That time I met Jesus at a Pagan festival

How have I not written about this? I feel like I did, but there's no post here. Maybe I did it on Facebook? If I did there, it's not like I'll ever find it so.. Let's add it here.

Like many Italian girls (and for my Dad I'll also tell you that I'm about a quarter German, with a dash of Irish, and a pinch of Dutch although we didn't know that about the Irish and Dutch till about 10 years ago since Gram didn't like Irish people), I was raised Roman Catholic. I got all the sacraments up to Confirmation, including Baptism and 1st Communion (wait... is a wedding a Sacrament? Because I was married in the Church, too), but overall we weren't hardcore Catholics at my house. My mother read cards, had psychic mediums as friends, taught us to safely use a spirit board. We didn't go to church every Sunday, but when we did, I didn't like it much. My parents couldn't take Communion since my father had been married for about a year while he was in the Air Force, which was before marrying my mother, and since they didn't have $1K to annul that first marriage... no Communion for them, ever.

Not cool, Church. Not cool.

So, I was raised Catholic, and born on Christmas. Right there, that's a connect with the Big J that some other people don't have. We bro'ed out as Birthday Twins, and I liked it. I liked him. He was a long-haired, radical guy who loved everyone, mostly. Can't argue much with that, but as I got older I found lots of things I could argue with. Lots. Loads. Tons.

I didn't see myself reflected back at me in Church. I mean, because while us Catholics had Mary, technically you weren't supposed to pray to her. You were supposed to pray to Mary to intercede for you in asking her son to help you.

Ok, so wait. The most rad woman living at the time, chosen to bare the Savior can't get the job done for me?

Whatevs.

Mary's "Whatever" face

So, with all those problems regarding the stances the Church has taken, I left the Church and started the path that I'm still on today. It was for the most part easy to leave, and I have never carried an ex-Catholic chip on my shoulder about the Church. We just didn't mix well together. But like a good little Capricorn, ruled by Saturn, not so very deep down I always felt a bit guilty.

"Jesus is probably mad at you," said my trusty Catholic guilt. "Maybe you can slide under the radar with all this. Right?... No. Jesus is probably mad at you."

"Whatcha doin'?"

I'm being humorous, but really, it did bother me. I'm quite a loyal person. I've never broken up with anyone, and I rarely quit anything. I also don't like disappointing people. So, while moving on from Catholicism wasn't hard, I was troubled in some aspects.


That was 1998. In 2002, I went to my first Starwood Festival, back when it was in New York State at Brushwood. That week changed me in so many ways, and for so many reasons... even if it still took me another year to shower without my bathing suit on in the community bath house. A girl needs time, you know.

Starwood always culminates with the Saturday night sacred bonfire. I'd been around countless campfires, but this ain't no Girl Scout campfire, kids. This is the Starwood Bonfire.

It's closing in on 40 years that this festival has been going on, and it spent quite a few of those years at Brushwood. Attendance was upwards in the hundreds, maybe something close to 8 or 9? Even more would pile in for Saturday nights. So, a lot of people. Attendance is getting back up there now that it's moved to Wisteria.

 The bonfire is accompanied by drumming, singing, chanting...and what I didn't know about myself back then was my ability for trance work. Remember, this was 2002, and I had only just started working as a Guide in Seidth rituals, the reconstructed Norse version of trance as taught to me by Freya Aswynn, who learned from Diana Paxon. I hadn't taken the seat yet, nor been trained by Janet and Gavin in Trance Prophecy.

There was this fire, all these magical people, the drums, the singing. I stood there with Scott and Christine in total awe. I knew that everyone was gathering their gods around the fire, I could feel them, and so I thought I'd take a walk. 

The drummers were all to my left (it's funny..that's still where I hang out every year at the bonfire) and I walked past them only to see a long haired, caramel colored handsome man, and two women, one young, one slightly older, sitting on a blanket to the right of the last drummer. There were the three of them, but it was him that I honed in on. Because it was Jesus.

Before I knew it, I was sitting beside him on the blanket. 

