A Circle of Hands

I have been thinking about harmony and unity. About how, over the course of hundreds, if not thousands of years, we have moved away from the circle to form the line.

I have been thinking about the quest of the individual striving for purpose by trying to get at the head of the line, not realizing the line is an illusion.

I have been thinking about how we are birthed into human form to explore this illusion, but not to hold onto it. For there is nothing to hold onto. No hands to join your palms.

Last Friday, in my continued quest to learn the mysteries of the land near where I live, I visited the Mt. Kearsarge Indian Museum with a friend of mine. The museum, founded by Bud and Nancy Thompson, several years after Nancy taught my third grade class at Canterbury Elementary School, is deliberately arranged in the form of a circle. When you walk the rooms of artifacts recovered across the United States, your eyes pick up patterns. Themes are shared throughout the native cultures that join the people in sacred truth. The circle is one of them.

There is, by its inherent nature, no beginning or end to the circle. The line, when drawn in this form curves back to itself, and in doing so becomes part of a greater whole that never ends. Here separation is impossible. If there is a break in the circle, it ceases to be whole.

Native American Basket Art

A Continuous Circle of Hands

In my quest to find sacred sites in New England, I have been searching for circles of stone, but on Friday I found circles in other forms. Bodies, male and female, joined into circles of hands on baskets, pottery and clothing. The symbol of unity stretches across our globe.

In our more modern quest for dominance over each other, we have forgotten what it feels like to hold each others’ hands. We have forgotten that we are birthed into individuality only to discover we cannot truly make it alone. When you gaze at a circle of hands like the one show in the image above, it becomes almost an absurd hope to strive for separation.

Imagine the energy of holding an endless circle of hands. Fear has no hope here. Loneliness does not exist. The pain of the individual dissolves into the embrace of the whole. Imagine the love.

In a long ago time, this was simply Life. The Circle of Live. There is a reason thousands of years ago humankind formed circles with stones to worship Life. There is a reason why bodies of hands continuously joined, and voices sang in a circle of harmony around fires.

If you doubt the power of the circle, close your eyes with me and imagine a hug of one thousand hands.

The land still remembers its hold. Can we?

Ancient Stone Circle in Scotland

A Circle of Hands in Stone, Scotland. Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

 

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I Am

Garden Rose

A Flower of Life

 I am a collector of trash on the roadside

A mother with a gypsy soul

I am a child dancing under a filtered sky

A body waiting to ignite a billion stars

I am a river washing the sand clean

The beginning of tomorrow

And the end of yesterday

I am grace in the center

Naked

I am you

And also me

 

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Friends Don’t Give Friends 3 Star or Below Reviews

Flower card by Quilling Card LLC

A Congratulatory Card from a Friend

I was going to incorporate this concept into another blog post I am working on about self-publishing, but I feel it is important enough to warrant its own page. It happened to me and has probably happened to other writers, especially, I suspect, those who have self-published. The receiving of the dreaded 3 star or below rating on a review site by a friend, acquaintance or an anonymous reviewer. Here is my personal opinion on this: Just like friends don’t let friends drink & drive, friends don’t give friends 3 star or below reviews. I believe that goes for fellow writers, and really anyone who chooses to publicly display a review (unless that is your profession). Here is why:

Please understand that the writer whose book you have chosen to publicly rate has just laid his or her soul on the page. It is a vulnerable and courageous act. If you cannot honor the writing by the author by a 4 or 5 star rating, it is a much kinder practice not to rate at all. Most writers and avid readers recognize that a 3 star or below review will not help an author gain more readers, it will do just the opposite. If that is your intention, than you may want to question your motives. If you feel the book is honestly offensive to potential readers, than by all means, write your review. In this instance you would be doing a service of greater good. If not, consider either not posting a review at all, and/or approaching the writer directly about why you could not a post a more favorable one. You may actually be able to help the writer craft a more polished story. When I received my 3 star review by a friend of mine, I was crushed. I still am. I would have much preferred her to contact me directly, or not rate at all. I tend to believe everything happens for a reason, though, so I wrote this post to help enlighten others. I also went back through my book, since it was self-published, and caught more of the typos, formatting, and other errors I had previously missed. There are likely more (I am only human), but it did inspire me to go through it one more time, and a cleaner copy will soon be available.

