Intrusive Thoughts

Failte, Reader. Welcome back if you're a regular.

Guess who came back with another story this week. An ghaoth, the wind. She gave us a great story about the Irish Famine there a few weeks ago, bless her.

I'm a Gemini, an air sign. The wind is my favourite element. Mad as it might sound (show me normal), I talk to the wind, full blown conversations sometimes. She helps me make decisions. When my body feels heavy, and I know I need a cleanse, I go outside, open my arms and stand in the fullest airflow I can find, letting her rip through me, visualising the sticky, negative energy being blown off me. The thoughts of doing that make my mother shiver and shirk. Each to their own. She gets her healing energies elsewhere. 

Intrusive Thoughts

I hear a lot of people talk about intrusive thoughts these days. They're thoughts, often dark, disturbing and violent, that encroach upon our minds at times when we least expect them. I have a theory on why they're becoming more common, but I'll keep it for a different post when I have time to put the research behind it properly. The thing with them is, that they're being labelled as negatives, automatically, before anyone thinks to explore them. 

"Oh no, it's a dark, intrusive thought. I can't share that. I shouldn't be thinking that. Let me see how I can make that go away." 

We are now being taught to feel shameful of our thoughts. Jesus, don't we have enough to be worrying about already? 

Intrusive Stories

If you've been following my content at all, you might know I like to query the connotations of words, and propose new ways to define some. To encourage people to think about the meaning they give things, and determine for themselves whether it's a resonant meaning for them, or a meaning they've acquired through societal, familial or other conditioning.

I experience not intrusive thoughts (well, maybe now and then), but what I have begun calling "intrusive stories." Across cultures, what constitutes intrusion changes. The meaning of "personal space," for instance, is different. In Finland, people might stand two feet away from you at a bus stop whereas in China, as happened to me, you suddenly feel a breath on your neck, and realise there's someone browsing your phone photos with you. It's not rudeness or intrusion, it's a collective culture with multi-millions of people. Personal space takes on a different meaning. 

I call my stories "intrusive" because they intrude upon my day and the work I'm doing. I may be sitting, working away on a task, humming absentmindedly, when suddenly words or a picture form. It's like I'm transported, unusual as that might sound, into the story. 

Meaning:

I could deny the thought. I could get annoyed at the intrusion. I could angrily chase it away by putting on music or distracting myself in some other way. But I choose to give the intrusion a different meaning. I look for the story in it. I let it come to life for as long as it needs, and I can commit the time to, then I note the rest for later. Intrusive thoughts can be scary and annoying, but they might also just have a story for you, one that, if you give it a little attention, aim to understand and use, (whether that means healing something, using it creatively, or something else, not necessarily acting upon the impulses within it), could result in the thought being turned into something you hadn't imagined possible. 

Here's this week's intrusion, the first part of the story. I was going to sit down to write the next part, but you know what, I have another article to write, and I'm getting close to finishing my book. I have to prioritise. So, below you're getting Chapter 1 of whatever this is becoming. There's no title yet. I'm not sure how long the story will end up, but I do know where it's going. Just like life, hey!

*******

The wind that blows in your ears,

the wind that howls at night. 

The ghaoth that breaks the tree boughs

she speaks to you my child.

"Listen now, I have a story for you. 

Hear the notes within my whip.

Feel my song strike through you.

Write down now the words on your lips."

*******

The shadow of a bird blocked the sun on an early autumn evening in the countryside of Ireland. The old healer started at the loss of light and fleeting image that just crossed her eyes. 

"Has it been 100 years already?" she mused. 

The village folk steered clear of the dilapidated cottage in the field beside the old church grounds. Strange things were said to have happened there. Somehow, roses stayed in bloom all year long, daffodils danced in the October dusk breeze, and the scent of lemongrass and thyme seemed to have settled in the air all around it. 

Many years previous, before the elderly population had died out, it was said people would go there to be cured. 

"That dreaded breathing affliction, asthma, they called it," a neighbour had once told Olivia when she was a nipper. 

"What happened to them after they went to the house?" Olivia asked, wide-eyed. Joe told the most wonderful stories. 

"They'd have to go up every day for three days, at the same time, 'tweentime, right between day and dusk when the birds are settling in to roost, and the light separates the veil between the two worlds."

