Doesn’t it take forever to do the shopping like this? “Oh no, Im very quick at it, years of practie. Here’s a tip – tie your dowsing peg on a piece of old pantyhose around your neck. That way you can keep it hidden, then stretch it out when you need it, and you never lose it.”

The pet magpie struts into the kitchen as if it owns the place, and pecks at the fridge door. “Oh you want to be fed Maggie,” sings Deans, opening the fridge and offering a ball of minced meat to the waiting beak."

Energy as magic....

"My body is all sentient. As I go here or there, I am tickled by this or that I come in contact with, as if I touched the wires of a battery."
                                   Henry David Thoreau 

I picked up a stash of pagan books and mags at a garage sale about a month ago, which Ive been working my way through since. In one volume I read a definition of magic that stuck with me in its difference. An exercise was given of placing your flat palms close to, but not touching, another persons and moving them apart, then back real close. To simply feel what you feel. Be that heat, a buzzing sensation, pins and needles or something else. That feelings the energy I call magic, the force or current used in magic, said the author, Ms Galenorn, and I rather liked that. Of course you can do it solo and still feel something, depends on ones tendencies and situation. I just liked that she included bodily felt sensation in a definition of magic.

Sensitivity to these types of feelings has occurred in other practices for me. In Tai chi, or Qi gong the presence of such energetic sensations gives feedback as my body moves through the physical excercises. At the end of a session I place my hands on my dan tien, or energy centre (either at the heart chakra or just a little above the navel) to let raised energy flow into the area, for health, calm and centring. When I place my hands close to plants I feel heat, tingling, like a circuit has been activated. Holding this stance a while seems to both aid green folk’s growth and my own earthing out in an exchange of energy that has long been valued as therapeutic. 

The different aspects of earth as a source of such energies is epitomised in the ancient art of dowsing. For water sources, mineral deposits and questions of daily life the dowser consults a pendulum or forked stick which moves in reply. Even in this age of technological gadgetry, dowsing survives, because it works. It can be used for everything from sexing a plant, finding underground water sources, checking seed viability to querying food quality. The tracking of energetic ‘ley’ or ‘song’ lines in the earth, (a bit like the acupuncturist tracing meridians in the human body) resulting in some of the ancient standing stones, monoliths and sacred sites being where they occur. Small lesser known sites that may draw us in included.  
  
"A basic principle of magic is that changes in the energy body can create changes in the physical body and vice versa." 
                                          Starhawk and Hilary Valentine in ‘The Twelve Wild Swans’

" The techniques of healing are simple enough; most of the training is about getting the healer out of the way. Healing is done with spiritual energies that come through the healer but do not emanate from her; she is the messenger not the message. Sadly, many people working with healing energies, and not only healers, forget this. Working with energy does not make you special in any way, any more (or less) than plumbers or mechanics are special. Its a skill which a healer develops, practices and applies, just like any other; moreover, it is a skill which everyone has."
        Elisabeth Brooke in ‘A Wisewomans Guide: to Spells, Rituals and Goddess Lore’ 

Some people may try to convince that large amounts of money need to be forked out to access such energy. Simply beginning with the hand excercise mentioned above sensitises one to feelings which can be built on, by shrinking or enlarging the 'ball' of energy between your hands and moving with it. 

I paid a relatively small amount for my Reiki attunemens and certification. Not because it wasnt the real deal. My teacher was a devoted meditator who saw it as a part of her dharma to spread this tool to women on low incomes. The price doesnt necessarily qualify the lessons...

Poetry as invocation....

I have begun reading Robert Graves 'The White Goddess' several times and not finished. Yet it is a thread book, that one can trace later texts to and that indeed traces threads back through time to the more ancient texts which he refers to. So Im trying again and I thought Id share a few tangents and tastes from chapter one....

Graves suggests that the traditions of the Welsh Bards were, like the Irish, memorised learnings of tales passed down to them by elders in their tradition, in a series of inititaion like revealments. A deepening of soul, echoed in the poetic words spoken, that could strip a man to the bone or flesh up his wounds.

