GoFundMe Fundraiser to Keep The Echo World in Print

https://www.gofundme.com/f/keep-the-echo-world-in-print

We have started a fundraiser to ensure that we can keep The Echo World in print. For background on why you can check out Sofia's editorials in the November and December editions of The Echo World. The fundraiser is going full force, and we have good hope we will pull it off. For details on how you can help - see below.

We love The Echo World, and hope you do to. If you are interested in its long-term survival – we welcome any help we can get – and will keep putting in hard work and our best efforts to make it sail into the future. You find the GoFundMe fundraiser to keep The Echo World in print below.

Checks for donation can also  be sent to The Echo World P.O. Box 93 Nellysford, VA 22958. These will be accounted for separately, and counted together with GoFundMe. We will report every cent to The Echo World readers. Please remember to add your name and contact, (if you do not wish to be anonymous). Any donation we get in will, of course, go directly into the long life of The Echo World.

FIND THE LINK FOR THE GOFUNDME FUNDRAISER HERE:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/keep-the-echo-world-in-print

Blue Star

There was a blue star hanging on a thread, in the dark blue night sky. But, when he reached out to catch it, the star moved farther away, just out of his grasp. He remembered a story from his childhood about Grandmother Spider, endlessly weaving the world into existence.

           

In his childhood there had been an abundance of spider webs, dew filled and glimmering in the thin morning light, when he followed his father to the barn.

"Hard workers, those spiders," his father often said. His childhood self too filled with the glory of the moment to answer anything but, "Uh-huh."

           

They worked the land as brothers, though he himself was only eight when he was considered old enough to first tag along.

           

The dew filled spider webs. The smell of new cut hay. Him. His father. The sweat. The trust.

           

He was an old man now, lying in his bed trying to wake up, his own two children fretting around, making him dizzy. It was Christmas Eve and his daughter insisted that they have Christmas dinner as usual, only this year served with him still in his bed. The bed he seldom left these days. His daughter wasn't a very good cook. Not as his wife had been. But he endured small pieces of every dish, including a thin slice of pudding at the end. His son ate as well, sitting awkwardly on a wooden chair close to the bed in his expensive clothes, dinner plate in lap, restlessly forcing himself not to reach for the cellphone in his pocket.

           

Finally, it was over; plates cleared away, kisses on his forehead, his daughter lingering until he closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.

           

There it was again: the blue star, mystically sending out light sparks over the deeper blue sky. Different in coloring than the bright, white stars covering the velvet sky had been when they smoked fish in a barrel at the backside of the house; first his father and him, then him and his son.

           

He had never moved. His wife simply moved in with him, and adapted easily to being a farmer’s wife, in a down to earth way. She was a good woman, as they say. Never complained, steadily working by his side year after year. Only when cancer ate her from the inside and out did he, for the first time, see weakness. He could not stand the sight, nor her moans, or her spasms. So, he overdosed morphine and made her drink strong toxic, herbal remedies he mixed together in a pot on the wooden stove. When the nurse came around that day, she pretended not to understand what had happened.

"Now she won't have to suffer," she simply said, locking his eyes in her summer sky ones a short moment, and then went about practical business. As if death was just another everyday chore. Perhaps it was.

           

He never moved. He never sold off the land either, just let piece after piece fall into wildness, ignoring his sons complaints, until the only thing he could plant was the tomatoes by the stone wall; shaking paper skin hands patting the soil, picking yellow leaves off the stems, caressing the healthy, hairy green leaves.

           

The blue star gleamed. A giant spider leg took a soundless step over the sky. He himself stepped right into the dew-wet grass and the scent of new cut hay flowed over him in a wave.

           

Michael and I saw him once, on one of my very first walks since I landed in the Blue Mountains. We walked up Berry Road and I saw a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the road. Everything was so new to me then: the moist, the thick vines circling up tree trunks, the lookout for snakes on the dusty road. I was a bit jumpy I will honestly admit. So, I took a sharp breath when I saw the shadow man, but said nothing to Michael.

