Mother Amanita & Mary Magdalene

The fairy paths of Mary lead us to the Holy Balm of the Witches....

When I started writing the book Magdalene Mysteries, of course it began in her lands of origin, a spiral that swirled Palestine, Egypt, Syria, following scents of spikenard and the trail of bobbing fishing boats in the famous lyre-shaped lake.

But then, like Alice in Wonderland, gazing into that land and mirrored waters, I tumbled into a deep mysterious hole, with rhizomal roots that led me all the way onto the Fairypaths of another timeplace.

Suddenly the red and white rose path became more damp, more fungal, more biodelic, haunted with memories that wished to resurface.

In a reoccurring dream I met pre-historic Ancestors who handed me a book and said they were the “fairies”.

I saw Cathar wise women, camped in forests, blending a mysterious ointment called “the balm of Our Lady”.

I met the Oracle who once lived on Iona, where it is said Magdalene birthed a child in the sacred initiation cave once used by the druids and druidesses for their death and rebirth mystery plays.

I was told that above all else, Magdalene was a “Plant Priestess” and a bridge between the worlds of soil and flesh, a stitching thread into the womb of earth.

This morning I woke up from a hypnagogic dream where I thought I had already woken and looked out of our window onto the land to see huge, super-sized, neon-red and star-sparkly white Amanita mushrooms growing in our garden, in wet, muddy, dark soil, out in the open, not concealed in forests.

Maybe the memory of an entire lineage has been kept shaded and safe, held under that large red and white umbrella of the Mother of the Forest…?

The Apprenticeship continues….the red and white petal path is transformed, and now there is a new magical pathway emerging….

A Message from Magdalene of the Amanita….

This much I know….

Your suffering and poverty does not help the world

And most importantly, it is not what Mother Earth wants

Only when we have tried to fix the world and ourselves with all our heart and might

And failed, fantastically, epically, hopelessly, shamefully, does the real magic begin

When we become vaster, more complex, more entangled into that which is unfolding,

And maybe we needed to have that passion, that vigor, that big hopeful heart at first

To weep with the feet of the world as they trailed through all the tired, forgotten hells…

The magic required that we made that sacrifice of our heart onto the pyre of love

Then afterwards, when everything is still in shards around us, and our will has failed

We begin our true journey to become a startling green shoot in a wasteland

To make that mad dash for the sun, and the light and the glamor of life.

And we understand that some wounds are so sore they weep a while

There are some broken things that cannot be put back together at all

They cannot be healed or fixed by trauma protocols from a small world

Their brokenness is here to teach us something about an old magic

A strange grace as new skin emerges and weaves into a magic seal

And it will leave a terrible scar that will always mark you out as different

And that will be your magic, your sign, your destiny to be adorned.

You will not be a flower or a delicate and fleeting rose.

You will become a fleshy, spore-bearing fruiting body.

You will weave threads that will become unstoppable.

A dark revolution plotted sideways under the soil.

Birthing an utterly new foundation.