Back to the bigger picture, though. The bottom line is self-published, and writers who have published under small presses, are especially vulnerable to less-than-favorable reviews. They do not often have the resources or the privilege of having multiple editors, agents and reviewers helping them polish their craft. Instead, they are doing their best to follow their passion through into publication in the hope that other readers may find a value to their words. If you personally cannot find value in their work, that is okay. Few writers hold the misconnection that their work will be adored, or will be relatable to all readers. If you are one of them, especially if you are a friend or acquaintance, simply move on to another book.  Not rating a book at all almost makes a statement.

 

 

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Where be dragons..?

Click below to learn about the next magical weekend with the Silent Eye:

Source: Where be dragons..?

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We are the Doorway – Tending the Light

A wonderful post Mommy Mystic on tending the light within. Please click the link below:

Source: We are the Doorway – Tending the Light

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Sally’a Cafe and Bookstore – New on the Shelves – A Girl Named Truth by Alethea Kehas

My new book is featured on Sally’a Cafe and Bookstore. Check it out!

Source: Sally’a Cafe and Bookstore – New on the Shelves – A Girl Named Truth by Alethea Kehas

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What we choose to remember

Forest Light

Light & Shadow

Repressed memory is a pretty common term. Most people are familiar with it, and many have probably explored their own minds in a search for what has been forgotten. When I was writing my memoir, A Girl Named TruthI spent a lot of time retrieving memories, from myself and others, and often found myself frustrated with what could not be remembered. I was obsessed with the missing gaps, not only because I wanted to fill them in with the lost scenes, I also learned a lot about what I, and others, had chosen to forget.

For example, I have no memories of going to the bathroom at night in the outhouse my family had for many years. Not one. Yet I must have. Instead, I remember the bathroom that came before the outhouse, a hole in the ground, as well as my fear of falling inside of it.

I remember being irrationally afraid of the dark and a reoccurring nightmare I had as a young child. In the nightmare, I am riding in an old brown Ford truck. My father is driving and my sister and I are crouched on the floor in terror. We are in the middle of a forest of pine trees, and swinging from their branches is a monster the size of a great ape. I always woke at the same moment, with a scream trapped in my throat, right before the monster reached the door to take me and my sister.

I don’t remember ever living with my father as a family of four. I don’t even remember visiting him before we left Oregon when I was nearly five-years-old, but when I was two-years-old, he had a fight with my mother and that became my first stored memory.

This memory is so vivid, I can tell you where I was sitting and who as on the couch beside me. I can describe for you the picture above my head. Yet, I cannot tell you what it was like to live with my father, even for half a day. And, I have a theory as to why.

In this first stored memory, I made the conscious choice, even at the young age of two-years-old, to give my father the role of villain in my story of life. My mother, in turn, I chose to love with a fierce loyalty above anyone else.

Shortly after my first memory was stored inside my mind and body, my mother ran away with me and my sister and went into hiding with the Hare Krishnas for a period of several months. Here is what I chose to remember from this long journey. The roll of green grass into blue pools of water, as well as scattered images of beautiful gods. Most of this time period has been recovered through other people’s narratives, which can be read in my memoir.

This past summer, I did some work of a regressionist/psychic friend of mine, and together we recovered some of the memories I had chosen to forget. The story, The Moon Child  came out of this remembering, but there is a more traumatic narrative I have decided not to share. What is important to the larger narrative of my life, though, is what I chose to remember as a child, what what I chose to forget, and why.  If I had decided to remember those long months in hiding, and the trauma I had endured, I would have had, I now realize, nothing to hold onto. My very foundation would have crumbled beneath me. So I made a choice for survival, as many do when they are faced with trauma, whether it be emotional, physical or both. I chose what I needed to remember and what I needed to forget.

What we choose to forget, though, lingers as truth in the recess of your body. It causes unexplainable ailments and diseases/dis-eases, until we are ready to remember. Then, if we truly want to heal and feel a greater sense of wholeness, we must ask not only what have I chosen to forget, but why have I chose to remember everything else? When we do this, our story becomes more complete. We learn why and how we have shaped our individuals lives. We may even discover that what once defined us, has changed dramatically.

 

Alethea is a writer and owner of Inner Truth Healing. Her memoir, A Girl Named Truth, is now available at Amazon and Amazon.co.uk. To learn more about Alethea, please visit her website, aletheakehas.com AGNT_CoverThumb

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