He describes the evolution of different styles flowing on historically from such ways in Wales. The wandering minstrels, and the court bards. The courtly poets being subject to pressures of content and form by king, then church (recorded in its written texts). Whilst the other was free to perform in any manner they preferred,  indeed suggesting that they held some of the previous magical use of the word that traditional Welsh poetry is honoured for. Poetry as invocation, but of what?

This is where Graves introduces his theme of she who 'will suddenly transform herself into sow, mare, bitch, vixen, she-ass, weasel, serpent, owl, she wolf, tigress, mermaid or loathsome hag. Her names and titles are innumerable. In ghost stories she often figures as 'The White Lady', and in ancient religions from the British Isles to Caucasus, as 'The White Goddess.' Indeed, Graves puts forward that the best of poetry is dedicated to a vision of her, that makes the hairs on ones arm stand on end. She is the muse of the master poet. In parallel dancing her relationship to the God, echoed in seasonal cycles of death and rebirth, as also proposed in Fraziers 'The Golden Bough'. 

Both these texts were about unearthing prechristian traditions. They went on to influence later minds like Gerald Gardner, and in the case of the Golden Bough, also the patterns of annual festivals celebrated by many pagans today. They are of another time, the 50s and 60s, but i do believe they hold keys. 

 Caitlan Mathews quotes Wallace Black Elk in reference to the piecing together of whats been left to us by previous generations, 'There is ' he said, 'no such thing as a forgotten tradition. It is possible to neglect such traditions, but these can always be recovered. No tradition ever dies until the last person who honours it dies.

"Discover thou what is
The strong creature from before the flood,
Without flesh, without blood,
Without head, without feet,
It will neither be older nor younger
Than at the beginning;
For fear of a denial,
These are no rude wants
With creatures.
Great God! how the sea whitens
When first it comes!
Great are its gusts
When it comes from the south;
Great are its evaporations
When it strikes on coasts.
It is in the field, it is in the wood,
Without hand and without foot,
Without signs of old age,
Though it be co-eval
With the five ages or periods;
And older still,
Though they be numberless years.
It is also so wide;
As the surface of the earth;
And it was not born,
Nor was it seen.
It will cause consternation
Wherever God willith.
On sea, and on land,
It neither sees , nor is seen.
Its course is devious,
And will not come when desired
On land and on sea
It is indespensible.
It is without an equal,
It is four sided,
It is not confined,
It is uncomparable;
It comes from four quarters;
It will not be advised,
It will not be without advice.
It commenceth its journey
Above the marble rock.
It issonorous, it is dumb,
It is mild,
It is strong, it is bold,
When it glances over the land,
It is silent, it is vocal,
It is clamorous,
It is the most noisy
On the face of the earth.
It is good, it is bad,
It is extremely injurous,
It is concealed,
Because sight can not percieve it.
It is noxious, it is benificial;
It is yonder, it is here;
It will decompose,
But will not repair the injury;
It will not suffer for its doings,
Seeing it is blameless.
It is wet, it is dry,
It frequently comes,
Proceeding from the heat of the sea,
And the coldness of the moon.
The moon is less benificial,
In as much as her heat is less.
One being has prepared it,
Out of all creatures,
By a tremendous blast,
To wreak vengence
On Maelgwyn Gwynedd."

It is 'The Wind'. Riddled by Taliesan as a child....

Resources:
Lyra Celtica: An Anthology of the Poetry of the Celt, edited by EA Sharp and J Matthay, 1896
The Encyclopedia of Celtic Wisdom: The Celtic Shamans Sourcebook by Caitlan and John Mathews, 1994
The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion by Sir James Frazer, 1950
The White Goddess by Robert Graves, 1962

Soils and health...

On the weekend I went to a gardening workshop with a mate, organised by 'One Organic' it has reinspired me. That the future of food production is in smaller scale lots tended with intention and loving care, rather than large scale agronomy where the pressure of making a profit is applied. That the foods and medicines harvested reflect this input and approach. That there is a relationship between soil fertility and our health.

'Being a servant of the land instead of making the land a slave'.
 