"What are you doing here?" I asked, in complete amazement. Because, hello, this isn't his Church. 

"Where else would I be?" he replied with a smile. 

And then I felt that crushing guilt, because now he knew, officially, that I was with the witches and pagans, and that I'd left him. 

I didn't have to say anything. He said, "Stop. It's okay. All that guilt you've been carrying is just from you. You and I are good. You have to do this." 

He then took hold of the hand of the younger of the two women, the one that was beside him. They just smiled at me, and I understood this was the Magdalene, and she was his partner. I looked at the other woman who sat behind us on the blanket. She was quietly sewing. I understood this was the Virgin, his mother.

There was Jesus, with his two favorite ladies, hanging out on a blanket at a Pagan festival. 

"Where else would I be?"

Where else, indeed.

In that instant, all my guilt was gone. He wasn't angry, wasn't going to "punish" me. He'd blessed my journey, and blessed this newbie witch with a healing my heart needed. 

The next thing I knew, Scott and Christine were waving their hands in my face, shouting my name. "Where were you!? You were just staring at the fire not responding!"

"No I wasn't... I was talking to Jesus..."

Gone was the blanket, and so was this special Trinity. 

I'll be forever grateful, and like Jackson Brown, I'll always be "a heathen, and a Pagan, on the side of the Rebel Jesus."

My children are gifts from a Faery, and I'm not kidding.

I'm really not kidding. Not at all. While my boys obviously have a human father, the reason they exist is because of a Faery and the healing he gave me.

This will probably be long, and it's something I have meant to write for over 13 years. I need to get it down here before my memory gets worse than it already is because I want my boys to know their story. I could write it just for them, but I also think stories about magic and healing should be shared 'cause gods know that there are so many stories out there that are anything but. I also need those of you who know my boys to tell them this exists if something ever happens to me.



Having children was not easy for me. Seven years and two losses before Aidan (and two after Ciaran that confirmed that I would never try again) included multiple fertility doctors and various combinations of oral fertility drugs that didn't work. Emotional meltdowns ensued when serious fertility drugs were the next option and from having been told that being so young and otherwise healthy, I was facing the potential of having so many embryos from such drugs that I'd have to kill some. Also, what 25 year old has that kind of money when/if the first round of donated drugs didn't work? For my sanity and well-being, I had to walk away from Western infertility treatment. I still remember running down 29th street and away from the doctor's office.

Various trips to a Chi Gung practitioner from China came next as well as teaching myself about herbalism and three years of acupuncture appointments. If you are around Port Jefferson, NY go see Christie Harrington. He's a living angel. Or at least he's one to me. He took care of me mentally as well as physically from the moment I sat down with him, and it didn't matter that he wasn't a woman or American as I thought this person would be (things I specifically wanted after working with the Chi Gung practitioner who was hard to talk to for various reasons); he was everything I needed.


It's not until this exact moment that I'm making a connection between his heritage and what was to come. Christie is from Ireland, born and raised. That beautiful accent and everything. And Ireland is where my boys come from.


I'd been to Ireland once before this trip I made in 2004, but only for a weekend as I was really visiting England with Scott. There is something so special and so otherworldly about Ireland. I can't explain it well, but if you've been there then you know. I should have known something was up when I got the plane ticket from London to Dublin for .01 euro cent. Yep. A cent.

The first time I put in the requested flight info, I assumed I'd made a mistake. So, I did it again. A cent. I stared at the screen. That's when my then best friend walked in and I showed her the computer screen. I tried it a third time. Still a cent. So, we booked the flights. After taxes, it was about $40. The trip across the sea was coming standby from her Aunt who was a flight attendant, so basically I was getting a flight to Ireland for $40.01.

What?

London, Then Dublin

She and I spent one night in London. That in itself is a whole blog post on how Expedia hotel reviews are sometimes totally bogus and I literally lived the National Lampoon European Vacation London hotel scenes. I slept in the sun in a park someplace because we were scared of the hotel.