           

Michael stopped soon thereafter, by a small creek, water falling down on a rock, making splashing, playful sounds. Michael cocked his head to the side, as if listening to the water and started to tell me of a man who had lived close to where we were. A farmer, who didn't want to leave his home, who stayed where he felt safe. The man simply moved farther into the land. Learned the language of spider webs. And listened to the song of the blue star.

Ghost-story by Sofia Karin Axelsson, first published in the December 2019 edition of The Echo World

NORDIC GODDESSES, WITCHES & RUNES Guest, Sofia Karin Axelsson

A fun interview with the most charming of hosts
 - talented medium Tracey Lockwood.

Light Play in The Tree House

Photographs by Michael Peter Langevin and Sofia Karin Axelsson

Muddy Business

Michael and I have come to love social media, taking photos and sharing silly stories about ourselves and our lives. The little cabin we live in, and its surroundings, must be one of the most well-photographed little cabins in the world. Neither are we in any way strangers to take snapshots of each other – photos that should not be taken too seriously – and flaunt them all over the place. There are expressions for people like us, but I don’t think they are suitable for print.

It is amazing to me that I, once upon a time, was so camera-shy I often – literally – ran out of a room if someone fished up the devious catching-you-at-your-worst-moment device out of a bag. Additionally, it is not so many years ago I was highly suspicious of anything social media, a terrible photographer, and totally sucked when it came to general technology. (I used to be one of those people who thought my computer would blow up if I pushed the wrong button.)

Now, looking at our self-serving, look-at-me-and-my-life way of moving in the world, I know that it is a modern-world phenomenon to show off the happy-dippy parts of our lives in shining colors and successful light. And the cabin we call “The Tree House” has some great photograph light. But, as for all people, there is another side to the sweet-social-media-story. To live in a small cabin, that is also your office, and publish a magazine, has other sides than sweet, shining and happy-dippy. It has also been messy. Messy and muddy. Sometimes very muddy. Let me share a real-life story.

We have one spot in the cabin that has a clear phone connection. it is on the upper part of the stairs, covering an area of approximately five square feet where we use the banister as our office space. One morning, after a period of heavy rain, our delivery truck came driving in on the rain-soaked road. Now, the driver was new, young and fiery. Before Michael and I had the chance to run out and shout to him NOT to back up on the field – that becomes extremely soggy during rains since we are in a valley – he quickly turned around and backed up in the soaked field. Of course, he got stuck. And being somewhat young and feisty, it took him only about ten minutes to dig the wheels of the truck so deep down in the grass that there was no way of getting out, creating deep muddy tracks in the grass. There was no choice for him but to call for a tow truck.

At the same time the tow truck arrived, neighbors and our neighbor’s friend had gotten involved and there was honking horns, and six guys shouting to each other just down from the stairs. This would not have been a problem at all, had it not been at this exact moment that I had scheduled an interview with someone I admired very much, who happened to be in New Mexico. He was very gracious about the whole thing, and even claimed that there where snowstorms in New Mexico that may disturb the signal. I caught enough of the interview to transcribe it to an article.

The story might have ended there, as a mild inconvenience in the world of publishing from your home, had it not been for the fact that Michael and I decided to go down to the fireplace by the creek to celebrate our latest edition. There was, of course, a fire involved, probably a couple of glasses of wine too much, and very animated discussion. For whatever reason, by the time we were walking back to the cabin it was dark, and I had totally forgot about the incident with the delivery truck. So … I fall, face down, into the water and mud-filled tracks left by the truck. After catching my breath, Michael and I broke down in laughter that lasted all the way up to the cabin, through a very muddy shower and even going to bed. Now this was one day. If I had space, I could tell you the stories about:

When I couldn’t create the upcoming edition while on the road because my lap-top refused to even open to the desktop, and I sat chewing on my hands on the airplane because I left Michael all alone running everything else, and my only real mission for the month was to put the edition together.

