Those who know, will know what I am talking about. Those who don’t just chalk it up to Fanny’s Sctibe being ‘obtuse’ once again.
Folks, we go through this every year. You need to let up and RELAX. We are near the end of the Kemetic year and now is not the time to be overly sensitive, snippy, impatient, angry, fearful etc. We will make it through the non-days, rest assured. However, we can do that alot more easily if people would stop jumping down each other’s throats and/or doing a lot of emotional inward or outward flailing. Trust me when I say that it will not help, because it won’t.
This is the absolute roughest part of every year for us – especially those of us who are Kemetic. It is going to feel like Hell, and it really can and will be Hell for you if you wallow in it and struggle against every little thing that comes in your way. It does become a never-ending spiral that is a liot like quicksand: the more you struggle the more entrapped by the energy you become and you end up being overwhelmed and drowning in it. Stop. Be Still. Get Quiet and Relax.
Stay in your Power. Remember the very heart of your sekhem begins with YOU.
Emails do get answered, technological glitches do get fixed, bank accounts will get unfrozen, and things will sort themselves out. But for your own sake and the sake of every other person around you….Just. Be. Calm. I know it’s hard….but trust me on this one.
I was born in a small village called Dunnlauden, located near Cape Wrath on the Northwest tip of Scotland. All that you can see of the place now is a heap of rubble in the distance. That was the tower of the house of my Great Uncle, Angus McCleod.
All else are the small lines of stone foundations. Not until you’re standing directly in it, can you make out the jagged thoroughfare that cut through the centre of the village.
The last time I was there was with Sebastien on business for Cardinal Richelieu. My husband relied upon me for introductions to the Crimson Cardinal’s allies, some of whom were my own kinsmen. To say that it was awkward because I had barely seen any of my relations since my mother had died when I was very young is a supreme understatement. The mention of my mother and uncles and because my husband was French rather than English or even another Scot from a rival Clan, seemed to be enough, however. The fact that he was a Catholic and representative of France’s chief minister and could handle himself with a sword also seemed to win a few more of my recalcitrant relatives to the cause.
To be honest, I do not go there often. I really have no reason to. All of my people, my family are gone from that place after the massacre that occurred there. Those that survived were scattered to the four winds; some still living in Scotland, others shipped off to to England to work in the very halls of their conquerors. Some, like me, ended up in France and still others went to the New World.
My ties to that place other than it being the place of my birth and where my mother is buried, were broken long ago. I grew up on the Fortunate Island and spend most of my time then as now either there or in France on my husband’s ancestral lands. Part of the reason I dislike going to Scotland is that the weather in that place is probably the most miserable of any found on the Earth. The other reason I dislike it is perhaps more obvious. It’s the ghosts that now reside in that place, that keep me away. That more than anything else gives me little in the way of desire to return.
In the years that I had been attempting to revive my husband from the Realm of the Dead, I had only ever worked the Rite on Beltane and Samhain. It was only after some great reluctance that I was at last persuaded by a friend and ally that perhaps my timing was a little off. It took not a little to convince me that during Lughnasadh, when the bud and tree were in full flower and yet not quite ripe for the harvest, it would be a far more appropriate time to attempt to bring Sebastien’s spirit back from the aethers.
This night, not within my Insularium but rather within the family crypts that were nestled deep beneath the Château de Rochefort, the sweet cloying incense of aromatic herbs, frankincense, myrrh, camphor, bittersweet and copal burned upon a brazier. The scented cloud hung like a miasma sometimes seeming to take the form of watching spirits and daemons. Upon the floor both on the paving stones and upon the walls were inscribed the sigils and seals surrounding the Circle around Sebastien’s sarcophagus. Continue reading