While I'm obviously not sleep here, I did sleep next to these sweet little flowers

Ryan Air flight to Dublin the next day, a rental car and a Rand McNally map (one of those big, hardcore book ones because hello, foreign country and its 2004 and no one has cell phones or GPS), plans to visit with Janet Farrar and Gavin Bone (before they were Auntie Jan and Uncle Gav) and rooms at two B&B's in Dun Laoghaire. And that's not 'Dun Laow-ga-hairy' but 'Dun Leary'. You know, Gaelic.

The plans were to do the 'spiritual sightseeing' to sacred sites during the day, and at night wander Temple Bar pubs for fun. In fact, the first night there was the night I went to the one and only strip club I've ever been to with a group of Irish boys we met at a pub and who paid our way. It was an experience.

We found our way easily to Herne's Cottage in Kells where Janet and Gavin live. It was such a nice visit, and I distinctly remember three things:

* Janet making me touch stinging nettles in the garden so she could take the sting out with another plant.
* The feel of the area where they work their outdoor rituals. "Gav, she feels it!"
* Their eyes looking way deeper into me while we sat in the living room than I expected. It was a total 'sizing up.'

They gave us directions to a local sacred well where the Salmon of Knowledge was said to swim past, however we couldn't find it. After going back to the cottage for help, they loaded us into the Land Rover and drove us there themselves.

It was May, and the hawthorn was blooming. "Kiss the girls, Gav!" It's a Beltane thing, I was told. Sweetly, we each got a kiss on the cheek.

At this well, there were two faery trees. People hang petitions to the fey or the Saint of the well usually regarding healing on these trees. It's interesting the way Catholic and Pagan practices live alongside each other there.

I heard this older of the two trees fell in a storm last year or so.. it made me sad.

The two trees are on the right. The one I worked with in the foreground. That's Janet on the left.

Anyway, I was told about these trees and that I could make a request of the fey if I had something to give them. The only thing I had was an earring I really loved. It was about 8" long with a star at the end of the chain. That tree there in the front of the above picture? It was the faery tree that Janet and Gavin had started, and other people added to, and so I gifted the fey that earring with a request:

"I would like to have a baby. And I'll wait as long as I have to, but I would rather be younger than older so I can keep up with them."

I still remember it so clearly.



We left the well, got back to the cottage, and were sent off with hand drawn maps and a list of things to do. Things like Slane, Tara, Newgrange and Loughcrew Cairns, where the Caillighe's chair is and the place Janet scattered Stewart's ashes.

A list of things to see, and a map of Loughcrew Cairns

The Beginning

We went to Tara first, after leaving the cottage. Something happened there. To this day I'm not exactly sure if we did something wrong, or if what started there was a lesson for me in regards to the controlling 'plans are plans and you can't deviate from said plans' tendency that I used to have. Ok, maybe I still have them but they are nothing like they were then.

We wandered the site, just she and I and some sheep. It was beautiful, and haunting, and we kept hearing drums or music of some kind. I even have a picture of her trying to block the wind from her ears so she could focus on listening. At the edge of the site there is this beautiful tree, that just pulls at you. So we went there.

Tara's hawthorn tree

 I remember that I picked up some trash from around the tree, and I've sometimes wondered if I messed up something. I go back and forth because soda cans and water bottles shouldn't be left behind, but it's just that I look for anything to explain what happened after we left and every day after that. I also brought back a feather from a goose.

I just Google mapped the distance between Tara and Dun Laoghaire. It should take about 45 minutes. Know how long it took us? 

5 hours. 

5 hours with a map and never making a turn. And in case you forgot, Ireland is an island. You can't drive north continuously for 5 hours from someplace just south or southwest of Dun Laoghaire area and not end up in the ocean. We thought we could take the M50 around Dublin to Dun Laoghaire when coming back from Tara, but in 2004 the M50 wasn't completed. So we ended up off the highway, driving for 5 hours, never making a turn, passing the same buildings and businesses, with the Wicklow Mountains always behind us and Dublin ahead of us...and just couldn't get there. 