When I couldn’t get into my “office’ – aka the cabin - because there was a big snake that had decided to settle in on our doorstep. Michael was gone, and I was too chicken-shit to try to make the snake go away (now that’s a better excuse not to work than “the dog ate my homework”), so I had to wait in the driveway until Michael came home to get back to work.

The time Michael fell down the slippery stairs during hurricane season and cracked three ribs with me gone and him responsible to handle everything (yup, same time as my computer broke down on the road).

I could continue. But I will spare you. Just saying this: to make things look all fun, easy and colorful on social media is easy. Life, however, is much more messy than that. And muddy. I did mention muddy, did I not?

This editorial was first published in the September edition of The Echo World

What Is a Ghost?

I knew the ghost was there - just as I have felt the presence of many ghosts since I moved to Virginia. And I knew what the ghost was going through. She was thinking of her childhood, and the pain it brought.

I always thought that the painful separation from the real world, the fall from grace, and the suffocating roles that followed, only smothered me alone. Others seemed to adapt miraculously. So, I tried to ignore it, almost managed to, numbing myself in all ways I could think of. And dared to. Because, different from this ghost, whose name was Lou-Ann and who killed herself of an overdose of heroin in the seventies, I have always been chicken-shit when it comes to hard drugs, knowing well I would end up in a psychiatric ward just by looking at them. There are many ways to strive towards oblivion, however. Most are sanctioned by society.

To grow up is a hellish thing. If I believed in hell. Which I don't. No other than the man-made one anyway. Sometimes it seems that the loss of innocence is an accepted thing, only seen as a crime if it can be blamed on abuse. As if your free roaming spirit has to be beaten out of your body by angry hands.

I was never abused. I was a loved child in a grand family. Being the youngest I was sometimes almost forgotten, left to my own adventures. Which suited me fine. Sometimes I was also spoiled rotten. I didn’t mind that either. The abuse was the world crashing in, those dark entangled webs created to hold you in place. I fought with all the might my skinny being could muster up. As it turned out, that was not enough.

           

"It's part of growing up," they say.

           

But it shouldn't be.

           

It wasn't only me. It was also her. The ghost whose name is Lou-Ann. Who turned to drugs because growing up was too hard. I'm pretty sure she never meant to die. Her death was a mistake. A horrible moment of misjudgment with lethal consequences.

Me, I can still re-model myself with time. Perhaps have a near-death experience and see it all anew. Something broken, something gained. Lou-Ann never had the time to set things right. Never had the time to reclaim her innocence, her real self, her strength to live the way she wanted to.

What is a ghost, if not an unlived life?

I had to restore her. Give her what she needed. I decided to do a journey to the Underworld. It was a long time ago since I did that. But the Underworld is the place where lost pieces of self can be found. And Lou-Ann needed those pieces right now.

There should be a word when the terrain has changed shape but is emotionally, absolutely familiar. There should be a word for traveling in the world some call the astral but seeing almost the same thing as you do with your physical eyes, only seeing … a bit more. There should be words, and maybe there are, in some language.

I did not know. I dove down in the muddy waters of the creek and followed the roots of the southwest guardian tree - the tree with the giant branch-arm. Here I found a landscape I already knew, though I never saw it like this. There was a river, wide and still, and trees old with wisdom. A canoe was waiting for me: light and smooth. Stepping into it was like stepping into a well-known secret; a secret of soft movements. The canoe glided effortlessly on the water surface.

I looked for a power animal for Lou-Ann, though I had never heard of journeying for a power animal for a ghost. I didn't know what to expect: something wild and strong perhaps, a ferocious protector. Instead I found a hedgehog, the sweetest thing you can imagine, with squinting eyes. He opened and closed his little hands, making me remember the hedgehogs in my childhood, curious but cautious, hiding behind raised spikes if threat was near. I carried him to the canoe and carefully put him in my lap. Then I headed back through the dreamy landscape, that was as real as any landscape, one water-dripping paddle stroke at the time.

