Clare Mulvany 06/04/2026 Clare Mulvany 06/04/2026

Making Slow

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Winter wore her coat buttoned. A long, heavy coat, which pressed down on the land with dark threaded seams. It has already been a season of slow beginnings. I have watched the days lengthen, only to be swallowed by mists again. I’ve swum in a glinting harbour, only to find the cloud wink out the light. What’s arriving is not a steady current of presence, but of departure too; a pull back, an edge forwards, motion, I am thinking, much like breath. Perhaps this is the natural rhythm of arrival; hesitancy before passage; timidity preceding being known. Perhaps I just need to remember to make my way with slow. I turn to the land, and take note.

It has been a week of the slow uncurl. Earlier, walking in the woods, I noticed how the young fern began its awakening tucked in a tight spiral, as if bowing to its heart before revealing itself to the world. Its gradual arrival is the unravelling of the spiral, shaped in the way of curve and waves and cosmic folds. A shy, timid, opening, before turning to face the light. The world awakens gently in the pace of fern.

Meanwhile, on the bushes, from hawthorn to bramble, the week has witnessed the gathering plumage of bloom. It’s been a gentle rattle in the land, as if the earth is airing her new sheets and spreading them on the branches. Swatches of bright yellow gorse, like hand printed Indian block cloth, laid alongside the white linen of blackthorn. As the mists clear, the hills are whitewashed again, and the season is opening her hand with her offerings. Her generosity never fails to amaze me; how ever garment of bloom came from that buttoned winter coat; slowing slipping off to reveal the next layer; treasures the darkness kept hidden until the world was ready to welcome.

As the light lengthens now, slowly I am being taught to trust in my own unravelling, to lay the winter layer down. The darkness has served a remedy, and Spring is now taking the reins. The seasons are a splice of time, but they also offer us a language of invitation. What might it be to unburden ourselves of coats which served in one season of our lives, but not the next? What might it be to welcome our own arrival at the pace of fern, a gradual opening to our own possible? The spiral is a patten of arrival from the centre of our being, departure again, before returning; the centre the site of orientation from which the movement comes. To hold our centre in the mist of change. Isn’t this so much of the work of this time. The spiral is also a key.

As I think about the invitation of the spiral, I am also feeling into its pace too, and how far removed from the centre we have become when moving at the pace of fern seems so counter-cultural. So much of the external world is hooked on fast. Fast fashion. Fast acting. Fast food. Fast paced. The algorithms scroll us to the next, leaving us unsatiated. Fed on their hunger for more, it’s so easy to be sucked into their definitions of success, where more is more is more. There is no time for the unfurl, for the departure, for the gradual arrival, for the shy reveal, for craft or skill and the time it takes to truly transform through the process of becoming. Slow has always felt counter cultural but I think it is where the real revolution might be taking place. It certainly will not be televised.

Perhaps it is a function of getting older, but as the seasons pass and the years speed by, my need for slow is quickening. Only in the gentle, am I learning that I can hear my true words. Only in the gradual spiralling of arrival to myself —coming closer, turning away, coming closer again —can I discern the truth of my being. Holding the proximity to centre, like a wave of breath in motion, like another season always on the way in, offers a different form of patterning. I need the slow to listen. In the quite places I am learning to discern the ever whispering invitations. The inner life is a cosmos. I bow my head. The spiral takes me inwards.

Very soon I realise what I have been pushing back against. Fast has been holding the noise of what burdens, weighs me down with doubt and uncertainly, clutters my mind with the debris of the algorithmic hunger for more. I have been craving the certainly of my centre. I hunger for the love which I find there, and the vastness. When I bow my head, I am met not with estrangement, but a welcome. It is warm, and kind and wise. It is set with bloom. Inside are all the answers I will ever need. Inside us all is our own universe, ready to speak.

So I turn off my phone and I go to the woods, where the fern uncouples itself from fear and unloosens itself to the awakening of Spring. The wild garlic brush off my legs, and I am walking now in the scent of awakening. Low to the ground, delicate yellow primrose, blush colour on the soil. There is grace to this pace of arrival.

By what measure, I ask myself, have I been judging my own arrival. By extrinsic deadlines or definitions, or an intrinsic knowing from my own soil, my own soul, from which the spring in me matures.

As I walk in the woods, I am a student of the spiral. Fern is a wise teacher. Slow is too. I am learning to trust in the pace of Clare.

Every person is a cycle, with our seasons of arrival, proximity, distance, return. Yours will be different to mine. There is no right way, or wrong way. You are not late. You have not missed out. We are each our own becoming, ever arriving to ourselves. But what I know is it can not be forced. Just like the fern finds its own shape. Just like the wave breaks within its own beat, our arrival is ours alone. We have our winters. We have our spring, and when we listen inwards towards the universe of our being, we’ll each get the nudge when the time is right: to unbutton our coats, lay the layer down, and arrive the way of our own unfolding spiral, as the breath does, and the seasons. We can always bow to our centre, and begin.

**Hello. I'm Clare**

I'm a writer, educator and facilitator, living in beautiful West Cork, Ireland. I love to share resources and learning to help harness the transformative power of words, place and story. I hope my work offers nourishment for mind and soul. Thank you for being here. Clare x

Clare Mulvany 27/10/2025 Clare Mulvany 27/10/2025

Samhain: Initiations in the Dark

The hedgerows made a chequerboard of the land below me. Leaving Dublin, morning turned to dawn, then dark, flying westwards, back into the night. Time up high can do strange things, like curling you back into a dream.

I am travelling westwards to tend to a grief. A dear friend’s father passed away, and as she prepares for his life celebration, she asked that I accompany her. I can think of no greater honour: to accompany.

His death was anticipated, it was his time to pass, and they have both taken his leave with grace and an exquisite elegance of care. But still, how we learn to travel that threshold together, is everything. As much as I am doing this for her, it is my apprenticeship too; to get more skilled in navigating the so often painful, so often beautiful folding terrain of a life as we attempt to cross the landscapes of death, love, loss, homecomings.