She tried driving with me reading the map. I tried driving with her reading the map. No luck. 5 hours. 

And then I remembered something Janet had said earlier in the day: "If you step in a Faery ring, you'll get lost. So, to find your way home, turn all your clothes inside out and keep candy in your pockets to drop on the ground for the fey."

I was then yelling for her to pull over. In a random petrol station parking lot, we took off our clothes, turned them inside out, put them back on, went inside, bought Skittles, dropped them on the ground with a request to find our way back to the B&B, and in less than 20 minutes, that's where we were. I couldn't believe it. 

Being lost in a foreign country is stressful. It wasn't going to be the last time. 

Faery "Torture"

I was in Ireland for ten days. I think eight of those days were torturous. I'll explain.

We couldn't leave the Bed and Breakfast before noon, or sometimes 1pm each day. We'd have the car keys one minute and lose them the next. Or wallets. Had them one minute, can't find it the next. Time was just... strange. And Gavin said it would be. He wasn't kidding.

Each night, my dreams were wild and confusing. There was a man running around in the first dream, and he had puppy-like excitement. When I described him to Christine, that was my friend's name, I used a guitar player we both knew to describe him, as that's who he reminded me of, and anyway, that guitar player always had a 'pixie' like quality to him. The next night, it was the guitar player, but he was acting just like the man from the dream the night before. Again, I would describe it all to my friend, and each night there was another piece to the story. He'd question the things I would say about him in waking hours, riddling me with words and images.

One particular dream, he said to me, "So, I hear you like my legs." I knew it was because I had described him like Pan that day, but I said, "except for the shaggy legs." In that dream, I got super embarrassed about that before he took me into a van, turned me around lifted me up by my waist and made me leave my footprints on the ceiling of this dusty van.

I was so confused.

The stress of things built and built. We'd drive to places we'd want to see, and get lost every time, even when following a detailed, large print map. One moment we'd be in one area of the map, but in a minute we'd be on the complete other side of the map, miles away from where we had been before (which was physically impossible), and then the next moment be back where were were earlier. It was maddening. People in Ireland are also maddening when you are lost.

"Excuse me, where are we right now?"

"You're in Ireland!"

This Long Island girl almost got out of the car around the 5th time I heard that response.

One particular day, we were trying to get back up to Janet and Gavin's, and to Loughcrew. We wanted to climb the hill to see the burial mound and the seat of the Caillighe. Traffic for close to two hours, practically standstill traffic. Then wind. Then rain. We were so late, and finally gave up. We pulled off the exit, headed back to Dublin... and what do you know? Traffic disappears, sun breaks out, its gorgeous. I was beside myself.

We parked the car in a garage, and I called Gavin on the payphone. "Sometimes the sacred places just don't want to be disturbed by people. Don't worry. Try again tomorrow."

So, we went shopping around Temple Bar, grabbed some really decent pizza. We had plans with the strip club guys that night (Christine was single), so after pizza we went to get the car and head back to the B&B.

Nope.

Car is as dead as a door nail. A car that had 13 miles on the odometer when we got it from the rental place. I had a meltdown. A big one. What were we going to do? There was AAA info in the glove box, and we called for help, but I knew this was getting out of hand. Something was very wrong and I just didn't know what we had done. We were two American witches wanting to get in touch with the land, and have a good time, and yet it was anything but.

We waited on the curb outside the garage, slapstick at this point from just not knowing what to do anymore. I wanted to call Janet and Gavin for help, but I was afraid to leave Christine to go search out a payphone. We were also afraid to leave the garage in case we missed the repair guy.

With 100 promises to each other for her to not leave the garage, and me to make the phone call and get straight back, I went on hunt for a phone.

I had called their number before. Now? Calls wouldn't complete. I'd dial, it would not ring. I'd dial, it would give me a recording that 'no such number exists.' I dialed about 10 times before I reached Gavin and I was once again beside myself.