An example of the interrelationship between the soil and our bodies, is the balance of microorganisms. The proportion of friendly to nasty in the soil is 85% to 15%, exactly the same as in the human digestive tract. However some folks nowadays come closer to the directly opposite figures of 15% friendly to 85% nasty. You can imagine why you might feel lack lustre in such circumstances and in the context of soil, why plants trying to grow in such conditions might be lacking in vitality. The answer is nourishing ingredients in both cases.

For soils, one answer is 'green manure', not unripe poo (although that too helps), but  a crop thats planted out, usually peas, legumes or beans, allowed to grow to a certain height, then cut down to fall back onto the soil and break down. Thus making available the nutrients gathered by the crop for what ever gets planted out next. Creating available nutrition and compost.

For humans one answer is to include living and fermented foods in the diet. Enzymes are living parts of our digestive processes (and the soils), we are born with them, but in finite amounts. Living fruit and veg, not overcooked, vine ripened, contain within the enzymes needed to digest them, hence reducing the use of a finite resource.

 The Findhorn community is an example of working with poor soils to cocreate abundant nature . They began as a small crew of people on low incomes living on the Scottish coast, who set about making a garden on sandy soils, with wild weather conditions. They became dedicated to working with both the spirits of the land and the plants, consulting them daily as to how to proceed. What to plant, where to plant it. How to nourish the land. The abundance and size of their harvests came to be recognised world wide.

So our vegie patch has been planted out with a mix of mung, black eyed and adzuki beans as an experiment in green manure and Ive pulled out my books on Findhorn to reread.  Inspired once more thanks to folk who believe in the magic of growing and preparing your own food as medicine.

Resources:
.
The Findhorn Garden: Pioneering a New Vision of Man and Nature in Cooperation
by The Findhorn Community, Turnstone Books and Wildwood House Ltd, 1975

Amazing foliage....

How often do we think to thank or adore the humble leaf? They are a source of food, medicines, charms, paper and clothing even, yet have a way less glamorous reputation than flowers or fruits. In the wildly subtropical part of my garden however, I have come to a place of noticing how many aesthetically pleasing and unusual leaves can be grown. There's something lush and exotic about such plants, who's beauty lasts all year round. Im not sure what practical purpose it serves for the plants, perhaps like brightly coloured frogs it says to predators 'toxic don't eat me'. Indeed the insects that attack my ferns and staghorns seem to be leaving these guys alone. Many of them are specific to low light areas, so perhaps the colours play a role in this too. Anyways, just thought Id share some of them as they are so surprising....

The Green Woman Tale...

Part one:

As science broke down plants into the parts of them ‘active’, or companies focused on introducing ‘new’ wonder herbs, there was something that fell away, was veiled. It wasn’t that the information wasn’t valid, but that it was touted as the only route to understanding and clear seeing. One that missed that unnameable blend that nature creates in a plant, that’s not measureable. A kind of essence....
Sam had watched her aunt when she came across a plant she didn’t know....
There was a recognition and respect with which she approached it, a sitting with. Deep breathing, so slow as to be almost imperceptible...like the pulsing of the plants own inhalation, exhalation. Carbon dioxide in, oxygen out. Receiving...giving....receiving....giving.... each life form echoing the other. Some observers might see nothing going on, but it was a simple ritual ancestors had practiced back through time....
Perhaps there were physical similarities to plants she knew, a shared hereditary that could give clues as to its strengths, never assuming over familiarity with a potential new friend. A small piece in the mouth and chewed, spat out immediately if the taste was unpleasant. No one said you had to eat a whole lot to get to know a plant! If it passed this somewhat intuitive test agreeably, she held it in her mouth and felt for burning, tingling, other sensations, any change in taste. If there was none , then she swallowed. Then she waited, feeling overnight for effects. Then, again, a little more, repeating the same process. If no ill effects were noticed, over time, it was considered edible. But if there were noticeable effects, they would be explored carefully, they could be clues to medicine contained within.
Nowadays it would be sent off for testing, active ingredients explored and nutritional percentages analysed. If it proved ‘valuable’, they might be isolated and reproduced, to be bought as pharmaceutical drugs. All the while emphasising the danger of utilising the plant for common folks, without degrees...odd paradox. It was the taking away and then reselling it back to people that seemed dodgey. Surely once medicinal properties are identified, one aware of the range of processing, in tradition for so long, could access it and if it was poisonous you can bet it’d be remembered!
What a way to gather plant knowledge, through experiential learning. There were enough manuscripts gathered now that could be cross referenced if needed too....
All this was jumbling around in her mind, along with her bowels, as the bus shook along the dirt road. She was on her way to visit said aunt for a couple of weeks, annual pilgrimage.  Same time every year. Get away from concrete and computers. Fear encouraging news reports on violence and impending doom. She was headed for the perfect antidote. Auntie Clarissa wasn’t your average grey haired pucker cheeked robust smiling eyes stereotype, she was all that plus a kick on her like a mule! You just knew the kettle’d be on the boil in preparation for your arrival accompanied by an opinionated rave on her latest project. Simple pleasures that’s what I need she thought, enough with appointments and timetable living...
She gazed out at the passing world hazily with the odd percussive bump...
“This is your stop me dear”, the bus drivers voice woke her from internal ramblings. She gathered her bags and jumped up, “thanks”, “Nice to see you around again luv”. She bounced down the steps and almost right into the series of individually crafted mailboxes that marked journeys end, and the lanes. One an old dairy tin, one an old bent shovel, one aged but elegantly carpented...
She checked the box and got set for heading up the lane, that cup of tea seeming elementally desirable as the bus kicked back dust into her vision. Hang on, there was something in the box. A small parcel, oddly enough in Clarissa’s own handwriting, addressed to Sam. That’s odd , still I guess she’ll reveal all, in her wise way. It was heavy in her hands, and her curiosity was barely able to be kept at bay to not bust it open then and there. Full of surprises as usual she thought absentmindedly. At that point she had no idea how right she was...
It wasn’t unusual for Clarissa not to be around when you arrived, she might be off wild crafting or just meandering about soaking in the day. Sam sat down, the kettle was on the pot belly stove which wasn’t lit, she probably got distracted half way through, the fire was laid ready to light. Sam looked at the parcel she held. It was brown paper bound in string, with enough sticky tape to stop an army, but being one mere woman she found a knife and cut it open. Inside was a leather pouch, soft to the touch with wear. Inside it was a set of playing cards and a note. No, they weren’t  a deck to play poker with she realised as she shuffled through them, they were some kind of divination or tarot deck. The drawings were mostly in earthy tones, pencil with watercolour washes layered over. The imagery was detailed, figures seemed to blur boundaries with plants and animals interlaced with labyrinthine patterns, like Escher’s art they warped and confused seeing. The note...sure enough, was in aunties script, more scribble actually, but she read on...
“Got called away, someone’s trying to shut down Edna’s medicine making, say its unhygienic and unsafe, danger to public health, never heard anything more ridiculous in my life! She’s so house proud it’s virtually an obsession. Anyway love, might take a week or so to sort this out, so make yourself at home and I’ll see you when I’m looking at you. The sheer arrogance of so called regulators, the things these people do to ones nerves. ”
Sam could almost see her shaking her head, and smiled. “Oh yes the cards I found in a rare cleanup, they belonged to your mother, never really fancied them myself. Anyways, enjoy them, but don’t get too serious eh?” No Clarissa, and yes I am happy to water all your multitudinous, slightly limp plants.
They are engaging, she thought gazing at the card she held, as her vision traced a vine like sworl of lines, morphing into a vortex, almost trance inducing, as they became a waterfall and then a river. A leaping salmon that had such eyes she felt guilty as she thought with her belly, fresh fish.....mmmm. But the card was so engrossing it took her a time to connect with her inner ravenous hunger and put it down, leaving it upturned, the others in the bag. Transfiguration, she thought absentmindedly as she bent to light the fire and looked around her....odd word.....
The house was brimming with natural chaos, “Seems they got the wrong woman with Edna” she thought. Cuttings at various stages, potted up plants, piles of paper with illustrations and notes, books, vases of unusual flowers, and a vine that had wedged a way through a crack and was firmly making its way towards the study. Although there really wasn’t any distinction between ‘the study’ and the rest of the small cottage. The sofa had a doona on it for handy napping and there were bookshelves in every room. To give credit where due, her medicine area was scrupulously organised, with a book at the end of the shelves listing what was in stock, or needed topping up. Sam knew Clarissa rarely treated anyone, her main relationship was with the plants, and the tinctures, dried herbs, flower essences, infused oils and god knows what else, were a side tangent that possibly Edna had some of. Hence her aunt was partly responsible for her troubles. Edna had been a chemist in the 1930’s during the great depression, after which she turned and applied her knowledge and skills to what she called ‘peoples medicine’ and she and Clarissa became firm friends. One trained by science, the other by growing and wild crafting.
Sam headed for the fridge. To her delight there was a variety of tempting smelling cheeses, some smoked trout and bread. Any tomatoes Clar? Perfect. She prepared her snack, deciding after to go harvest some parsley, mint, chickweed and see what else was up in the garden. The garden was a continuum of the houses energies, the two blending into each other, and then finally into the forest....
The relationship between us and plants has been around as long as we have existed. Our ancestors were probably algae, or ate them, as they developed limbs and animalian conciousness in primordial slime, she thought. Returning her gaze to the card she noticing something she hadn’t before, a hemlock plant dappled with purple on its stem not unlike the colouration on the fishes skin. How did I miss that? I must be tired. Garden later, cat nap first. Sofas ready, willing and able to provide. It felt good to be here, the to do lists she had left behind seemed a million miles away as she slipped into sleep. 
 She dreamed of a man with a trout skin cloak, dappled in greens, blues and purples. A man with wild eyes and a feel of the shaman about him, who spoke languid as water. Touched u are, like your grandmother, and he reached out a hand and placed it on hers, cold and damp, there’s danger and you know it. That’s why your here innit, before they come, to save the ol ways from em. She raised her eyes to his and saw they had no pupils, round and dark like pools. Watch yourself, they come in forms to deceive, he  whispered in a burbling and bubbling, then was gone like a vision, and she awake as morning. Jesus that fish must have been off she thought scrabbling for distance, her conscious mind alerted and shaking off sleep....

