In a chapter of The Enchanted Life entitled ‘Coming Home to Ourselves’, I wrote about the ways in which we can deepen our relationship and sense of belonging to the place we live: specifically, to our houses – and to our gardens, if we’re lucky enough to have one. And I am. Regular readers of this blog will know that I moved back to Connemara around a year ago, after three years in Donegal. The rather strange house we now live in sits in the middle of what, once upon a time, might have been thought of as a garden. Here’s how I described it in The Enchanted Life: Read More
I don’t usually write book reviews on any forum, but every now and again a book comes along which makes me want to. So here is the first of what will be an occasional series, for sure: a collection of the small number of books which (often unexpectedly) really make an impact. Lisa Samson’s just-published Epitaph for the Ash is one such book.
‘We think that we imagine the land, but perhaps the land imagines us, and in its imaginings it shapes us. The exterior landscape interacts with our interior landscape, and in the resulting entanglements, we become something more than we otherwise could ever hope to be.’
My search for a spiritual tradition with authentic roots began in earnest around the turn of the millennium, when I undertook a year-long ‘shamanic’ training in the UK, where I was living at the time, having just moved back from America. However, although I found the training profoundly transformative, I was uncomfortable about applying ‘imported’ South American and Native American practices, cosmologies and affirmations into my own lands, where the indigenous tradition is so different. Read More
It’s just two weeks now until The Enchanted Life is officially published. In some ways, it seems like an age has passed since I handed the final manuscript over to my editor at the beginning of October; in other ways it seems all too recent, as I find myself some days still in the throes of what my husband calls ‘post-book traumatic stress disorder’.
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
W. B. Yeats
At the still point of the turning world, there the dance is. Are you dancing yet?