After tons of reassuring that they would give us instructions on how to leave offerings to the Caillighe asking her to help us deal with her children and that everything would be okay, I walked back to the garage to find that our repair guy had just arrived.

They all laughed

We climbed in his pick up and drove up the winding tunnel to the upper deck of the garage, giggling with delirium the whole way. Giving the guy the keys, he got into the car to look around. Maybe 15 seconds in, he looks at us and says, "Ladies, the car isn't in park. It won't start if it's not in park."

We were stunned. He puts the car in park, and it starts right up.

Both of us had walked up to the car to test it out to see if it would start multiple times while we waited the 2 hours for him. We never saw that it wasn't in park. I protested that if the car wasn't in park, we'd have known it because it would have rolled. He said it wouldn't. And to prove me wrong, he put it in drive and turned the car off. It rolled. He tried it three times, and every time it rolled. He was puzzled.

And that's when I looked around the garage and saw them. All of them. Peering around other parked cars, all with baited breath, just watching. They burst into laughter right at the same time I did. Christine and Repair Guy thought I was crazy.

I said thanks to the dude, jumped in the car and we started her up. The whole way back to the B&B I told her what I'd seen, we talked about what had just happened, discussing what a feat it must have been for them to actually crank that steering wheel. We were laughing about that very thing after we parked at the B&B, sitting there in the car. Thinking it must have taken sooooo much energy.

We looked down. The car was in drive. The car was off. She wasn't on the brake. And it wasn't rolling.

We said nothing, Christine put the car in park and we walked silently into the B&B.

This post is about the boys, and I'm sure you are wondering where that whole thing will start. In order to convey things in the proper light (and yet I don't think I have really properly expressed how stressful it was), I had to do all that background. 

We found our way pretty easily back to Kells to see Janet and Gavin again the next day, and followed their recommendations in how to leave an offering at Loughcrew. It will always be one of the most beautiful and breathtaking places I've ever been, and sadly the pictures don't do the site justice. 

Walking up to the Cairn, one of the 4 main passage tombs in Ireland

You can see 18 counties from the top...

Seat of the Caillighe

Entrance to the passage tomb. Unfortunately it was too late in the day to get the key from the gatekeeper

Carvings inside the gate

At this point it was a joke that I had a Faery boyfriend who liked to haunt my dreams, and potentially steal keys, wallets, screw with maps and mess up cars. At least he wasn't torturing me anymore, as evidenced from leaving the B&B on time, not losing the keys, the car starting and not getting lost. However, he was far from done with me.

A Healing

Our stay at the Ariemond B&B came to an end two days before we were due to fly back home. The new one was on the next street, and apparently Marie from Ariemond was friends with the lady that kept it. Upon check in, we were told that there was just one other person staying there, a single guy from Germany. Or maybe Sweden. Doesn't matter where but that there was just one person making the house really quiet. 

We visited the Sheela-na-gig (or Síle na Gig) that I found in Stepaside again that afternoon. Days earlier we had gone on the hunt looking for her without any real directions except an online account that she was in Stepaside, on a road that had three golf courses - two private and one public. Of course, not able to really find our way, we stopped to ask a man who was mowing his land. That guy brought us over to a house down the road, where he asked his friend about her. That friend brought us over to the public golf course run by another friend. 

Irish people are amazing.

The club manager gave us some verbal directions on where we'd find her. I'm sure it won't be shocking that... guess what? We couldn't find her. So, he put us in a golf cart and drove us there.

Did I say how amazing Irish people are?

Between two fairways this is what we saw:

Peek-a-boo

She was beautiful. Just sitting there, for who knows how long, right in the middle of a golf course. That's one of the amazing things that you find in Ireland; many times they don't tear down or pave over their history. They build around things. I know.. not always. The highway by Tara being a prime example. But there was Stepaside's Sheela, and I'd found her. 

Sheela from http://taramc.tripod.com/stepaside.html*
the only photo I didn't take, as my shot of this is framed and still in a box somewhere

Back of the Sheela. Notice what's thought to be the well..

