It’s All About the Adventure

Written July 21, 2017
Honesdale, PA

There comes a moment in everyone’s life, when they find themselves sitting on a rail car, at midnight, at the end of the tracks. Well, alright, so not everyone has had quite that experience, but we’ve all found ourselves at a crossroads, and that is precisely where I find myself tonight. I am in fact sitting on a rail car, from a by-gone era, outside a post office, in the middle of a two-day steampunk festival, at midnight, in the birthplace of the American railroad. You can’t make this shit up.

It’s been quite an adventure so far. I am here by myself, which isn’t unusual for me. In fact, I quite like it. But this journey is different, and it’s proven to be exactly that: a journey. Who knew steampunk could be full of self-discovery? It’s as though I boarded an airship, only to end up on a steam train, and now I’m not quite sure where this adventure is taking me, but it’s too late to turn back. Besides, why would I want to? How many times will I get to vend directly in front of a running locomotive, and beside a steam powered fire engine from 1880?

It’s like, I’m sitting here on a warm, still July eve, on this caboose, in the middle of Pennsylvania, and I’m amazed! How did this happen? All in one night I made new friends, networked, explored a foreign town, meditated on a park bench in a locust grove, dipped my feet in a fountain, relaxed on a vacant playground, and walked the desolate rails…to find myself here, on this car, at the end of the track. Did I mention the glass of peach sangria and eating dinner beside a river? Well, I have now.

My life has intersected with so many others today. So many paths have crossed, and now here I sit, at a crossroads myself, contemplating life. I’ve had a lot of time to think in the last few hours…time to myself. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. How many more roads will intersect? How many storylines will converge? I don’t know, but that’s tomorrow’s adventure. I’ve had enough of one for tonight.

If I’ve learned anything from being a steampunk, it’s that it’s all about the adventure… and the aesthetic. Because I mean, let’s face it: we are the best dressed.


In a few moments I’ll shuffle off this caboose, wander down the tracks to my car, and slip into my cosy little nest. It’ll be like I was never here, and only the rails will know otherwise.

I now rest my pen beside my goggles and lift my allegorical glass. Tonight I drink a toast to tomorrow, and another to days long ago.



It is on the midwinter festival of Imbolc (February 2nd) that we celebrate the bard. Creativity flows in the forms of poetry, dance, prose, and song. Ritual fires blaze, welcoming the flame of inspiration that Brid brings. She has been reborn in her youthful, maiden form, just as the Earth is experiencing its own rebirth.

The sunlight shall wax henceforth, warming the soil. Growth stirs beneath the ground, birds begin to return, animals court, and love blossoms as we rejoice in the coming springtime. The very first creatures poke their heads from their burrows. The snake emerges, shedding the skin of his hibernation. He basks in the renewed sunlight, and if he finds himself in shadow he returns beneath the soil for another six weeks of winter.

It is between now and Ostera that many maidens entering wedlock will be blessed by Brid. Hence the origins of the word “bride”. The fertility of Mother Gaia can be felt and seen throughout the season. Love and creativity bloom.

We bards shall gather in unity to share what we so love: our self-expression. May Brid’s flame shed light where creativity lacks, and may her sunlight melt the ice of writers’ block.

Out with the olde of Winter and in with the new growth of Spring. Happy Imbolc to all. May the ancestors, the nature spirits, and Lady Brid smile upon you with love and renewed inspiration.

~K. White Wolf

Owl Woman

You’ve been on my mind lately. Why, I cannot say, since now you are but a faded memory. Yet, I see you so clearly. Not your face, but you clothes and your owl.

It was May 2012 and I’d been in Glastonbury for a day. I had been inside a shop, admiring a green dress. It was maybe 4 PM. I was with my ex at that time, exploring the towne. Out we walked from the shop and there you were, standing at the corner, looking in at the window display. You were wearing a similar dress, tall and elegant like you, and I think it had a hood. Maybe we had been admiring the same dress in the same shop. I don’t know. I only know that you had a way about you. Something mystic, mysterious, and as beautiful as the barn owl perched on your arm.

You and I, our eyes met fleetingly. I don’t know if we even said hello. I remember you smiled and looked back in the shop window, or at your winged companion.

The owl’s eyes followed me. She and I gazed at each other and I didn’t want to look away. I know she watched me as I walked up High Street. There was connection, though it was intangible, momentary, and then it was gone, as though a soft wind had rustled my leaves.

You were so beautiful, both of you. Normally my memories are in photographic form, but you…you are a rare painting, a Vermeer, and I wonder if you were real. For years I have assumed you were real, for I know my ex and I both saw you standing there, plain as day. Your owl looked right at me. I haven’t thought of you in years. Why have you come to haunt me now? Who were you?

At the time I had just learned of the Isle of Avalon, home to Rhiannon. I have come to think of Avalon as my soul’s origin, though I did not know it then. I was discovering myself and my path. Could you have been Rhiannon? Did I meet the Queen of Fae that day? Or did I meet but a kindred spirit, two ships passing in the night?