Lou-Ann greeted me unexpectedly on the shore. I left her there, hedgehog in arms, with talking trees and healing grounds all around. For a while she would remain at the corner of my unconscious, in the Underworld, where she could grow stronger. I felt her. Part of her wanted to crawl back into the folds of oblivion. But that was not an option anymore.

"Bring them to the light!" they said. "Bring them to heaven." But Lou-Ann didn't want to go to heaven. She wanted to find a dusty ghost truck and drive from state to state, picking up lost-soul-hitchhikers along the way, and to make friends. She wanted to experience the world, on her own terms, and do everything she longed to do when she was still alive, until one day the truck becomes a spaceship ready to fly over the starry skies.

By Sofia Karin Axelsson

           

This story was first published in The October edition of The Echo World. More Ghost stories to come ...            

The First Ghost Named George

Foreword: This story is part of a collection, tentatively called “Ghost Whisperer: Stories from a Nordic Witch Stranded in the South.” They were mainly written during my first year in the Appalachian Mountains, having moved from Sweden, living at the end of a road, with no green card to allow me to work and my husband, Michael, working at the Monroe Institute. Being a stranger in a strange land those days, ghosts started to talk to me. I hope you enjoy it. 

It was Michael who found George, but George then found Michael something Michael needed. It was a shell, a great shell: seven inches long, with a cosmic spiral and a generous, oval opening.

Michael had talked to me again over Skype, of the white beaches of Progreso  in Mexico, about our long walks and early swims in warm water: bodies tumbling around each other. And, of course, about shells: shells of all kinds, one more beautiful than the other. We mused over the shell altars we had built in the sand, as well as all over the small rental above the restaurant - sun-feathered, spiky, rosy, bluish, closed, open, round, shining, with stripes and sometimes leopard spots - as pleasurable to look at and touch as our love had been in Progreso.

Now, I was in the considerably colder Sweden, and Michael in the Blue Ridge mountains in the company of bugs and snakes.

           

So, he much needed a shell. But first he had to find George.

           

What he found first was George's cabin, though he didn't know anything about the previous owner of the place at the time. He had followed the creek right into the green forest for thirty minutes when he stumbled over the long-abandoned house. What he saw was a simple, wooden house with cracked windows, so small it made his two-room cabin look like a mansion, nestled in the middle of the greenery, and the remaining boards of a fallen down shed close by. Inside the cabin floor was rotting away, leaving dangerous holes, half covered by falling apart rugs. Michael was mostly curious, but he was also lacking most material things due to the last years of change and travels and thought he might find some treasures. Which he did: some unbroken plates and bowls, and a wooden bar stool with forest green, slender legs. He carried them home, cleaned them up and eventually went to bed.

           

It wasn't exactly a noise that woke him, more a memory of a noise, the fading sound of somebody mumbling in the background. Michael went into the kitchen and drank some milk. The sensation didn't go away though. It was as if something was pushing against his mind, just out of reach for conscious thought to pick up the signal.

           

"Maybe you brought something back with you," I suggested during our Skype session the next day, "or someone."

"Like a ghost?"

"Yes, like a ghost," I said, not totally comfortable with the concept.

"I think you might be right," said Michael, much to my dismay. And then he continued, in the sudden bursts of knowing unseen things that are so typical of him, "He lived there by himself at the end. But there was a woman once, and a child. He is trying to talk to me. I think his name is George."

           

To be separated from the one you love is hard, and the technology we have at hand is both a blessing and a curse. The flat, cold screen sending images of Michael’s face was so insufficient to my needs. The thought of him without me in the cabin, the place filled with bugs and snakes, and now perhaps also a ghost, was worse.

"Just make sure he means no harm," I said cautiously. "If he seems angry you took those things, do bring them back."

           

It took Michael days to hear George's voice, and it seemed muffled and far away.

"It takes great effort for me to keep the connection to you," said George.

