Stands of fate

I am fascinated by the history of my family, the strands of lineage branching off to so many lands, so many experiences of living and loving and dying.

I am fascinated by the strength of those ancestors, the immense courage in them, their endurance of times of terror, famine, war.

It is their will to survive that draws me to their stories, the fabric of their lives.

What was it that drove Eadie Burn from the fields of Ireland to the shores of Scotland?

What hunger sent Danny Murphy from his home in Galway to the dark iron ore mines of southern Scotland?

How did my father find the inner resources to survive the long Siberian winter when so many died?

What strands of fate drew together the descendants of starving Irish and war exiled Poles to Scotland.

Out of the maelstrom of their history, their lives, I was born.

A Stepek Family Christmas Memory

Christmas locked away behind the big white door. Hidden from hungry impatiently devouring eyes.

So many bright, shining narrow little eyes glowing in the early morning gloom like a pack of cartoon rats, ready to rip apart brightly coloured, oh so carefully wrapped, packages. Digging down with busy teeth and scurrying claws, to the sweet bits beneath the outer layers.

Messy little creatures, scratching against the big white door. probing for weak spots.

She comes at last, the Provider, Keeper of all good things. She complains laughingly about our squeaking, squealing, squabbling noise.

He comes, The Authority, he who must be obeyed. The scrabbling, scratching, squeaking ends in abrupt trembling silence.

He swipes Jimmy Rat on the head for the sin of shoulder charging the venerable Georgian door, our entrance to Heaven.

Then he too laughs and the magic key appears in his hand. Oh so slowly, so quicksand,  time sucking slow, they key turns in the lock. Click, click, click. Oh the rapid beating of those little rodent hearts, the standing still of breath, the paralysis of time.

The door opens as though a great vacuum has sucked us in. We are in Nirvana.

Running to presents piled around the sparkling beacon of the massive Christmas tree,  we are indeed in our own Elysium.

A moment in which we measure our parents' love by the height of our present stack. All is equally measured by the loving wisdom of our Mother.

Collective expiration of deep contented sighs as the ten little rats, beady eyes shining with festive joy, commence their anarchic mayhem, 

Happy Christmas one and all.

A prayer for my words

Long after I leave this world, it is my words as well as my actions that will in some way be remembered. Words have far greater power than we give credit to. If there is magic in this world, it lies in our communication with others. Words have an impact that will remain and continue to impact as long as humans walk this earth. Once said, once written they are indelible. Whoever hears or reads our words is in some way forever changed and they in turn create changes in those around them. So it goes on until we humans pass forever from this earth. Words are powerful, make yours a force for love, words that add and do not subtract from the well being of our people and the treatment of our other life forms. You cannot truly honour one without the other.



I ask that my words flow out to heal the world.

words filled with love, the balm that soothes the rough raw places of the troubled soul.

The gentle rain that cools the anxious fevered mind.

The softest breeze that blows away the troubled thought.

The hug that embraces the weary, lonely heart.

Full circle

In the stillness of this Sacred Circle, I see with the eyes of the other,

I hear with your ears and feel with your hearts.

In the silence of this Circle, there is an ending to I and You.

There is a becoming of We and Us.

Here is the sweet and powerful blending of spirit

Parts made whole.

We are complete in one another and the circle is joined.

We are one.

The dancers in the moonlight.

The singers of the eternal song.

We call life into being,

We are creation.

Days of Grace

For our beloved son, Jan Michael


You are my days of grace,
Redemption of my love,
In you I find eternity,
My pearl beyond all price.

Long loved and longed for
Out of deep soul yearning
Conscious conception
From dreams made real.

You are my days of grace,
My life fulfilled in you,
Now in love, I set you free,
A light beyond my life.

My love made flesh,
Upon this earth,
My sweet eternity,
My son, my gift, my light.