To be an apprentice, I write in my journal, then jot down the qualities that it invites.

The mastery of a craft. Tacit holding and honing, through practice. Aligning with a lineage of elders and teachers. Adopting the novice mind. Knowing we won’t get it right first time, but with practice, and care, we can get more refined.

I look out the plane’s window, and invite those qualities to accompany me too, as moonlight tips the wings, reminding me that there are other sources of light available, even in the dark. It makes me think about how I can be more of that light, and remember that it too is an apprenticeship.

To be an apprentice to the light as well as the dark, I add to my journal.

The flight, the height, the moon, the travelling backwards into the dark, the apprenticeship with grief and loss, the tending; it all feels weirdly potent and symbolic, given the timing, for soon I will be on Northern Turtle Island, the ancestral lands of Mississaugas of the Credit, Anishnabeg, Chippewa, Haudenosaunee, and Wendat peoples, and is now home to diverse First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples, whose land I will be on for the Celtic New Year, as we cross another threshold, of Samhain. It feels all so appropriate, for this is a time of initiation, all about how we approach the living and the dying, and the rituals in-between.

The moon slivers below me, the descent is soon to begin.

Up here, close to the stars, I have been thinking too that it is time to invent a new verb, a little like summering or wintering, but with more transition built into it. Samhaining, or in Irish, to be ‘ag Samhain’. While wintering teaches us how to rest in the fallow dark and unknown, and summering how to celebrate our fullness, Samhaining, as a gesture of approach, has much to teach us about how to enter dark times.

I need not list all the ways in which we, human and creaturely kin alike, are experiencing the ruptures, fractures, factions and dis-ease the planet is moving through. They are global, and they are systemic, and I don’t think there is a single life form on this earth right now not impacted. For some it is the failures of politics and economics, for some it is a reckoning with the exposed cracks in our education, food, or health systems, or for others more a climate or ecological polycrisis. But they are so interwoven now, it’s impossible to untangle the threads. And so it is here I turn to the great elders, both in Ireland and beyond, to help me understand the drivers and leavers below it, and attempt to apprentice to their insights.

I turn to the likes of eco-philosopher, Joanna Macy, who shared her wisdoms on how we move to this collective Samhain, or in her words, ‘the Great Unravelling’. I turn to writer, psychotherapist and ‘grief tender’, Francis Weller, who speakers of how we are entering ‘The Long Dark’, and I think too of now of the late Manchán Magan, who was showing us how spirit, land and language are interwoven, and have everything to do with the health of our collective soul. For in the severance, we have been loosing touch with the sacred ground between us. How we reconnect, at ground level is also about re-connecting at soul level.

A little important note here. I am careful how I use the words ‘we’ and ‘us’, for not all ‘us’ and ‘we’ is equal. As a cis white female from a privileged background- privilege here being access to education, healthcare and opportunity, I speak from that particular vantage. I can work on revealing my blindspots and biases, but that too is a practice of care and craft. I need training, I need apprenticeship. And I say all this coming from a colonised land, where my language, culture, trees, seas, rivers and life forces have suppressed. When I see the chequerboard of hedgerows, I seek out the oaks. I am longing for the call of the curlew. In my ancestral bones, I can feel the pain like a grief that cuts me in two. Restoration must be lived forward, and backwards, which I am also realising is much to do with re-storying- finding and amplifying the stories which will help carry us through these dark times, which, in turn, brings me back to Samhain. For it is in my own lineage that I am finding the restoration, bone level, soul level. In the descent, the story is in fact rising. I’m slowly putting Irish words back into my mouth and mind, and I am trying to dream in myth, and listen to the land speak’. Plus I have access to this ancient calendar, which I discovered through my friends and mentors, Mari Kennedy and Dolores Whelan, with its wisdoms and its wise ways, a systematic map, which all begins with an initiation into the re-storying of the dark, and the anticipation of the treasure and tools we might find there.

As I have learned from over ten years now of working with the Celtic calendar, I know if I can lean into Samhain, I will encounter the healing properties of the rituals of the threshold; I’ll meet the dark crone of the Cailleach, and, as I continue the slow descent into the underworld, in Jungian terms, I’ll enter the alchemical period of the nigredo, where, if I can stay true to my apprenticeship with the dark, and travel through the unknown, I will be on the route of descent, a place of encounter in so many of the restorative myths. For here, was not just the known world, but the otherworld, the spirit world, the dark interior, or in Irish, altar. As Manchán has explained it, this is the ‘netherworld, or the other dimensions beyond, and we recognised there was only a thin veil between them’. And so it is here, at Samhain, on a precipice of the known, where the otherworld is said to push through, like a palm against the opposing face of foggy glass, declaring a presence. I am here, there is more to this dark than you can see. Tar isteach. Come inside.

Will fear grip us? Or will curiosity? The apprentice, of course, true to their craft, is a curious creature. They enter, and soon find themselves in a world of resplendent things. It is like, as the poet Rothke has said, ‘In a dark time, the eye begins to see’. I am hoping the ‘we’ can begin to see too.

The plane is soon to arrive. I will enter new territory, land I do not know, arriving for the first time here, into the arms of a grieving friend. We can Samhain together. I suspect there will be tears. But there will also be treasures and tools, glistening in the corners of the long night, both accompanied, the living and the dying, held together in a finely woven gossamer weave.

The moon slivers below me, the pilot’s voice cuts through, the descent is soon to begin.

Clare Mulvany 22/11/2024 Clare Mulvany 22/11/2024

On Listening to the Dream in the Dark.

The sky is a dome of light, tinged peach, tinged purple. Dawn is always forthcoming if we can ride the night out long enough. I wake up early and light a candle. It is the quite hour, before the world has turned and sleep still settles on the hills like an innocent child, dreaming still of a better world.

We all need a place to dream, and to rest. We need a place to make sense, gather resources, build the life, harvest the life. But that is coming. First the space for sleeping, then dreaming. First the dark.

