Pythian Games

(Inspired by House of the Muse writings at http://dailywriting.net/HouseofMuse.htm )

 “Your sacred space is
where you can find yourself
again and again.”Joseph Campbell 

Strength is a twisting vine that won’t let go

Strength is a will that will not give all the way

Strength is a quiet root that digs in and survives.

I confront my past and all my pain

I confront my grief and my loss

I confront the unfairness of life

I accept it – it is mine –

But it is not all that I am.

I heal by the salve of poetry

I heal by creativity’s touch

Art can’t change what happened

But it changes me so I can heal myself.

It renews me, empowers me,

Gives me choices,

Puts me back in control,

Lets me connect.

Pain is a great teacher

Art is a great healer

Together they make me strong.

The Muse never promised this life would be easy.

She never said I’d get riches or fame.

She only stands in the vortex

Pointing to the Sacred Way.

Kerry Vincent © 2008

This picture is of travellers at the Marist Carnival - I am standing with my mother, second from left, front row.

I am from lighting fires with numb fingers in the chilly dawn, clanging pots blackened with age, from Bisto gravy and Oxo cubes, to flavour the rabbit stew.

I am from the caravan, the rolling wheels, the lockers packed with memories under the seats, the lights of the campsite glowing warm in the night, the camaraderie of the road.

I am from the rushing streams packed with salmon at spawning time, the discovery of one small primrose after a hard winter, drifts of daffodils and bluebells in the spring.

I am from mending tin carnations, and busking in the streets, from hob nailed boots and gnarly hands, from the song of the fiddle and the lilt of the pipe. I am from Gerry, and Kathleen, and Micky Hudson, and Peggy, the Belle of Cobh.

I am from the tribe, the scattered tribe that roams across the world and knows no borders, the restless feet that travel the endless road, the stamp of hooves and the jingle of harness. I am from the people of the horse, and the dawn, and the camp fire.

I am from the flickering oil lamps in the old marquee, from the players that speak the old lines, from the musicians and the magicians and the chilly dressing rooms, and the circus ring, and the tumbling clowns

I am from knowing God in the hills and the hedgerows, the fastness of the tribe, and the strength of the family.

I am from the travellers, the people from everywhere and nowhere, from the land and the sea, from the Irish coast, rocky and hard and enduring

I am from my grandmother gathering herbs from the roadside, from my uncles catching the horses in the early morning, from fishing with my father for trout and salmon, from exploring castles and cathedrals with my mother, and from the music that filled our lives when my fathers and his brothers sang

I am from frozen moments captured by the old box Brownie camera, tales stored away in my heart, moments of astonishing clarity when the road stretches out before me, endless and inspiring, as it always has. I am from places I never heard of til I got there.

I believe in
The small hand slipping into mine
The power of nature to sink the unsinkable
The salve of time that heal all wounds
The place my spirit calls home
The child I am inside
My daughter’s love
Her small hand slipping into mine.

A wraith

Pale green cloaked

With drifting flowing

Garments around her

Floating on the morning mist

Half unseen

So insubstantial is she

But her colors are the colors

Of the flowers

Of the spring

Lady of the Flowers

Lady of the Spring

-She Wolf (c) 2007