"Do you want me to bring your things back?" Michael asked quickly.

"No!" said George with emphasis. "I want to wake up. Please go back to my cabin. I will show you something."

           

So, Michael went back the next day. At the fallen shed he felt George push his arm.

"Down there," said George, as if speaking through a tube. "There is something you will like there."

           

And it was. Under boards and rubble Michael found the perfect shell. A memory of another man's happy times, by another beach, with another love. Michael brought the shell back home, and put it on his cabin altar, and George's voice suddenly became clear. As if the years between the two men were gone. The shell a telephone through time, if not space.

           

First published in September edition of The Echo World.

Photograph: "George's shell," by Sofia Karin Axelsson.

           

Frida Kahlo in My Heart (and on My Porch)

Foreword: This story is part of a collection, tentatively called “Ghost Whisperer: Stories from a Nordic Witch Stranded in the South.” They were mainly written during my first year in the Appalachian Mountains, having moved from Sweden, living at the end of a road, with no green card to allow me to work and my husband, Michael, working at the Monroe Institute. Being a stranger in a strange land those days, ghosts started to talk to me, and so did the spirit of Frida Kahlo. I hope you enjoy it.

I lit candles on the porch, reflecting themselves in the crystal globes hanging in the window, and I was speaking to my Patroness of Protection and Creativity: the spirit of Frida Kahlo.

           

At this point in my life, I listened more to the Earth fairies and the song of the wind than to anything human. It seemed a step in the right direction then, to speak to an unmistakably and very spirited, human voice, even though it belonged to a ghost.

           

In exile from my birth country, out of the inevitable necessity of love, in the land between: in-between nation and nation, lawfully married and not exactly lawfully married, employable but not allowed to work, human and alien; all in the hands of slow-working, bureaucratic U.S. immigration officers.

I was more than this in-between state of nature and civilization, having chosen solitude in spite of the world-renowned southern hospitality.

"We all need people," purred Frida, leaning back on the pillows propped on the second-hand, wooden chair.

           

Virginia, shamelessly claimed by its inhabitants to be the greatest place on earth, ran thick with blood. Maybe that was why the vines grew so fiercely and bugs found their way through every crack in the thin walls. Wars, deportations, accusations, hangings, Native Americans, black slaves, poor people, the wrong-sayers, the truth-sayers - it was a place difficult to take to heart, had it not been for its lavishly, in-your-face beauty, with lifeforce leaking out of the very pours of fast growing plants and the plentiful animal kingdom.

           

"I don't know Miss Kahlo,” I said, already knowing that the woman was right. "People make so much noise and have needs that never seem to end."

           

Frida laughed and opened her colorful skirts, revealing her broken body, sorrowfully patched together with spikes and leather bands.

           

"They will crave more of you than that, little sister," said Frida and shrugged her shoulders. "But that is how art is created."

           

Frida’s gesture made me feel invalid. As if my suffering, a cold on a sunny day, was fake. Insufficient as the basis for creation.

           

"All separation is sufficient," smiled Frida, unexpectedly kind, "If your soul is broken in two in your childhood, when you come of age, to mend it is your creation for life. Just as knowing that all lands run thick with blood - my Mexico, Virginia, even your cold North."

           

This made me feel a bit better, somewhat worthy, but Frida would not give me time for self-celebrating respite. Her delicate face came closer, earrings clanging like windchimes,

"But now," Frida whispered, "you must go further."

First published in the August edition of The Echo World.

Photograph "Frida Kahlo on mural in Tijuana" by Sofia Karin Axelsson.

Thank You Powers - or Green Prayer

The green heals me and nourishes me,

and from the green, and the heart, stems the whole rainbow.

Freja protect me, Sunna shine on me, and ancient Skadi

lend me the teeth and bone of Thurisaz.

Odin give me of your wisdom,

Loki lend me your cunning,

So, I may shapeshift through the day.

Sweet Idun, goddess of youth,

grant me of your golden apples,

So I may live as long as I choose.

