Calling the Angels

Spare a prayer...

It is, quite frankly, too hard for me to write today what I was planning on writing about. I have had a weekend bombarded with the reality of violent xenophobia and there is just so much I can take. Our media are full of it, and, given that I've provided Angela and her husband with refuge, my life is now full of it too. The ignorant barbarism of it all is almost beyond me and I find it tearing at my energy.

If you are interested, and want to know me, let me know in the comments and I'll post about it later in the week. For now though, I'd rather share with you some fun, lighthearted images snapped a week ago in Franschhoek - a village about an hour from Cape Town, famed for its wonderful restaurants, fine vineyards, quirky shops and wonderful scenery.

Across the tracks and golden vineyards...

These whimsical beauties come from Pret a Pot... - a wonderful spot tucked away at a railway siding.

Russet bird - not rusted bird

Within your heart...

Mermaids ponder and plan...

Garden warrior...

We need the angels right now...

Drakenstein Autumn

Conjoined and separated - the ultimate illusion

I've recently been blessed out of my socks by three young boys who told me they are angels. And I've gone to have three separate conversations with their respective mothers talking about their child's' conversations with God and angels.

Two of the mothers are what I would call "aware". They are open to Spirit and our interconnectedness with all things. They are not what I would call "flakey" - both are grounded and successful in their own right. While both worry how the world will respond to their young sons' divine conversations and recognition that they stem from Source (or God, or whatever you choose to call "It"), they at the same time do not discourage their boys from these conversations. Instead they support and honour them.

The third mother, on the hand, blushed to the roots of her hair when her son told me that he and God and the angels spoke regularly.
"This is so embarrassing," said the mother, "I hope to God he'll grow out of it."
(Ironic choice of language, don't you think?)
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, you know, it's just so childish. It's like believing in Santa Claus. Of course, it's sweet while he's little but he's going to have to stop this nonsense sooner rather than later. People are already beginning to laugh at his funny little ways."
My heart went out to the poor little chap who would, I knew, be torn away from that to which he intrinsically knew he was part - and all because his connectedness would threaten the world's view of how things ought to be - you know, that world that so likes to control and impose rules and order as opposed to just allowing things to Be.

As I pondered these conversations the following struck me:

These children believe - no, they know - that they are sons (or daughters) of God - just as the Christ was. The only difference is this: An archangel supposedly told Mary she would give birth to the son of God and so believing the angel, the Christ was able to grow up supported by his family as indeed being the son of God. The mothers I spoke to had no such messenger visit them even though their sons, like all children, came into the world with the same knowing that the Christ had.

In the case of most children, parents have forgotten their own origins and have conformed to the fears of the world and so do not support their children's knowing that they are sons and daughters of the Divine. In fact, they actively discourage this knowing as "blasphemy".

Man, it seems, may talk or pray to God, but heaven forbid that God should talk to Man. Where, after all, would that leave organised religion... - and world order...

And so we and our children grow up being torn from that which we knew we have sprung. So begins our separation from the Light. And with that separation, and in place of Love, grows the root of fear as we forget the truth of who and what we really are. We spend the rest of our lives trying to remember who we are, trying to determine our purpose and "the meaning of life", feeling threatened, lost, angry, sore and alone, while some small part of us may hope that we'll find our way back to our essence which we somehow, may dimly remember as residing somewhere deep within us... All the while unaware that we have been jinxed by the illusion of fear.


I trust that this post won't cause any offense - it is certainly not my intent. We are all free to follow our own paths, walk whatever journeys we must in order to find our way back to what we perceive to be the Truth. Whatever path you have chosen to walk, may blessings be heaped upon you.

Dog Tales - in memory of my beloved golden angels

Yesterday was the third anniversary of the passing of my beloved golden angel. His “brother” had passed on only six months before, so 2004 was a devastating year for me and I thought I would die of a broken heart. Everyone always referred to us as a family, Vanilla and Her Boys, and no one could imagine us as anything but together. I suppose people expected my boys to go on forever, though I, living with them, could see them growing older and frailer and their passing to the next dimension was inevitable. It took me a good long while to get past the grief and to realize that they hadn’t really gone anywhere, they’d just taken a different form. Love binds us together and is eternal and so I often wake up to sense one of them peering at me, muttering, “C’mon, Mom, when’re you going to get up?!” They’ve both been around since they left and now, as then, they continue to bring the most remarkable and vibrant loving energy into my life. Me? Flakey? Only in the best possible way!

And so I dedicate this post to Barnaby and St John, the best friends anyone could possibly have had and true, real, golden angels. And what characters they were and are.

Barnaby - 21/04/1990 - 27/11/2004

Barnaby had the most staggering zest for life. If there was a smell, he’d track it down. If it had wings or four legs, he’d chase it - rabbits, guinea fowl and squirrels lived in fear of their lives. He was the most alive, happy, friendly being I’ve ever known. His passion for life was boundless, his trust and his love unending. As the postman said to me one day, “Ma’am, mostly I’m scared of being bitten by dogs, but in this case I’m scared of being licked to death.” Barnaby had a mind of his own. He did things his way and laughed about it. He was stubborn but it was because he was on a mission of his own and there were things to do and places to see. He was also gentle and kind – he loved children even though he had little exposure to them and was delighted when small children came to visit, happy to have his ears and tail pulled, overjoyed to meet someone smaller than him. And he was inveterate gardener. I’ve plant the azalea bush, he’d dig it up. I’d plant it again; he’d dig it up again. He knew just how he expected his garden to be.