November finds its rhythms in the dark hours. Light hatched only in sketches. It is in the dark where dreams are born, twisting around a body seeking its internal bear. To hibernate in today’s world of always on, always bright, where even the dark has been overshadowed by the commercial bling of Black Friday. How about:

Less Friday

Sleep Friday

A Friday to use up the last throws of the autumnal harvest before the need for more.

Dream Friday

Soon it will be the season of giving, of festivities, but for now still, this is the season for turning inwards, turning to the dream buried in the places only the dark can touch.

You can listen to this piece here:

Less Friday

Sleep Friday

A Friday to use up the last throws of the autumnal harvest before the need for more.

Dream Friday

Soon it will be the season of giving, of festivities, but for now still, this is the season for turning inwards, turning to the dream buried in the places only the dark can touch.

I feel asleep in the afternoon yesterday. A scene I had been working on in the book I am writing got caught and it wasn’t flowing. Nor was I. So I took to my bed with a hot water bottle. As my body dropped into the unconscious territory I slept the ending of that scene. I had my directions. When I woke, there was my character knocking on my page, calling me. It came out in a swoop. The dream is an incubator. The dark is the engine that makes it turn.

I am not sure how dark has got such a bad press. The Dark Arts. The Dark Lord. Black as negated, of skin and mind and humour. The black dog. The black death.

I read an article once by Kasia St Clair about the development of black pigment. I learned that there is a material called Vantablack which is the most light absorbent substance on the planet. So non-reflective it looks like you might never come out. Look it up, but I warn you, you may fall down the rabbit hole.

Black holes. The long dark. But it is the cave that holds the treasure as the mythologist Joseph Campbell speaks of. Dark as incubator. Dark as womb.

I think many of us feel we are looking into a vantablack hole, neither able to see our own reflection or find out way out. Wondering if we ever will. But the strange thing about standing on the edge, looking in, is that we won’t know if we will make it through unless we cross the threshold. We must step across. Take the risk. It is classic hero journey arc. Only. when we get to the other side we must be willing to sit in the unknown until the treasures are caught in the glowing dark, and glisten.

What might the treasures of threshold crossing be? What dreams might have a chance to uncurl themselves, to show up on the page, the podium or the policy. The dark, I am learning, over and over again, isn’t about trying to solve the dark, it’s about embracing the space of the unknown, sitting with, learning into, being open to the dream, being open to the treasure, no matter how dark it gets. Even vantablack levels of dark.

My candle flickers, the purple has given way to sky’s winter expanse. The dark has a dent in it. The dream, it has been knocking. I am listening. I am listening. I am listening.

Clare Mulvany 06/11/2024 Clare Mulvany 06/11/2024

On the Work of Grief and Love (and the great mystery in the middle)

Take a deep breath. We have entered The Dark Times. This is a time and place when the already weak systems which hold things together begin not just to crack, but to fall apart. The bridges that united us are visibly failing. Across the ocean, a man so vile and so dangerous will continue to call for the infrastructure of our humanity to be torn apart. He will be tearing down rights: of access to healthcare, to travel, to democratic privileges, to any semblance of balanced judicial process. He will be dismantling freedoms too, of speech, of movement, of choice. It’s called misogyny. Soon it may more widely be called others things like fascism, violence, collapse. On this side of the ocean, I am grateful for the ocean, and that my own vote did not have to be in direct defence against such darkness.

Yet. Yet. For there is always yet.

You can listen to this piece here:

Yet. Yet. For there is always yet.

In times of collapse not everything is lost. But everything is up for grabs and we can take nothing for granted.

I’ll tune into metaphor for scaffold here.

While the bridges may be dismantled, there are still rivers, raging most likely, but moving and stirring and binding us together though the liquid of our being. Water is the great connector. Tears. Breath. The river is contiguous with every living thing, no matter its political agenda, social current or leanings. The river, the water, the ocean reminds us that we are always more connected than we realise. I need that reminder today too, for on this side of the ocean, it’s still the same ocean, swayed by tides, rattled by the moving storms. What happens in Dark Times on one continent can set up templates for others, no matter how fortified we think our bridges are.

On this side of the ocean, there are bridges to mend too, as their are waters to heal. There are old, cranky, inept systems which need to be hospiced well, and new ones which need to be midwifed so they are strong enough to hold not just our governments but our humanity. I purposely use ‘our’ here, knowing ‘our’ includes people who I agree with- who want to build and hospice and midwife well, and those who I don’t agree with; those who vote for the demonic and draconian. The ocean is for everyone. Its so hard. So very hard.

I draw on the work of teachers here, and models as I think about this. The two loop model of systems change, for example, from the Berkana Institute, which many years ago was presented to me by its co-author Deborah Frieze. It is a simple model of how old systems die, and how new ones emerge. Like a simple map, it helps us place navigational pins, and position ourselves too.

Along the loops, there are places of action and orientation, all necessary for change, including with the dying. The role of hospicing, for instance, helping a system to die well, is as important as the trailblazer or pioneer, stepping out of the dominant system to seed new ideas. Other roles include the connector, linking and nurturing the new seeds, then supporting communities of practice, establishing new norms and standards which may even be adopted back into the dominant system. I think of one of my dear friends, Jennifer Dungan, as I write this. A primary school teacher, with a deep passion for nature and education, and with knowledge of the emergent forest school model. For years she worked in a school, prototyping and trialling the methods, until, ten years on, she has helped to establish it as weekly practice. Every Friday is fores t school day. This year however, she felt it was time to leave, and so she has taken a sabbatical and has stepped out, with the view to bringing forest school to more people. She is training more teachers, working on a wider curriculum, and helping to build a community of practice around these nature based models. In Dark Times, it is likely the new is already being seeded somewhere, by humble and powerful people like Jenny. We need to keep our ears and eyes peeled, and place our bets on them.