Olivia, who was around 10 at the time, felt a shudder. 

"W-what does that mean, Joe, 'separates the veil between the two ... worlds?' What worlds?"

"There are two worlds, at least, Olivia, the physical and the mystical. We live in the physical world. The Sidhe (*say 'she'), the faerie folk, and other magical creatures, live in the mystical world.

Olivia sat transfixed. She'd heard her parents thank the faeries, and curse them, many times. 

"At 'tweentime," Joe continued, "when the veil separates, it is said the healers and spell weavers can access a mystical energy that strengthens their skills while the veil is open." 

"Woooaah!" whispered Olivia, awe-struck. 

"On the first day, the afflicted would be given the dried petal of a red rose, which they were to pin onto their clothing at the breast, where the heart is." Joe pointed to the place on his chest. "When they awoke, and twice more in the day, they were to find a quiet place, out in the forest if they could, sit down, and cover their heart and the petal with their hands. Then they were to picture the petal glowing red, radiating into their hearts, while chanting:

"I am loved. I am free. I allow myself to breathe."

They were then to hum three notes: low-higher-low, followed by four notes: two low-higher-low, like the rhythm of the chant, are you with me?" 

"Yes, yes. Like this?"

Olivia hummed the tune of the chant, looking up expectantly at Joe as she finished.

"Y-y-but how did you know the last line? Jesus, I haven't heard that hummed for years," he spluttered. "How did you know the last line?"

"I ... I," Olivia was a little unnerved by Joe's tone. 

"I didn't mean to startle you, child. I'm just a little surprised."

Olivia relaxed. "It just felt like the right way to finish it," she said. "I didn't really think about it." 

Joe let out a short whistle of wonder. "Well isn't that something? You might have magic in you child. Stay alert." 

Joe's eyes slid over her as Olivia's fingers flickered with excitement. That's what she thought it was anyway, excitement. Though her mother had taught her how to use the magic of nature, the plants, for healing, nobody had ever said anything about real magic being in her bloodline. 

"The healer would repeat the same, I've been told, at 'tweentime when they'd come. She'd lay them down and hold her own hands over theirs. Some used to say they'd smell roses all around them for the three whole days, and that the scent wouldn't fully fade until the first new moon after they were with her." 

"What happened then?" 

"They were to release the rose petal into the river, that part where the piece of land sticks out, blocking its flow on the side where the bank is cleared to look a bit like the seaside, but 'tisn't seaside, 'tis forest sure with the trees growing around it. They were to release the rose petal to the river, and trust that it would be drawn out into the current where the river runs freely, over on the opposite side of the bank."

"And then?"

"Then, child, they were healed. Not one creatúr with the affliction ever complained of it again after they were with her. Some believed they had been affected by it even. Not only could they breathe full, but everything seemed lighter and easier for them to achieve afterwards. 'Twas like they were brought to life anew." 

"That's amazing! Mammy told me once that my great, great, great, grandmother had asthma. I wonder if she went to the healer."

Joe looked at Olivia out of the corner of his eye. 

"What was her name, do you know?"

"Arry.... arm .... air ..." Olivia faltered. 

"It wasn't 'Airmed' by any chance, was it?" Joe asked, cautiously, sensing a tingle scale his spine. He'd silently laughed off the spark he thought he'd seen from her fingers earlier. Now, he wasn't so sure he should have. 

"That's it, Joe. How did you know?" 

"Eeehhh ..." Joe needed to investigate this before he told her what he was thinking. "I-i-it's a name that would have been more common in the early years, around the time of your great-great-grandmother. She'd have died around 70 years or so ago."

"Oh, OK. Why did you want to know it?" 

"Ah-uh-no-n-no reason. Just curious child." 

"Oh, OK."

Joe breathed a sigh of relief when she accepted his response. 

*******

30 years later, as Olivia stood stoking her backyard fire, the shadow of a bird blocked the sun.

"That's unusual. Didn't I hear a story about that happening once ...?" she mused, and for half a second thought she caught an image of something cross her eyes. Her stomach was pulsing, and her breathing short. "Maybe I need to lie down. I haven't been sleeping well." 

*******Continued Next Week*******