Powers of old, powers of new,

together we can sail right through.

And with that I wish you the most prosperous August.

First published in the August edition of The Echo World

Magic of the Mighty Oak Tree

All through my childhood, and most of my adult life, the mighty oak has been a silent but powerful friend. From childhood pastures filled with giant oaks where screeching cat owls loved to live in their hollows, and slow-moving clumsy stag beetles staggered around their roots (in Swedish, stag beetle is directly translated as “oak ox,”) to the protective oak forest surrounding my parent’s houses, the acorns falling in the autumn attracting wild boars that sometimes have scared me half to death if I startled them at night (anyone who heard the growl of a wild boar up close knows exactly what I’m talking about.)
Both practically and symbolically, the oak lends itself to protection and safety. It is the very image of strength, abundance and endurance. A mature oak can be host to over a thousand species, some of which are dependent on the oak exclusively as their living environment. The oak may reach an age of a thousand years. There’s no wonder the Celtic Druids associated oak with immortality, among many other things. In the Old Norse mythology, oak is associated with Thor, well known as the thunder-god, always ready to throw his axe in any battle he found righteous.

As a magical ally, the oak tree can help you cultivate traits such as strength, endurance, abundance and help protect you when needed. If you want to work with the oak magically, here are some things you can do:

If you feel your home needs to be more of a safe haven for you and your loved ones, go out and pick evenly long branches, preferably between one to two feet long. Bind these together with red thread, either in the shape of the five pointed pentagram, or as a solar cross. Let some of the threads hang loose from your creation so they can flow in the wind. Hang this talisman on your front door, asking the oak spirit for protection of your home.

If you are starting a new project that you want to have deep-seated, long-term positive outcome, work with – depending on season – oak leaves and/or acorns. While theses contain all the positive symbolic and energetic signatures mentioned above, in the leaves and the acorns specifically lays the potential for “all possibility.” Change up your flower vases with branches of dark green oak leaves and decorate them with red yarn, and symbols of your choice. Fill bowls of acorns, add whatever stones or little symbols that represent your wants, and if your goal involves money – as they often do – roll bills and stick them in between the acorns. Ask for the blessings of the spirits specifically attached to the oak leaves and acorns (if you’re really lucky, you may see a glimpse of them.)

If you need to be more "in the eye in the storm,” try meditating with the oak tree. This can of course be done sitting under an oak tree, but this is not necessary. Sit comfortably and envision the stem of a giant oak growing around you, “feel” the coarse bark, and know that this tree has been home to thousands and thousands of creatures without getting hurt. Envision its mighty roots going far into the ground, its massive branches spreading far above your head. Borrow some of its ancient power. Know you can be an oak anytime you like.

Enjoy your mighty ally the oak.


This piece was first published in the newsletter Magic, Writing and Marketing. It is a mid-monthly newsletter sent out by the publishers of The Echo World.  You can sign up on the website www.theechoworld.com/

Magic of Apple, Tree of Life and Death

From the sweet white and pink blossoms, to the rich fruits that nourishes us come fall, the apple tree is a source and symbol of richness, fertility and re-generation.

The most famous apple tree in the world was not an apple tree at all. Nevertheless, the story of Paradise, Adam and Eve, the fatal bite into the apple and all that followed is deeply embedded into the collective unconscious of humanity, at least in the Western world. Echoed in fairytales such as Snow White, the apple symbolizes both life and death. Death of innocence that is, and the awakening to a world of both richness and dangers. And most importantly, to the awakening of the world of sex.

As a magical ally, you can work with the apple tree to invoke richness, fertility, sensuality, sexuality and much more. The apple is a close friend of humankind, and its powers are usually easy to access. Here are some things you can try out:

Pick branches with apple blossoms, put them in a clear glass jar so you can also see the roots, and ask the apple tree to bless you with a deeper appreciation of your home, and the now.