The other model I am thinking about today is the work of Joanna Macy, with her model known as The Work that Reconnects. Joanna, now in her mid-nineties, has been a pioneer in leading the way for groups to gather and take collaborative action for the planet. Joanna outlines three narratives which are simultaneously at play: Business as Usual- a story of head in the sand, continuous industrial growth economics; The Great Unravelling - a story of the collapse of social and environmental systems; and finally, of The Great Turning- a story which speaks of the interconnectedness of all life, and which is oriented towards regeneration, renewal, connection. While acknowledging that these three layers are operative at any one time, within them, we have a choice; to bury our heads, to destroy, or to construct. Crucially, the latter, moving us towards the Great Turning, can only happen when we bring the change to both our inner lives, and our outer actions, which is why I am thinking of it today. Because that inner work begins with grief.

Grief may be a thing with feathers, but it may also come with hammers. There is an energy, sometimes rage, knocking and gnawing- an energy replete with so much pain that, at times, we might feel like it will break us. But the thing with grief, we must let it break us; that is, in the kind of cracking open kind of way.

I think too of a line from a Thomas Kinsella poem, where is speaks of heavily pruned trees, ‘hacked clean for better bearing’ having suffered their ‘brute necessities’. Hacking is a violent process, it can feel brutal and overbearing, but if we don’t fall into grief, into its allowance to mould us, we risk being held in shells- fragile, and in fear of breaking itself, which is exactly what we need to do. Grief is fluid as a river. Grief is a threshold which we are changed through.

From my own experience, of loosing loved ones and loosing identities, I have learned that until I experience the grief, until I let it crack me open, cry so many tears of me, rattle my world, nothing shifts. But when I literally turn to grief and say, ‘bring it on’, the pain immediately feels less acute and shifts into something less brittle. I am then enabled to move beyond reactionary territory and amazingly, into creative territory with grief as a resource, or reservoir of tenderness. There is still tendrils of the pain tethering me to the loss, but the kind of pain that is a reminder of so much love. Grief, in that sense, becomes a companion or ally, accompanying me on my creative path.

When my dear friend and mentor, another Jennifer, died last year, the grief consumed me, and I let it. I danced with it, cried so much I thought I would dry out. I moved with yoga. I swam, swam, swam. Then I painted. Feathers, ironically, at first, then scribbles, and colours, and creatures. And only then was I ready to write. Now, my creative practice includes Jennifer. I have a little altar for her in my home, with memories, gifts she gave to me, images. And when I sit down to write, I light her a candle too, inviting the creative exchange that was so alive between us to guide me onwards, forwards. Today, as we enter the Dark Times Deeper, after much plotting and planning, I begin writing book two of a trilogy I’ve working on. I’ve no idea when or how I will get it out into the world yet, but I do know it is my own small contribution to The Great Turning, for it is a story about how change can happen, and new vision, and the big mystery in the middle. It is a story written with grief, and with love.

So, grieve. Let the fury in. And the rage. Dance with it. Sing with it. Love it. Hold it. Swim with it. Let it move you, literally. And when it feels time, create. In the Dark Times, our creativity is our tool of choice. And creativity is your own gift, whatever that is to claim, and to offer.

Mine: I’ll claim mine, as a gift I seek to use wisely. So I’ll write, and teach and gather people, for I know these are mine to do. Maybe they are yours too - to write a story which is also part of the grief, or the seeds, or the buds. Or maybe it is to grow, literally, and your gift is tending to the seeds, and the saplings, then forests. Or maybe your gift is spreadsheets (bless your precious soul!), and you have a way with numbers with can procure resources and finance and data. Or maybe your gift, your creativity, is being on the streets with banner and voice. Or you are that primary school teacher, opening young hearts to wonder and delight. Or you may even be in a government office, so riddled with bureaucracy that it feels intractable, but you have a gift of finding a way, finding the cracks in the system, where yes, the light gets in.

This work is hard. But it is possible. And no matter how dark it is, we have our tears and our bones and our rage and our love. We have this thing call creativity. And we have the ocean, which right now, I am about to swim in. As I plunge into the cold waters, I will be thinking of the other side of the ocean, and of my fellow humans in Palestine and beyond , and of all the creatures, big, small, vertebrates and invertebrates, who don’t have a voice. And the trees, and the fabric of life which connects us.

In Dark Times, work is what we have. Work, that is, of love and grief, and the great mystery in the middle.

Coming up this Month

**Poetry Salon- 10 November**

A hour to gather around poetry and reflect on its meaning and wisdom. Donation based tickets here.

**Writing Sanctuary- 17 Nov**

An hour of journal prompts, sharing and connection around the power of words and the ritual of creativity. Tickets here

Clare Mulvany 06/11/2024 Clare Mulvany 06/11/2024

Samhain Salon Spellbook

Samhain Salon spell book by participants of Clare Mulvany’s poetry salon.

Approaching Samhain, we gathered.

The zoom squares are in rows, but if I could re-arrange them I’d put them in a circle, full of candles, and in the very centre, on this occasion, I’d place a cauldron. Instead, I carry my large computer monitor downstairs so I can be around my own fire and candles and books, and I place a metaphorical ‘cauldron’ in the centre. It’s where we’ll concoct some spells later.

We are calling in from Ireland, France, US, UK, Switzerland, Scotland, Spain. Not a huge group, 15 perhaps, and every person feels to me like a guest who has come with gifts, of their time, their attention, and openness.

In most poetry salons, the guests bring poems with them to share, sometimes their own, but mostly from poets whose work they admire, or poems which have stirred or provoked them in some way. We read the poems together, twice. The first reading is like a greeting, and the second is for it to really arrive- a duel entry into our minds and our hearts

The Samhain salon is a little different. I curate the poems based on themes, then offer journalling prompts, weaving in seasonal reflection, from which, so often, insight arrives.

As Samhain is a time for thinking about thresholds and liminality, poems from Leanne O’Sullivan and Paula Meehan brought us to thresholds into the otherworlds at Autumn’s end and at at holy well. A poem from Ceaití Ní Bheildiúin had us encounter the Cailleach herself, the hag, ‘the essence of weather’, ‘tearing violently at the roof’, helping us tap into the fierceness inside us, and our own capacity for change. Annie Finch’s poem, ‘Samhain’, led us through Samhain night like a ‘seam stitching darkness like a name’. And then there were the spells, Finch's again, and from Doireann Ní Ghriofa, both which offered templates for our own incantations which were were about to create.

