Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Spirit: Chapter 40

Relax into your evening, or fall asleep, to this recording of the fortieth chapter of the magical novel 'Reflections Of The Past,' by Vanda Inman.
Set in a remote valley in Cornwall, England, 'Reflections Of The Past' tells the story of four characters whose lives intertwine through many incarnations, and of their special relationship with the valley's Sacred Spring and Holy Well.
Music by Serge Quadrado
Photo by Alina Vilchenko

Transcript

REFLECTIONS OF THE PAST A STORY OF THE GUARDIANS OF THE WELL BY VANDER INTMAN PART FIVE SPIRIT CLOSING CIRCLES THE GREEN MAN AND THE GUARDIAN THE HOLY WELL CHAPEL HONEYSUCKLE The honeysuckle encourages us to reach for those desires sought while remaining true to the values and beliefs held, And will help you to tread safely. The sweet scent of the honeysuckle signals joy in the search for the self. If a honeysuckle plant grows outside near your home, It will bring good luck. When the honeysuckle vines wind around the branch of another tree, A spiral effect is produced, Often found in twisted wooden staffs. FLUORITE Fluorite is a highly protective and stabilising stone, Used for grounding and harmonising spiritual energy. Fluorite increases intuitive abilities, Links the human mind to the universal consciousness and develops connection to spirit. Fluorite further anchors intuitive insights into the physical plane, Allowing mental and physical coordination. Green fluorite aids intuition, Absorbs negative energies from the environment, And can also shield the user from psychic manipulation. THE GREEN MAN AND THE GUARDIAN Once upon a time, There was a well, From which sprang the clearest, Purest water to be found. Over thousands of years, This well became sacred to many people, Due to the beauty of where it lay, The inspiration it contained, And the peace it brought to those who visited and drank of the waters. The well had always been tended by a female guardian, Through times of abundance and times of hardship, But always the line continued, And when the time was right, A new guardian appeared. One day, However, The line of the guardians failed. There were none to care for the well, And without its true and chosen guardian, It slowly fell into decline. The wind and the rain, The sun and the earth watched its demise and were saddened. They spoke with the spirits of the well, Which dwelt within its precincts, And finally a man and a woman were fashioned from the essence of the valley in which the well rested. The man formed from the green of the willow leaves, Which swayed above the river in the warm summer breeze, The sunlight which dappled the shade, And the movement of moonlight upon the water. The woman was fashioned with the springtime mists in her hair, And clothed in a gown of hawthorn and wild roses, A crown of rowan and meadow sweet upon her head. At midsummer they entwined as one, And nine months later, As the lush growth of springtime spread throughout the valley, A child was born, Her destiny to continue the guardianship of the well and carry it forwards into the future. Chapter 40 It seems a lifetime ago I first set foot upon this land. Maybe longer, For who can truly measure time when years fly by like seconds and minutes tick slowly along, Each a century in itself? I first noticed how time could pass in the blink of an eye when I was but a child, And also discovered how objects and people disappear and reappear again, Although at the time they were nowhere to be seen. But maybe I had merely been searching in the wrong place. Perhaps I always hoped my mother and father would one day appear to claim the tiny baby left on the doorstep of the farmhouse where I grew up. They had both disappeared, Some say they never existed at all. But my eyes, As slate grey as the clouds which sweep low along the valley bringing the misty rain, And the feeling of being at one with the green trees which sway above the river in the moonlight, Are enough to give me a sense of belonging. I have no recollection of my mother, Save for a memory at the back of my mind whenever I catch the scent of the May Blossom or Meadow Sweet and feel the misty spring rains upon my face. These almost take me to her. Almost, But not quite, For she remains a fleeting image in the corner of my vision, Perhaps a cloud of dark hair, Or is it a mass of grey clouds on the horizon? And is the brightness of her dress fashioned from May Blossom, And the petals of wild roses? No matter. I was taken in and brought up well enough by a farming family whose son, Cornelius, At the age of ten, Discovered me nestled in a basket of woven rowan on their doorstep one chilly spring evening, And named me Rowena. And if I felt a little at odds with the rest of the world, Well, What did it matter? I loved to wander the valley during the winter snows and the spring showers. During the hot summer days my haven was the cool shade of the willows on the riverbank, And in autumn I picked the fruits of nature and retired to one of the many hidey-holes of which only I knew, And where no one would ever find me. On moonlit nights I spent hours leaning out of my bedroom window, Arms resting on the warm granite sills, Gazing at the moon, Stars and shadows cast by the moonlight in the trees. There was a great white owl which regularly flew down the valley, And in time I came to watch for its presence as an omen that all was well with the world. One of my favourite pastimes was gazing at the stars and joining their pinpricks of light to make pictures in the sky. A house here, An animal there, The possibilities were endless and no two nights ever the same. From these pictures sprang stories which I spent hours writing or relating to anyone who cared to listen, And when Cornelius finally explained the constellations to me, Realised my own pictures were nothing like those other people had seen in the heavens. But then I did not always view the world as other people did. The slow progress of the stars was also, I realised, Reflected in the waxing and the waning of the moon, The rising and setting of the sun, And the changing of the seasons. Perhaps this was my first introduction to the cycle of life, And the way in which everything appears to be a series of random events, Until the dots are joined and the true picture emerges, Which was there all the while, Yet hidden from view. And then, Of course, There was the little chapel. When I journeyed on the school bus as it wound its way down the long hill and up the other side, Taking me away from the valley, I knew the chapel was just a stone's throw over the hedge, And always felt a sadness to be leaving it behind. But in the evening, As the bus made its way down the little hill, Before winding its way up again, If I looked at exactly the right time and in just the right place, I could catch a glimpse of the chapel roof glinting in the afternoon sunlight, And the tense feeling which had been with me would disappear, Leaving me at peace once more. It was during these times I realised that, In the blink of an eye, Time had passed, And it would be the next day, Week, Month, Even year. I came to understand how time does not move at the same speed, But changes in loops and swirls, Speeding up and slowing down, The seasons passing, And in another blink of the eye returning again. And although those times seem long ago now, In the grand scale of things, Perhaps they are not so very far away after all.