finding purpose

Finding the Pagan Way

December, 2014

Finding Purpose

From the age of sixteen onwards, I was very much embroiled in day to day matters. Girlfriends, marriage, separation, divorce. In the world of work and business, I rose and fell . Then I rose again and fell again. When I left Ireland, I was quite broken, in many ways. I was filled with bitterness and resentment and trapped by my past. I still studied avidly. Reading was my escape and my hope for untangling the web of my past. Psychology, philosophy, magic and religion were my main interests.

I was lucky enough to meet a lovely lady, who helped me to begin to heal, and shared her home and her family with me. They were very happy years. I curtailed any practical magical work around the home,- as my youngest step-son was very sensitive to the energies that it attracted. I continued to work with groups occasionally, but most of them were disappointing. But I had a wife and a family and I was content. The only thing I regret was that I worked too many hours and missed out on some of those precious early years with the children.

Sadly, after 22 years together, she passed away from a heart attack, and I thought my life was over.

All Hallows Eve

The scratching on the kitchen door, the tapping on the window pane,
The sound of scuffling in the yard, The footsteps running down the lane,
It must be children at their pranks, you close your book and smile and shake your head,
It’s almost midnight , time to snuff the candle out and rest your weary head.

The creaking of the wooden stairs is almost deafening as you slowly climb,
You make a promise to repair them for the thousandth time,
But yet another of your many idle, ill-used days has passed,
This job could stay undone, for all you know, this night may be your very last.

The crumpled sheets feel cold and damp, the ancient mattress squeals and groans,
Its rusty springs can barely take the weight of your old creaky bones,
The grimy fireplace long unlit, A dusty mirror that reflects the gloom,
The little cobwebbed window scarcely lets, the light in from the moon.

No bed-time prayers, for prayers have long ceased to mumble from your lips,
Too many losses, to which, a broken heart could never get to grips,
Just one long sigh, perhaps a silent wish to die, you close your weary eyes,
And through the cracked and dusty window, the moon looks down in pity from the skies.

And did you sleep, and dream what happened next, the mortal world will never know,
You saw the spectre of your long lost love in shining robes as white as snow,
She takes your hand and leads you to a place with sunlit trees and flowers in bloom,
Your cast-off shell is left behind , a smiling face amongst the gloom.

Patrick W Kavanagh
04/10/12

PaganWay

 

We had moved to Lincolnshire, before my late wife had passed, and one of my stepsons had moved with us. I just wanted to fade away, but he forced me to eat. Eventually, I slowly began to be able to cope with life again. With the help of the family, we persuaded him to move back to London. I settled down to a quiet existence, still not sure if I wanted to carry on. Then one day I dozed off in the bath-tub, and woke with an urgent compulsion to write. I sat at my laptop and wrote the first poem that I ever shared with anyone. It was titled “The Goddess Calls” Having finished it, I felt I had to post it to my page on a well known social site. Many, many poems were to follow. Often I would write one in a matter of minutes and, in many ways, felt that I was not totally the author of my work.

The Goddess Calls

Who are you ?
Strange longing that has crept into my restful soul,
I hear your quiet whisper, but,in words not of my race…
There is nothing in this world is seek,- My cup is full
and yet you call me softly from some distant place.

Are you the whisper in the wind that calls my name ?
The Breaking of the waves against some rocky shore?
Or Moonlit shadows rustling in some country lane.
I feel as …if somehow you’ve called my name before.

Stay !..don’t fade away !
Your gentle torture seems to stir my bones.
I wait and listen in this dying light of day,
Perhaps My Goddess speaks in these soft tones.

Oh that I were not deaf and blind
to all those things on which my spirit soars,
If all the thoughts which cloud my mind were gone,
And only You and I remained as once before.

Patrick Kavanagh
16/04/12