When I visited the Glastonbury Abby a few days later I met an eagle owl. Beautiful he was, with sharp amber eyes and powerful feathered talons. Yet, he did not hold the same enchantment as the white bird on your arm.

What does it all mean? Why did we meet and where did you go? I never saw you again, though I looked for you every time I walked through town. I know we will never meet again.

Who were you? And, if by chance you are thinking of me, can you send a sign?

I left my home the day I left Avalon. I left you, a perspective friend, and an endless world of possibilities. If fate should be defied, and we meet again on that distant shore, I do hope to learn your name.

Until then I shall wonder, content to never know the answer, and appreciate the beauty in your mystery.


~K. White Wolf

Endeavors in Reincarnation

The subject of reincarnation has long fascinated me. I don’t know why. Maybe I heard my father talking about it when I was young, or maybe I’m just an old soul who simply knew. Regardless, it’s been an interest and a passion for as long as I can recall (this time around, anyway).

When I was thirteen I began to remember a past lifetime in Ancient Egypt. It did not take me long to realize that many of the people I remembered were currently in my life, playing similar roles. Since then I have researched, explored, and incorporated reincarnation into my own spirituality.

By writing about what I remember I have come to a better understanding of who I am. It has helped me heal from deep wounds, both past and present. While the past may be over, the deepest of afflictions can take lifetimes to heal.

It is my sincere hope that by sharing my stories and knowledge I can shed light on this often stigmatized subject. More than that, I hope to provide a voice and support to those who have remembered difficult past lives and fear ridicule for their beliefs. May my written word serve as a guide for those who need it.

-K. White Wolf

A Journey of Rebirth

Reincarnation is a funny thing. For one, it transcends belief. It doesn’t choose who remembers and who does not. It simply is.

There is a cycle to Life: life, death, and rebirth. Time and time again, our souls are recycled, much in the way leaves are recycled each year. The old leaves die, the tree goes to sleep, and and in the springtime it comes back to life. Over the winter the old leaves decompose, giving nourishment to the soil. It is those vital nutrients -the remnants of the tree’s former life- that replenish the Earth and allow the cycle to continue. In that way the tree remains one entity, but it is made up of endless cycles, countless stories and experiences, that have made it unique.

Such is the case with our own lives. We are all but trees in a vast and densely wooded forest. I have always liked the tree analogy. That is, each one of us represents the trunk. The largest, most central limbs represent our closest friends and family members. From there our trees “branch out”, as does our inner circle, until finally we reach the leaves.

Now, we can choose to view the leaves in one of two ways. If we view ourselves as deciduous trees, our leaves represent the people who enter out lives for a season. They are then returned to the forest to enter the roots of a neighboring tree. Perhaps they will return to us, closer than before, and aid in the growth of a new branch.

If we view ourselves as conifers, those evergreen needles serve the same function. However, they tend to stick around much longer (if not indefinitely), even if we are unaware of them.

In either case, we accept that everyone has a place in our lives, if only for a moment. This is called our soul group, or soul family. Most specifically, the people we are closest to tend to be the ones we will encounter life after life. If we are lucky enough to remember, we may recognize current loved ones from eras long passed. In my experience this can create a feeling of serendipity. It lends the sense that we are all connected.

What if you do not believe in reincarnation? Can you still remember? The answer to this is yes. There have been countless case studies done in this field. Many of the most incredible tales of rebirth have come from non-believers. A few hand picked examples will be gone over in later posts.

In writing this post, I hope to share with you a story that I believe is worth telling. I am not asking you to reconsider your beliefs. Nobody has that power but you. I am simply asking you to listen while I recount the tale of a soul family that reunited after over four thousand years…and remembered each other in astonishing detail.

The names of the people involved have all been changed, including my own. However, the names of their historic counterparts have not. Much of my story has been historically confirmed, fifteen years after I first began to remember. I have gone to great lengths to fact check my own research. Historical fact is presented as such. That which cannot be confirmed is clearly noted. A bibliography will eventually be provided, once this comes together as the book I plan it to be.

Much of what I will be telling you was not easy to remember. I expect the same was true for everyone else. It is my sincere hope that you respect our beliefs and at the very least give consideration to our own personal truths in this matter.

Remembering the past has been a journey. It is a journey of life through death. The social classes mentioned may be scoffed at but the emotions we all felt were no different from the emotions we all feel today.

There will be followup posts every so often, categorized under “Reincarnation”. I hope you enjoy reading my story as much as I have enjoyed telling it. May you come away with a sense of connectedness, much in the way that I did.

-K. White Wolf

For Tucker

The moment I looked in your eyes,
the very moment we met,
I sensed that we’d met before.
Surreal it was,
for I was taken back,
ten years ago,
to when our eyes met
as you took your last breath
upon a sterile, cold table.
You weren’t mine then,
and I didn’t know you,
or why you had come to die.
Yet you remained,
a vivid memory,
and for a decade
I was haunted
by your eyes.
I spoke to you tonight,
as I saw your sadness and fright.
I knew you listened,
and I knew you understood
every word, and every sentiment,
for you reached out
and squeezed my hand
with your paw,
forever to leave
another lasting impression.