One of my most enduring memories of him stems from a spring afternoon in Guernsey… I was pottering in the garden when I heard a muffled peep, peep, peep. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from. The strangest thing was that it appeared to be following me. It had to be a baby bird but there was no sign of the small thing. As I stood there pondering, the peeping came closer. So did Barnaby - and he had a particularly pleased glint in his eye. I bent down. Yes, there is was. The peeping was coming from inside of my boy! I pried open his mouth, and there, wet, bedraggled and very annoyed, was a baby blue tit, perched on his tongue and totally unharmed. Oh yes, that’s a Golden Retriever in retrieving mode for you.

St John - 17/03/1991 - 17/04/2004

And then there was St John. If there was ever a dog with views, it was he. He turned sulking into an art form. He’d sit with his back to you and then turn slowly, to cast reproachful eyes upon you over his shoulder. You knew when you were in the pooh. But he was also a dog with the hugest heart. If you cried, he was there. If you laughed, he laughed with you – he had the most remarkable sense of humour. He believed, at 43 kilos, that he was a lap dog and loved cuddles and snuggles. He was, in many ways, the best kind of teddy bear. And he was a teddy bear because St John never met a bit of protein that he didn’t like. He was a vacuum on four legs, happy to steal food off the counter and even devoured an entire tub of margarine one day – an event which left both of us feeling decidedly ill. He also had a passion of Persian carpets. If in high dudgeon, he neatly nibbled off their fringes. You knew when you’d annoyed him – he wasn’t in the wrong, you were and that’s all there was to it.

St John also had a high leisure profile. If it wasn’t necessary to move, he didn’t. I remember the evening in Dublin when we’d returned home from a meal out. As I waited at the back door, my husband let the dogs out. There was rabbit in the garden - I spotted it and pointed it out to St John who’d ambled down the steps.
“Look, Singie, rabbit!”
Hmm, yeah, so what, he muttered.
“It’s a rabbit, Singe!”
Yeah, so…
“You’re supposed to chase it.”
I am?
“Yes!”
Oh, right.
He set off at an unenthusiastic lollop – traveling in a circle – going so slowly that eventually the rabbit was chasing him. It wasn’t until Barnaby bolted from the door that the rabbit realized it was in serious trouble and dived through the gate and bounded off down the driveway. St John meanwhile looked at me and said, And so, just what was the point of that? Huh?


Ah yes, they were characters, my boys and my life is rich and blessed with memories of them. Forever my angels are with me.

Angelic Encounters

It should be safe to take a walk. But not here. Not anymore. Not for a while…
I remember…

The greenbelt at the end of my road lies on the edge of the motorway linking the suburbs with the city. On one side of the motorway is a dairy farm with a small lake and an old Cape Dutch homestead. On the other side is a river, horse paddocks and the edge of pine plantations which go on to rise halfway up the mountain. The view from the hill looks out over rolling vineyards and towards the towering granite face of the side of Table Mountain. It’s beautiful. A picture of God’s grandeur and verdancy.
My two elderly Golden Retrievers and I liked to walk there.
We walked slowly, SJ with his arthritic bones couldn’t go very fast. B, the older dog, still thought he was three… We reached the top of the hill, paused to admire the view and sniff the scents. It was three in the afternoon. There were no other walkers. Not a good thing. It is wise to be wary when taking a stroll. It is not a time for reflection or meditation. This is South Africa…
I looked around - my eyes followed the path along the riverbank. Two men – about five hundred metres away from me. Black guys. This is not a statement of race. It is one of pragmatism. Most instances of crime are black on black and black on white. They looked up - saw me standing on the hill top. I watched them. They gazed back.
Turn around and go home now. The voice in my ear could not have been any clearer.
But the boys need a walk.
Not here. Not now.
Look, just because they’re black guys doesn’t mean they’re trouble. I don’t want to be another paranoid whitey.
You’re not being paranoid and your race is irrelevant.
I tell you what, I’ll go along a little way and if it doesn’t look good I’ll turn around.
No. Turn around now.
But…
I know you don’t want this to be race issue. But this about your safety. And you aren’t safe. Go back now. Put distance between yourself and them.
I was torn. I knew the voice was right. But I was so conscious of my paranoid whitey label. This is South Africa…
Contrary to every inner prompting I walked on.
As I descended the hill, one guy started to pee. Perhaps it was a call of nature. Perhaps it was a form of territorial behaviour. Perhaps it’s meant to cock a snook at the whitey. This is South Africa… He kept his eyes on me as he peed. Facing me. Defiant. His friend watched me too.
Shit.
Finished, he turned to his friend. The friend nodded, they shook hands and the friend started to run. Towards me. At me. Gaining pace. I should have known. This is South Africa…
“SJ,” I said, “we need to go home. I need you to run, baby, please. Try.” Fear snaked along the leads.
SJ look up at me. He understood.
We turned.
Don’t look back.
Up the hill. B bounding at my side, me dragging SJ. He couldn’t do it. I knew he couldn’t. He tried - so hard.
The guy was gaining on us. SJ was stumbling. My heart pounded. Fear throbbed in my ears.
I should have listened.
SJ tripped, fell onto the path.
The guy was close - maybe a hundred and fifty meters away.
I couldn’t leave my dog. Wouldn’t. I would take my chances.
I dropped to me knees. I stroked SJ’s head. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”
He gazed up at me, despair in his eyes.
The guy raced towards us… and stopped – as though he’d hit a wall.
A look of puzzlement flickered across his face.
He stared at me.
“He’s old,” I murmured, “old man, sore legs.”
He tried to take a step towards us – faltered... His eyes widened. He seemed held - kept back.
He glanced around. His friend was no where to be seen. He looked at us again, confusion flooding his eyes. He muttered something - and took off – dashing towards the freeway.

I have no doubt that my boys and I were protected by an angel. I have never stopped saying thank you. There are greater things in this universe than the criminality of some South Africans…


The telling of this story was prompted by a recent report that a woman narrowly escaped rape whilst walking on the greenbelt...