As the salon spun, I invited guests to write down words from the poems which caught them, these were to be our ingredients into which we’d place, or fling, our own words into the metaphorical cauldron, to see what spells might emerge. Transformed in our own imaginations and forged with our own ink, as the night drew to a close, we read our spells, our poems, from the Samhain night of encounter, and thresholds and the energy of liminal times. It was simply beautiful.

Afterwards, I gathered the spells, and made our own little spell book, which I share, with blessing.

After reading, you may even want to write your own ‘spell’, which I would love to read if you care to send along. (send to clare@claremulvany.ie)

In these dark times, may these spells offer wisdom and wonder for your own path ahead, into the night.

Onwards,

Clare. x

Coming up this Month

Clare Mulvany 28/10/2024 Clare Mulvany 28/10/2024

Samhain and the Gift of Descent

Samhain, Puca Parade, Schull, West Cork

(You can listen to this piece here - 8 mins) Please forgive the croaky voice as I recover from a bad cough. But perhaps it adds to the liminality!

For weeks the villagers gathered. One brought old boxes, another brought fresh, pliable willow. One gathered clam shells, another brought washed up fishing nets. As evenings began to dim, the making commenced. Schull’s Puca Festival theme this year was ‘The Raising of the Lady Charlotte’, a fishing boat which sank off the West Coast of Cork in 1839. Nine sailors lost their lives and as the sails of the 2024 Lady Charlotte were hoisted over main street, it was as if the ghosts of their story are still haunting the shore.

The Samhain parade was a resurrection in many forms —of the Lady Charlotte story, but also of tradition, keeping up the playful mythic marking of the threshold into the dark cycle of the year, a time of liminality, which access to the otherworld is cracked open and souls are said to pass through. The underworld in the Celtic imagination is always just below the surface; veiled thin and pressing, and particularly so at Samhain. Masked or veiled, cloaked or covered, who is from the living realm and who is from the dead are questions which still invite mystery and mischief; questions which the Puca parade carried so well.

I had been away for a few weeks, so sadly my creative contributions to the event were limited to cutting out a few boat shapes and making circles from the willow, which would go on to be fashioned into fish. But every hand that helped made the street come alive in myth. A class of school children were transformed into a school of fish. There was a shoal of techno jellyfish (made from umbrellas!), a compass, a telescope, a ship of drunken sailors, a silver angelfish made from an old tent, huge skeletons rising and me, in the parade mix, holding a giant blue octopus tentacle, primely positioned for tiggling under the chins of onlookers, or even better, scaring young children, not to fright but to wonder and delight.

Samhain. The ritual is reviving, at least here in West Cork, where the following night, the next village over were having their own celebrations. And later in the week, a few villages further. Like a string of rituals, hung up to air out the old, and welcome the new. I think the place is the better for it.

Like any decent tradition, it goes deeper though too. Samhain, the initiation festival of the Celtic Calendar, the start of the Celtic year, positioned not at a time of rise, but at descent. Here in the Northern Hemisphere we are moving into the dark season, a time of release and decline, heading towards a wintering of being, the great fallow, and the slow - if we can let it. For ever season holds its gifts, and its invitations. The gift of Samhain goes beyond the playful parade or the night of trick or treat, and into the gift of the dark descent itself, which is also its invitation. What if, it asks, we allowed the darkness to take hold, if we allow ourselves the initiatory rite into its dark passage of slow time and the unknown? What might we find there? And how might we return?

The role, symbolism and questions of decent are not unique of course to the Celtic lineage. Scan any of the great mythologies and we find parallel underworld trajectories. Inanna, the Sumerian Goodness descended through the seven gates of the underworld only to be stripped bare, slain, then resurrected once the domineering masculine was rejected. She returned, like all devoted descenders, transformed. Persephone too descended, not from her own volition but from force. It was a brokered deal from Zeus which split her time between the dark and the light, the summer and winter, the masculine and feminine- in other words, she ascended to mirror the dual nature of existence, learning to straddle polarities and dichotomies, and learning to live between. In Maori tradition, we meet Hine-nui-te-po (The Great woman of the night), the Goddess of the dark, who is tasked with receiving the spirit of the dead into the underworld. It is here that out of force and will, she kills her father/ husband who, without consent, had tried to enter her, serpentine, through her vulva. She subsequently killed him with a set of piecing obsidian teeth in her vagina. If ever there was warning, let this be it. In Inuit mythology, we meet Sedna, Goddess of sea and marine creatures who, with parallels to the selkie stories of the Celtic lands, is flung to the ocean by a controlling father, sinks, grows a tail fin, has her hands frozen off, and her fingers turn into multiple sea creatures. The depths may be violent, but they are fecund too.

As the great myths continue to teach us, the underworld and the feminine are deeply, and often, deadly, intwined. What must die in order for the true power to rise? What must be slain? What transformation awaits those that dare descend?

While there is death, so too is there retrieval- of limbs, perhaps, but mostly of power or the force which ultimately emerges to restore balance and order; to allow the cycle of time and nature to continue. As the news cycles spins yet another dark spin, I can’t help but think that within these old stories is a pattern which offers their own gift of questions for these dark times we trying to navigate. In this larger cycle of time, what might we be invited to retrieve? What maps might the underworld- the world of our ancestors and mythologies, of old rituals and traditions offer us now.

As I walked along the village street, among the willow fish, the techno jelly fish, beside the haunting ghost ship and the giant squid, as crowds gathered and were filled with awe, a moment of ‘collective effervesce’ as the philosopher Emile Durkheim would call it- a feeling of social cohesion in a moment of shared purpose, knitting social structures together, I couldn’t help but think: much. It can offer so much. Like questions: what if we are only just be realising the true power of the myth or story as a map, as path, as psychological reframe? What if these stories and their honouring of the old cycles, is a way of restoring and rebalancing what holds us apart, within ourselves, and within the natural cycles of time and death and rebirth? What if the ritual is a threshold, a bridge to our transformed return; equipped with true power and the wisdom from the depths. The descent, the threshold, the liminal, the giant octopus, the community. We step across. We shapeshift.