Cut slices of an apple right across the fruit and take a moment to meditate on the five-pointed star that is shaped from the seed pods. This is a symbol of the Goddess. Fill a pitcher with spring water, add the apple sizes. Put the pitcher where it can be reached by moonlight overnight, preferably on a full moon night. The next day or days, drink the water respectfully, asking with each sip for health to be ingrained into your body.

Make a wand from an apple branch. Decorate it with anything that for you represents richness, sweetness and sensuality. Use the wand to bless any project, situation, or challenge that needs softening and ease.

Enjoy your ally the apple tree. May you play well all year round.

This text was first published in the newsletter Writing, Magic and Marketing. Sign up at www.theechoworld.com

Magic - The Brilliance of Birch

Tree magic is powerful and readily available to anyone. From images of the world tree, to walks in the woods, to picking their fruits and nuts; our root and branch friends are everywhere, ready to communicate, support and nourish.

Different species of trees appear in different myths and folklore. Though these may vary between cultures, somehow, a certain kind of tree usually represent a certain energy signature. If we want to work magically with trees, knowing these energy signatures can help us make the magical work strong and efficient.

Here follows one example of a tree ally we can work with. I chose the birch tree simply because its qualities are so in harmony with the very early spring.

Sometimes called The White Lady of the Forest, birch is a very important tree in North Native American lore, as well as that of Celtic, Old Norse, and Siberian lore. Its slender white stems, with mysterious blackish cracks, and almost fluorescent green leaves, has inspired our ancestors of the northern hemisphere since time immemorial and continues to inspire us today.

Greening early, branches with tiny leaf-ears, can be brought indoors to bring new life to a home, or to symbolically sweep out winter and staleness. Or, why not join into the living tradition of the Finish – use them to whip your body clean in a sauna. “Out with the old, in with the new,” is a saying that goes well with the magic of birch.

Though well known for its beauty, birch is a real fighter – sturdy and strong. It was the first tree to grow in the hardy climates where the glaciers of the ice age had receded. Its bark can be used to make protection spells, and its sap is still used to make spring tonics.

If you want to work with the birch as your magical ally, it will lend you strength for renewal, spring energies, hardiness, protection and much more. So, what are you waiting for? Go out and hug a White Lady of the Forest!

First published in our mid-monthly newsletter "Writing, Magic, and Marketing." If you want to sign up, go to: www.theechoworld.com Images with courtesy of Pixabay free download.

In the Woods

What Is Magic?

What Is magic? is the title of a book by Bob Makransky that I reviewed some years ago. It’s a very good book, and I recommend it warmly. What is magic? is also a general question that any publisher of an alternative and spiritual magazine has to ask themselves on a regular basis, trying to remember why on earth you’re doing what you’re doing. Cause let me tell you, it’s not because of the easy-reaping fame, glory and fortune, that’s for sure. So, I do – ask myself this question ongoingly. What is magic?

Many years ago, one of my first witch teachers – her name is Oona Ingasdotter – asked this particular question in a class I was attending. I do not remember any of the other participants’ answers. I don’t even remember my own answer. What I do remember, after having blurted out something I thought was half intelligent, is that Oona looked at me with her wise eyes and said, “Yes, I’m sure that is what magic is for you.” I mention this because, since then, I have made a point of always starting any magic or spiritual pondering with – this is what magic is for me.

For me magic is the most natural thing in the world. I have realized over the years that quite many people associate this word with crones muttering spells over a steaming cauldron in the moonlight, trying to pull the powers of fate in this direction or the other. And while I have nothing against a little cauldron spell casting every now and then, for me, magic is the absolute opposite to trying to bend fate and life your way with will and tricks. For me, magic is rather to dive into the natural forces of the world, and to communicate with them as clearly and respectfully as I can. Then to gently move the threads of the weave in directions that are good for spirits, gods, nature, plants, animals and humans, alike. The benefits of doing it this way is that when you communicate with the weave and its myriad of life form, your own energy becomes enhanced, life deepens and becomes … let’s say, more magical.