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If you enjoyed this part, the tale continues. Just look on the sidebar for the link to the page where it is.

The forest of compassion....

            The path towards the forest that contained the trees of sadness was a well worn one. Many bare footfalls had indented it into the earth exposing roots that could trip one if unaware. A hollow wind moved between branches carrying memories that haunted tear stained eyes, drying the salty wetness. Autumn had left the trees exposed, their tortured limbs twisted with grief. 

An empty place one might think and yet where the trees touched each other there was a smoothness to their trunks, as if a warm energy had been exchanged massaging the wrinkles of worry away from them, and on the ground below this smoothness small sproutlets of greenery were appearing, unfurling fern fronds, orchid stems flourishing in the humid moisture the shared tears of branches created.

 If a traveller was to lift their head for a moment and reach out to touch the smoothness the whole forest would shiver in gratitude and empathy and a whisper of music would echo through the space. The loneliness of the trees speaking through instruments no human hand had created, for who wants to wander long in the forest of sadness and yet so many find themselves there, some becoming lost and never finding their way from amongst its arms.

 For the ways to and from there are as many and varied as there are creatures who walk, swim or fly on the globe that its roots reach into, and for each person the way out is different.Some in a daze of forgetfulness remember no other landscape and become rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in time they grow roots and wooden limbs and find themselves one of the very trees they once wandered amongst. 

So it is also the forest of compassion for it feels with the journeyers who pass its way and it is this compassion that fertilises a small field of white roses in the very heart of the woods, where the paths are softened by silk-like petals and the air is perfumed. If one finds her feet walking this path she is changed forever, it is here that friends sit quietly waiting to gently offer a way home.