Coming up this Month

**Samhain Salon- Oct 30th**

An evening of poetry, writing and ritual to make the Samhain season. Tickets here.

Clare Mulvany 18/10/2024 Clare Mulvany 18/10/2024

A Writing Spell

A little story on the nurturing space of the blank page.

Dublin got me in a frazzle this week. I tend to pack in a lot when I am here. This week I’ve been teaching in Trinity College, running a facilitation workshop, having some private client calls, preparing for a facilitation gig, seeing friends, visiting family, working on some writing projects and not tending to the thing that helps to keep it all together: the blank page.

By yesterday afternoon, I was tired and feeling out of sorts but couldn’t quite place why. Then I realised, just how many days had passed. It was nearly a week since I journaled properly. Time to active the ritual!

I took myself to one of my old haunts, Fallon & Byrne, a fancy food hall with a wonderful window bench, where the buzz of the city can whirl around, and where you read for long spells, sipping on tea. The bench was full when I got there, so instead, I reluctantly positioned myself in the centre communal bench, feeling a little more exposed, and took put my journal. My writing was a ball of scribbles, erratic waffle, notes to self, and general spillage of brain buzz onto the page. I hadn’t really paid much attention to the couple opposite me, until packing to leave.

‘You’re writing’, the man said, rather obviously, but with a kind curiosity in his voice.

‘Oh, just a bit of waffle’, I replied.

‘You don’t see many people writing by hand these days’

‘It helps me think’.

‘Good for the brain’, he said, ‘connects things’.

I could sense he was speaking from experience. ‘So, you write too’, I stated, knowing the answer already.

That little sentence unlocked a brief but beautiful conversation. We spoke about the power of poetry, what one gains from it, and our favourite poets. We talked about the rich Irish literary tradition and how lucky we are to be proximate to it. We spoke about ‘flow state’, and how writing can bring us to a place in ourselves which otherwise remains unseen, un-nurtured.

As we spoke, it was like we had shared access to an ancient secret, right at our fingertips, amplified through poems and the magic of laying sentences. I took my final sip of tea, shared a knowing smile, then left, two strangers off to meet the blank page in their own intimate directions

Leaving the cafe, notes scribbled, a tender buzz had replaced the frazzle. Instead was the page, and a shared connection to what can happen there. I raced back to where I am currently staying, and spent the night deep in a writing project until it was way past midnight and the page had swallowed all the hours like a spell.

…

Your Writing Spell

If you are feeling a little frazzled too, here is a ten minute writing spell for you.

I recommend writing by hand for this one. If you have a favourite journal and a pen you enjoy writing with, all the better.

Set a 10 minute timer, and go…

Imagine that writing on a blank page is a form of magic spell.

Write about the power writing can hold for you.

Describe the alchemy of words by transforming thoughts into stories and ideas.

Write about how do you think this might change you?

Coming up this Month

Sanctuary: Next Session October 20th

**Sanctuary**

This is a monthly guided writing gathering online. One hour of supportive journaling practice, in community . Find out more and book tickets here.

Samhain Salon: October 30th

Clare Mulvany 07/10/2024 Clare Mulvany 07/10/2024

In a field by the oaks near a church on the hill.

You can listen to this piece here, and at the bottom of the post, you will find a series of creative prompts to support your refections.

October has come with its attendant twists. The season turns towards the dark; migrant swallows have fled from the skies; leaves are in their dance to fade. As the evening draws it’s cloak, it’s an open passage to the night, where fires spark and long awaiting stacks of books, ideas, poems and stirrings sit in anticipation of witness, of writing. As spring sends postcards from the other side of the world, I twist a leaf from the Celtic calendar and let the turning inwards commence. It’s like permission from the skies to arrive at the blank page; to let it do it’s tricks on me. For it is here, I am ever more convinced, that the stories which are written there, and the cultures that they shift, the world is made.

I’ve been thinking more than ordinarily about the role of art, literature and poetry in these dark times. I’ve been thinking of is necessity, and absurdity. I’ve been thinking how stories are like the thread, holding things in place, just about. I’m thinking, sometimes we need to pull the thread tighter. I’m thinking, this is one of those times.

Last month, I travelled up to Co. Wicklow to attend a festival called ‘The Shaking Bog’ — a community led curatorial treat, gathering artists, writers, film-makers, musicians, performers and educators for a weekend to honour the nexus of art and nature. At the centre of it all was a nested set of questions: what if art could, as the organises urge, ‘reawaken and illuminate our often forgotten connection to the natural world - to biodiversity, heritage and place, but also to our deepest impulse to belong, to nurture and to care’.

And in the centre of it all, what I found there was something akin to a word I don’t use lightly, nor without some corresponding nuance; a word which is so often over subscribed, yet undervalued. Hope.

In finding hope, found something else there too: an affirmation of the collective power of art in the dark times, and by that I don’t just mean winter, but these days as a whole, in which I need not remind you of the nexus of complex political crises, biodiversity collapse, of homelands and heartlands in turmoil. It’s heavy out there.

Yet, yet…

There is a church on a hill beyond the woods, where for a while the church is more than a church. The woods are home to the sessile oak. In the aisles of the church as the people speak of efforts to protect the oak, they know they are also protecting themselves. In the church on the hill by the oak, there is a man speaking about his encounter with a grey whale, and how the encounter with the eye of that great creaturely presence was an encounter with a sentience beyond the depths of soul. In the church on the hill there is a poet. Her hair is white with wisdom and she wears it braided down her back, so much of it to carry. Her poems are weavers of a different kind; of mythic incantations to the feminine divine, and to the muse herself, embodied. The church on the hill is full of listeners. On a dark star studded night, poetry has a new altar in the hearts of the seekers.