I use the word magic, but you may just as well use a word such as spiritual. I like the word magic because it binds together the material and spirit world, on all levels. There is always something you can do to change a mood set or a situation. For example, when I wake up in the morning not really feeling up to snuff for the challenges of the day, I take a moment doing candle and incense magic on the porch, moving myself gently towards a state of being that will serve me better. The effects usually stay with me all day. Or, when Michael and I have gone through a week with setbacks, we may end the week with a bonfire by the creek, throwing in sticks and written notes, and even issues of our own magazine to symbolically burn away any stagnant energies that stand in our way. For whatever reason, it always works. The words in themselves are not as important as what they mean to us. This is what The Echo World is all about – giving voices to what we mean when we talk about spiritual, and even alternative. And, as the answers are as many as there are threads in a spiderweb, it takes many writers and many different voices to just start answering it. Every month.

Just as magic, any creative act with any kind of worth to it is done in isolation. And even if I sometimes feel a little isolated and chained to my computer the days before deadline (and often the days after deadline when online publication and website updates are falling in my lap at the same time as the upcoming issue’s contributions starts pouring in, and even sometimes in between the most recent issue and the upcoming issue when Michael and I are having planning meetings on the porch … ) The Echo World is nothing but the result of one big web of threads of collaborations. The magic of The Echo World lies in all the contributors and readers of the magazine. And quite an intricate web it is. Now, throwing its threads towards the beaming, glowing, beautiful South. I’m exited about that. Not for the sake of the South, which I’m sure does just fine either way. But totally egocentrically for my own and Michael’s sake. We will have the opportunity to weave this web into new territory for us, and thus, connect new exiting threads back to us. We are opening new phonelines of communication and wait anxiously, listening closely, for the weave-of-life call backs and voice messages.

To put it more concisely, The Echo World is the result of a multitude of collaborations and intense communications. It is the result of weaving together unexpected visions, wisdoms and creative efforts from all over. Now, Michael and I are in the process of expanding these efforts. This is going to be a lot of fun. Let’s create some magic together!

This was first published as the editorial in the March issue of The Echo World

Magic - Runes for Shifting from Winter to Spring

February is, for many people, a difficult month to keep energy and enthusiasm levels high. We are often tired of winter and the cold. We are ready for spring, but not quite there yet. In both regular media and the so-called New Age media articles usually start to appear at this time of year about detox and energy boosters, such as special diets, fasting or use of aromatic oils. On a magical level you can also use tools such as colors, tarot cards and visualization to help boost you into a more spring-oriented level of being and shake off that muggy slow winter feel. Being a rune nerd, I personally love to engage these age-old signs for focused magic work. Here follows my suggestion of three runes you can meditate on, make a drawing of or simply sit with for awhile to prepare for the shift between winter and spring:

Rune of Joy: Allow yourself to be filled with joy, contentment and a general feeling of awe. Spring is coming, but the year is still at its very beginning. This is also a wish rune, so mind your thoughts and make sure that your wishes and visions are lined up with what you truly want. An excellent way to work with the Rune of Joy is to draw it on a piece of paper using light colors such as pink and sunny yellow, or even better – draw it in glitter and hang it somewhere you can be reminded of its qualities every day.

Rune of Ice: While the coldness of winter is still lingering, use the Rune of Ice to slow down, breath deep and clarify where you are going. This rune is the very back-bone of the whole rune row and can help us remember what is the back-bone in our lives. Draw the rune in strong black strokes, add light blue and silver and meditate on its strength.

Rune of Cattle: The last rune of the Uthark, the Rune of Cattle, is also called the Rune of Richness. With this rune you can draw all those good things to you that you need. It stands for new beginnings, abundance, social success, sexual energy and more. Draw the rune in strong earthy and fiery colors and feel its power coming flowing into your life.

This text was first published in The Echo World mid-monthly newsletter Writing, Magic, and Marketing. Sign up at:

 www.theechoworld.com