While some question whether the Stepaside Sheela is even a Sheela at all, she's one of the three oldest of these figures in Ireland and I don't question her power whatever or whoever she is.

About Sheela's:

""An apotropaic device, the vestige of a pre-Christian fertility cult, a representation of the Great Goddess Earth Mother, a Celtic goddess of creation and destruction, an obscene hag, a sexual stimulant, a medieval Schandbild aimed at castigating the sins of the flesh, a Christian sculpture representing Mater Ecclesia - these are some, but by no means all, of the divergent interpretations of the Sheela-na-gig."

Barbara Freitag's succinct summary shows the widely varying range of functions popularly attributed to Sheelas. In her more recent publication, she makes a very strong case that they belong to the realm of folk religion relating to birth and associated traditions in rural Irish settings. "

More history on these amazing figures here. 

The course manager left us with her, and we settled down to admire her. I remember that one minute, she'd look old. Then, after a bit, she'd look so young. She was still 'present' and her shape shifting energy was palpable. I thought about my tree offering, and realized I didn't think ahead to bring her anything. However, I had earrings. So, I popped them out of my ears, made the same request, and dropped them into the old 'well' (some suggest its a grave), and watched them tumble down into the Earth.

The Visitation

So, back to the second B&B. It was the first night, and our things weren't as spread out as they were at the first place, everything mostly still packed. My weirdo ex-best friend brought homework with her to Ireland and while she did that, I made four phone calls home. I called Scott, my parents, Rebecca and David. It was specifically to Rebecca and David that I described what had been going on, especially the dreams and the man (or spirit, or faery) in the dream. I don't  know which one it was said to, but I remember saying that the guitarist that the man reminded me of wasn't known to 'do it for me'. I had said, "Now, if he looked like Joe Elliott, that would be something." Haa ha ha- Im sooo funny.

Those of you that know me well know that I've had a decent rock-star-crush on that guy since '87. 

He's pushing 60 and still handsome, but at 40? I mean... come on. Look at this...

Using this specific age range of Mr. Elliott for a reason

I was back and forth into our room four times. As I said earlier, we hadn't really unpacked since we'd just gotten there, and I had no reason to go into my messenger bag that was at the foot of my bed. Christine was finished with her work, and we were calling lights out. I'm not exaggerating when I say that within a minute of said lights out, she was snoring.

I had never seen her fall asleep that fast, and we had more sleepovers in the 15 years we'd been friends than I could count. But there she was, lightly snoring away. 

The room was quiet. The whole house was quiet. We'd heard that the owner lady was out for the night at her granddaughter's recital so it was just us and the German (or Swedish) guy. As I laid there, I started to feel nervous. I'd gotten used to the other B&B, and I'd stayed there on my first trip. The room felt strange suddenly, and my ears were straining to listen to the sounds of the house. Christine had stopped snoring and it was so quiet. 

That is until I heard a woman singing. It was far away and faint but I heard her for a minute or two before it got quiet again. It creeped me out. I kept listening, hyper aware of my surroundings. I heard a strange sound that at first I couldn't determine, but it was the sound that a baby makes right before they start crying. 

Christine and I were in two separate beds with a narrow space between them, and that space between them was suddenly filled with a male presence. I, however, was filled with a healthy dose of fear. I did my best to internally talk myself to calm with things like, "It's OK. The joint is haunted. It's Ireland. What did you expect? Apparently it's a family, so it's OK. ... Well, it's probably OK."

Telling myself to go to sleep, I closed my eyes... and I guess I fell asleep, but I don't think that all of me stayed in that bed. Actually, I know I didn't.

The next section of this is a big reason why I've hesitated to write this out for 13 years. First of all, it's somewhat embarrassing for different reasons. Second, I don't know if I'm a good enough writer to convey the experience. Because, like magic and the mysteries, they have to be experienced in order to be understood. All that said, it's time to stop delaying and time to just do my best, without worrying about what anyone else thinks either. 