The alter plays host to other music too. There is the master of the fiddle, who spins tunes which speak to the power of place and the landscapes which shaped them. Between the pulpit and a cross, there is a travelling song collector, who has been gathering the tales and stories from a time when song and story were currencies of understanding larger cycles of time, place and collective memory. The church is not about the church.

And so it continued.

In a postbox near the church on the hill there is a short film about the oaks and the mountains and the valley which shapes the soul of the place. In the centre in the woods, the children are printing on bunting, learning a new way of making patterns, and there is man hand-building bat boxes.

The culture starts to shift in churches on the hills, and bat box building and new patterns in the hands of children.

In a field by the valley, the sun emerges and sets the leaves to golden. The song collector leads us into circle, suggests we take our shoes off, tells us about perception in the souls of our feet; about how we have forgotten so many of the wayfinding ways. He tells us about finding our footing through sensory perception with our whole selves, and invites us to place blindfolds on. We put our hands on each other’s shoulders, and like a tight braid, we are guided to an open field, which we are blind to now, except we are not. Our ears are our eyes. Our skin is our guide. The field is breathing around us, so alive to itself it is singing its song of welcome.

The field is where culture shifts.

In my toes I follow the grasses. There are stories in my feet. In my ears I follow a drum. Someone is calling us. In my bones I feel the old way. In my skin I let the song carry. In my eyes, in my eyes, in my eyes.

I am a young girl, blindfolded, being led to her death for speaking out.

I am a refugee, walking across a border to save my life.

I am a mother, leading her child across a threshold to the unknown.

I am a young girl, from a country so carnaged through an ill-justified story of politics and progress that I can no longer carry the weight of my belonging.

I leave the blindfold on.

In a field by the hill by the oaks by the church, I can feel all these things because of the field on the hill by the oaks by the church. I can hear the music of the fiddler. And I can find the map in my feet again, because of the blindfold from the story-gatherer.

The ground is the place where new stories are born. And the church, and the song, and the hope.

Culture shifts in these moments. Poem by poem. Note by note. Step by step. Not one. But many.

In the centre of it all, of the church, of the field of the blindfold, I walk into a new nest of questions. It starts with what if.

What if we flooded the world we stories of valleys and oaks and women who walk across borders. What if there were stories of whales with eyes so deep with soul they can change a life forever. What if it was not just one church on a hill, but many. What if it was not just one story collector, or poet, or song, or homemaker for bats. Not one rung of bunting. Not one weekend.

What if the story was so collectively strong it could tear down policies, the ones that make the women flee. What if the story was so empowering, that it could make a valley fill with oaks again, which became a policy, which became a new culture of planting, not just oaks, but other life-giving things. What if there were more of us; the song-carriers, the story givers, the planters, the fiddlers, the print makers, the people who open their churches, and homes and hearts to let the story in.

What if.

As the dark takes over the day, I light a candle and hear the fire crackle. The page is blank and inviting me to walk into it.

I am finding my way, pulling the thread, blindfolded.

It’s how I know the culture shifts.

Creative Prompts

Below are a series of thematic writing prompts, based on this piece.

I recommend you pick one of the themes, and then spend 10 mins writing. It can be helpful to set a timer. The prompts might be small reflective pieces for you, or may spark a longer cycle of explorative writing.

The Story-Gatherer:

Think about yourself as a story-gatherer, tasked with collecting stories to pass down the generations.

What key narratives or themes would you collect? What transformative stories from your own life would you include? What songs, books, films would you add to your collection?

The Church by the Oaks on the Hill.

Think about a place in your life, where you feel deeply connected to nature or creativity.
What draws you there? How does that place speak to you? How has your connection to it changed or evolved over time. What is the story you tell of that place?

Whale’s Eye:

Reflect on a moment when you encountered something vast and awe-inspiring—whether in nature, in art, or in a moment of deep connection with another person.
What did that experience reveal to you? How has it shaped you, or shifted your perspective?

The Nest of What If Questions.

Think of your creative life embedded in a nest of ‘What If’ questions.
What would those questions be? What themes emerge from the questions? How can these questions be a guide to you?

.. .

Gratitude

A huge thanks to the organisers of The Shaking Bog Festival.

To the fiddle-player, Caoimhín Ó’Raghllaigh

To the poet, Paula Meehan.

The the song-gatherer, Sam Lee.

The the whale writer, Philip Hoare.

And to the field, and the oaks and every living creature in between.

Want to sustain your own writing process? I have a several ways to support you

Poetry Salon: Next Session October 13th

**Poetry Salon**

This is an hour of reading, listening and savouring to poetry. Find out more and book tickets here.

Sanctuary: Next Session October 20th

Samhain Salon: October 30th

Writing Mentoring

There are many people reading this who know they have a book or writing project brewing but are not sure where to begin, how to structure it, or lack the courage and confidence to bring a draft to the next level. My writing mentoring packages are here to support. From private one-to-one workshops, a three month intensive, or a year long engagement, I hope your writing and story has a chance to grow.
Find out more here

Clare Mulvany 29/08/2024 Clare Mulvany 29/08/2024

When No is a Secret Gateway to Yes

When no is a secret gateway to yes.

You can listen to this piece here:

When no is a secret gateway to the real yes.

The morning sun still holds the promise of summer, yet there is a distinctive autumnal turn. The ‘back to school’ vibe is real, with its corresponding prepping mode. September always feels like a new start for me — my work is still connected to academic cycles, but my psychology is too. Come late August, I become squirrel, furrowing, burrowing, plotting and planning to give myself a good foundation for what are traditionally busy months ahead.

As a school kid, I loved the opportunity to get new stationary and the ritual of covering my new school books. I seem to need these physical triggers, to mark a new clearing. At the weekend, for instance, I did some tedious but deceptively pleasurable tasks. What was a fridge in desperate need of defrosting, now ordered to a ‘capsule wardrobe’ of condiments. I was never going to eat that ferment really. But alongside the physical sorting, there is the mental sorting. In the time it takes to clear a fridge, there is space for review, reflecting on learnings and reconnecting with priorities to buttress the months ahead.

