The wild coast of Sussex is both beautiful and terrifying. Beachy Head is a place where the white chalky cliffs stand majestically cracked open, as a reminder that once they where united with the lands on the other side: France.
Just another windy morning, when I left the house with my two companions, Lili and Beety, my goldens, for our blusterous walk. It was winter 1999 and there was change in the wind. My marriage was fading and I still had three children under the age of 12. My heart was listening into an ancient song, This ancient, indescribable sound that tugged deliciously at me, like the vanilla parfum, of night scented stocks on a summer's night. As I looked far into the grey distance, across the English Channel I knew only one thing.
It was four years, before I listened to that call in the wind, to go over to the other side, to France.
So this is the beginning of my remembering journey, as so many of you would like to know, I actually had really never heard of Mary Magdalene, nor had I read any books on the subject. . I simply followed my heart into those marvellous lands. Once there, I began to drive up mountains and sit by the rivers. I visited tiny villages a top mountains and followed narrow paths into caves and forgotten castles.
I stumbled into the story of a lady who held a great remembrance.
A woman who is both mother and lover and is not afraid to stand for truth against all odds. A feminine essence that loved and lost, and continues to share herself in the wells of love. A 'Meri' so strong she keeps getting up when all constructs are bringing her down, wisely holding the promise for the time of now.
Holding the flame for a dream of a love yet untold.
I had absorbed christianity and embraced buddhist teachings. I had become a teacher and a nurse. I had joined churches and slammed those same doors behind me. I looked at paganism, astrology and Druid ways. I had spend the most part of two decades crying my eyes out, looking for what I know as the divine beloved, masculine/feminine as one. All and none had pointed me to Her.
She was inside me. I needed to stop looking to find Her.
The sacred stones held the memory until I was ready to come back and collect it. The lands so many of us call sacred France, holds the potential memory, of what you may call, 'portals, entryways, gateways' into knowing.