I found myself in a state of the art recording studio, and I couldn't believe it. Christine was with me, and this studio belonged to my favorite band since I was 14 years old. And they were all there. Working, but there, and for some reason it was OK that I was there too. 

We watched, talked, and learned about this massive control board. I remember in detail all the knobs and sliders, and being fascinated with the technical details that went into recording a piece of music. Please keep in mind that I had already met all these people a bunch of times and spent time with these people, in real life. In fact, that same summer I had organized an event with the drummer's charity organization, worked with his wife, helped facilitate events backstage... so none of this was any different from those things that had really happened.  

Soon, I need a ladies room. I figured there was one in the studio, but after I asked, the man in the photo above led me out of the studio to show me where it was. It concerned me that I was leaving the studio, but I figured there must have been a reason he didn't want me to use that one. What concerned me more, however, was that this stage of the art studio led into a structure that seemed ancient in comparison. The walls were stone, the floor was stone. It was cavernous and huge. 

He led me into a room that I realized was a bed chamber. Inside there was a gorgeous woman, and somehow I knew that this was his partner or someone close to him. She was wandering around the space, and while she appeared to not see me, I was mortified. Why in the world would he led me to a restroom that was here? Of all places!

"This guy is gonna be in trouble, even if I'm lame and gnome-like compared to this beautiful and elegant woman."

I used the restroom. I remember how real it felt, and how real the water felt when I washed up. The room was lovely, filled with photos and paintings. Ready to go back, I opened the door. He was standing there, filling the doorway and suddenly seemed even more majestic than before. 

"Can you come with me somewhere?" he asked. 

She was still wandering around, but still didn't seem to notice me or even him. "All right."

He turned, and as I followed behind him again I looked up and was in awe of his hair. It was like spun gold, and I thought to myself that I didn't remember it ever looking so beautiful before. 

I found myself in a car. He was driving. I had no idea where we were going. He was on the wrong side of the car for Ireland. 

I don't remember what he was talking about, and I'm pretty sure that at the time it wasn't what he was saying, but his voice that was a problem for me. Because he didn't sound like himself. It started to make me uncomfortable and nervous. So I questioned him about it. He replied that it was because he'd been singing too much that week. And then he began to sing, and it was the voice I knew well. Once again, I was reassured that I knew who I was with. 

The next thing I knew, the car had stopped and he was very close to my face.

"What's this?"

He was touching my temple where I literally had a pimple. Hello, Mortification, my name is Tamrha. Nice to meet you.

I told him what it was. He moved to the mole under my left eye. Touching it he asked the same question. I'm thinking, "What's with this guy? Who doesn't know what a mole is?"

He repeated the same question again, touching the mole on my chin. I responded the same way.


I lied earlier. This is actually the spot that has prevented me from writing this out for 13 years. But, you know, here goes:

There were no other words said, and what started happening and what completely, and fully happened I couldn't believe. And I kept thinking that no one I told was going to believe me. At this point, I realize that I no longer care if someone, if you, dear reader, doesn't believe me. I know what happened, down to the deepest core of myself. But when I realized that I had jumped out of that world and back into mine, and that it was daylight, and I had literally flown out of my bed, scaring the shit out of my friend, I wasn't sure what was going on. Because obviously I was not in that car, and I was not completely getting it on with my favorite Brit.

I locked myself in the bathroom attached to our room, after I had shouted out what I had been doing (the thought of this is hilarious to me now). The human world settled around me, hard, and as I stood there in that tiny wash room, I talked myself out of the magic. 'It was just a dream.' 

I decided to ignore the obvious signs my body was giving me about what I had been doing. Ladies and those of you with the same reproductive organs, you probably know what I'm talking about.

Getting myself together, I pushed off the dream and we both got dressed. Apparently we had to go to the B&B across the street to have breakfast since the woman who owned the one we were staying at was away, so once we were ready, we set out.

I was the only one in and out of the room the night before, and I was the one who locked the door. As I said earlier, we hadn't really unpacked, so I didn't once go into the messenger bag that I'd put at the end of my bed, the same bag where I'd stored the goose feather I found at Tara. That feather was no longer in the bag, however. It was laying on the floor about two or three feet from our door.