In looking back, I have a chance to think about this past summer, one which held an incredible opportunity and incredible challenge. The opportunity: to take on the running of a beautiful building (cafe/ pottery studio/ learning space) in the village where I live, and develop community events and learning programmes. The challenge: exactly that!

So, trying to put into practice what I teach, I set about applying design methodologies to the task. There was so much learning in the process. From engaging in deep listening approaches, using community participatory practices and ultimately listening to my instinct, after almost three months of research, I realised on a fateful dark night of the soul, that while a wonderful prospect, the opportunity was not for me. There are moments in life you have to give a full yes, and there are moments in life where you have to listen to a full no. Embarking on the process, a strong values-driven yes, led me into the possibility, but it was a gut instinct, body based, no, which led me the decision to not to proceed. Sometimes no is a gateway to the real yes.

I’m so glad I tried. And I am so grateful to people, the place, and tools that have helped me. It was not the summer I expected, but it was a summer of learning, then letting go with confidence in the process which underpinned the path which took me here. (Given the richness of the learning experience, I have written more about the process over on Thrive School- which I hope might be a useful resource to those embarking on their own projects)

So, the real yes. Isn’t that always the challenge, and the opportunity.

I don’t think our yes is ever singular, or crystal or static. Our yes can speak in whispers, nudges, bringing us closer towards that idea, image or story that just won’t loose grip. It’s not always linear or logical. It requires listening. Sometimes over and over again.

For me, that yes starts in my journal. There are scribblings, sketchy inklings, allowing ideas and longings to land, perhaps for years, letting them ripen, grow, find ground in my psych and soul. The ideas which keep repeating, the desires which keep rising, over time, these patterns become evident on the page.

The listening is supported with ritual. Yesterday, I took a wander down some overgrown paths, on the hunt for blackberries. The picking is such a marker of the season, both in its turning and its gifts. As I was picking, with the birds and the waves as sonic companionship, I was thinking of the privilege and power of such space, of where I find myself. I was thinking of the preciousness of time, and how to use it wisely. I was thinking of hope.

There are so many needs in the world right now, so many causes and urgencies, no one person can bear. At times I find myself numbing, blanking out the news and the social feeds of another tragedy. And there is one part of myself which shames me for doing this- how can I turn away, how can I be so removed, from my place of privilege and vantage. Another part of my brain knows that the numbness is a protective mechanism from grief. It’s how the limbic brain has learned to be animal: fight, flight, freeze. Freeze can be strategy for survival. The challenge with freeze though, it’s cold and solid and immovable, and it too requires defrosting.

Plug out, remove the clutter, replace only the essentials, leave space.

Who knew that lessons from deep cleaning a fridge could be so valuable.

Alongside the briars, there are fruits, ready for picking. In a quiet, unplugged solitary afternoon, I pick enough to fill a small container. A few are bitter, but they are mostly sweet, products of time and weather, just enough sun to ripen. I return home, invite a friend over, bake a blackberry pudding, and together we eat the season, letting the inky berries stain our tongues, leaving them longing for more. So we have some.

Later, I take out my journal, and can see the patterns more clearly again, these inky stains of longing. My pen meets some questions.

What am I longing for?

When that question is exhausted with ink, it’s time to go to the next one:

But what am I really really longing for?

And when that one is done, the next:

But what am I not giving myself permission to really long for, but secretly do?

This last question, it is hard, and revelatory. For me right now, it plugs me into long held ambitions around my writing, teaching, owning a home, and travel. It also brings me to questions about how I am using my voice to speak up and out about injustices, and climate, and the issues I care about. It demands that I focus and keep on dreaming. It demands that I keep going, even when the path ahead is uncertain. Longings are not tame like that; they make us become more of ourselves, so we can continue to bring our gifts to the world. Secretly, they have our back. And when we let them, perhaps not so secretly after all.

Your ten minute writing practice.

What are you longing for?

What are you really really longing for?

What are you not giving yourself permission to really long for, but secretly do?

Want to sustain your own writing process? I have a several ways to support you, online or in-person

Sanctuary: Next Session September 22nd

West Cork Writing Workshops

**Final in the Summer series.**
Live a New Story. September 7th, Schull, West Cork.
Learning about the art of personal narrative writing in this one day workshop. Book your tickets today.

New Writing Mentoring

Clare Mulvany 03/07/2024 Clare Mulvany 03/07/2024

What Beauty Might We Yet Create?

A 5 minute writing practice and prompt.

Something a little different today. A five minute writing practice for you.

Here is a piece of my own writing, followed by a prompt, where I accompany you in your writing.

Grab a pen, paper and comfy spot. And press play!

July has come, with its attendant blooms and night songs. Dawn comes early too, and the chatter of the birds rises me. It is not the only the birds keeping me awake though. It is all the questions which are spooling in these times of uncertainty and change. Yet, it is the birds which give me courage. The butterflies too. And between every curl of foxglove, the darting swoop of swallow and wing. Yes, it is beauty which gives me courage, and nature’s insistence on becoming all it can be.

Recently I was editing a piece with reference to swallows. Moments later I walked upstairs, and there was a swallow sitting on a picture frame, shocked and surprised, both of us —an awe of encounter, and then, on my part, a flurry to open all the windows to encourage flight back to the skies again. This tiny remarkable being who has the will, power, stamina, determination to cross continents, cross deserts and mountains, seas; straddling its place in the world. Between Ireland and South Africa, a home in two parts, and an entire mystery of migration in between.

I wonder sometimes what would happen if we all stopped for a moment and pondered the true marvel of even a single blade of grass, or just one flap of wing; how the world might be different; how we too might insist on crossing continents, opening to our full bloom, rising in the early morning to let our song out. What would we sing? What beauty might we yet create?

…

The Prompt:

What beauty might I yet create…