‘We find ourselves back to the centre of things not by remembering but by retelling. Sometimes it is in the telling and then retelling of the stories that our lives our made’
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Home on the Edge is my latest book and is a work in progress.
I think the back blurb of the book will read something like this:
Part memoir, part meditation, part myth, part medicinal, this is a rite of passage story of a woman’s quest for belonging, devotion and connection. From uncovering a dark secret in her family history, to taking off from the Eastern shores of the Irish coast, circumnavigating the globe, and then landing back to the West of Ireland, this book is a mobius strip of interwoven experience; a training in how to keep the heart open through times of chaos and confusion.
‘Home on the Edge’ offers readers a map for how to live with an open heart in a broken world, and ultimately how to keep returning to the shores of our own bodies as a way back into the greatest conversations of our lives: how best to live them.
Here is a sample of what is to come…
In the ancient days, in the days before before, there were initiations into adulthood. The men would go on vision quests. And the women? How did they hunt their visions down? How did they find their quests?
We move through life gathering a collection of stories. Some, we tell often- they are the ones we’ve polished and projected until their shine reflects our own image back to ourselves. We become the stories we tell ourselves. And then there are the buried stories, hidden in some secret fold of our bodies or stashed away in the attic with the antiques, wedding dresses, broken toys, opened paint pots (which realistically we’ll never use again) and the fraying sepia photographs with their fading names handwritten on the back, names which are on longer mentioned. We are also made by those stories- the half-told, the whispered, the ones too full of sentiment which, if spoken, will only deem us ‘emotional’, ‘fragile’, ‘grief-stricken’, ‘wild’, ‘neurotic’, ‘sensitive’, or ‘a little bit tricky’. Up, in the attic, the stories gather, collecting the debris of time, fading and rendered to dust- these stories that are the making of us.
Here I climb into the attic, rummaging, shifting through journal after journal, leafing furiously through the albums and sorting through the folds of my skin, on the hunt for meaning and memory. The dark places are the making of us. We shine a light on them so they too can project back their fragile, filigree light and the great ellipse of our life may be rounded; we circumnavigate to find the secret gold in the centre- luminous, lucid, and so very very precious.
This is the circle dance. The one that is taking me closer to the dark gold.
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