By this time in the trip, we had stopped trying to figure out the weird occurrences. We simply looked at each other before I picked up the feather and put it back in my bag.


Across the road at breakfast, I started to tell her about the night before, about how she'd totally passed out and snored, but also about the sounds in the room and feeling like there was someone in there with us. I then explained why I had jumped out of the bed yelling about what I'd been doing, or really thought I'd been doing.

I'll never forget the moment that it hit us both. It was like few other moments in my life where information almost 'downloads'. It downloaded in both us us at the same time.

"You are going to get pregnant."

The minute she said it, voicing the words in my own head, I gained the spark of hope that I had lost a few years before. It was good on my mental health to just put motherhood to the side, and not worry about it or seek it out so hard. I focused on other parts of life, of being in my late-20s, in having fun, working, simply being. Yet, those early losses really scarred me, and remembering how hard it was to try caused me to push the hope aside and just go back to the 'what will be, will be' mindset I'd settled into.


But when I got home, I left an offering to Sekhmet as I had been told to do a year or two before, and by mid-July, I was already 4 or 5 weeks pregnant. Being ill at Starwood with no explanation caused me to dare to take a test the day after I got home, and there was that pink line. And that pink line was later a beautiful boy named Aidan.

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Nine months later, Faery baby number two was on the way.

It was probably two years after Ciaran was born, that I was sitting online waiting for a class with Janet and Gavin to start. I scrolled their website, looking at pictures when I came across the photo of the well and Faery trees. The caption on the photo completely blew me away. I was always under the impression that the well was sacred to Brid, or St Brigid. Nope.

St. Ciaran. It was St. Ciaran's Well.

Just writing that is making me cry.

If nothing in my life is ever touched by magic again, I cannot complain. Look at those babies. Look at these boys. 

Children change their parent's lives, of course. I can't even express how these two changed mine. They drive me nuts, but that's what I signed up for and besides, the blessing of them cancels out anything they could do to put me in an asylum. 

On that last Sunday in Ireland, we wandered a half closed Temple Bar. There was a book sale happening in the square. Tons and tons of books, but as I perused them I didn't find much that was of interest. Until I found this:

I found this the other day. I cried. My babies signed my book

It was not in a box of books that were anything of the same or similar subject. They didn't seem to have a single additional book on Faery, or magic in the entire sale. I knew it was placed there for me. 

This book reads like you are in Faery, but there are parts that completely validated my experiences. Should you want to learn the real deal on these beings, read RJ Stewart, and Orion Foxwood. 

I highlighted things in red above. Those were all signs that were explained to me from RJ's work that this was Faery, this was the Good People, this was Faery glamour. This is what they do, how they look, how they interact, how they affect change. How they heal. It told me every single thing I experienced, including that dream, which wasn't really a dream but a trip to Faery, was real. That Faery used what I was comfortable with, attracted to, and understood for that glamour in order to heal me and grant that request I made at the faery tree.

Years later, he appeared in a Beltane meditation, and changed into a different form (I mean, because helloo... I know you don't really look like Mr. Elliott). I thought they were finally showing me what they really looked like, however they had just morphed into a person I was going to need to know in the future... but that's another story.

So that's it. That's the story. It's out. Remember... tell my boys this. They do know that 'they come from faeries', but they don't know all these details. Show them this if I don't. 

I'll leave you with a poem...

The Faery Song

How beautiful they are,

   The lordly ones,

   Who dwell in the hills,

   In the hollow hills.

They have faces like flowers, 

  And their breath is the wind

  That stirs amid the grasses

  Filled with white clover.

Their limbs are more white

  Than shafts of moonshine:

  They are more fleet

  Than the March wind.

They laugh and are glad

  And are terrible:

  When their lances shake

  Every green reed quivers.

How beautiful they are,

  How beautiful, 

  The lordly ones

  In the hollow hills. 

            From The Immortal Hour by Fiona Macleod.