Mexican Wanders
There were miracles everywhere. The trees looked autumnal, flanked not with falling leaves, but beating wings, the flames of Monarch butterflies, in their hundreds of thousands, giving rise to something closer to awe I could not name. How do the Monarch’s make the 3000km journey from Canada to arrive, four generations on, to the same Oyamel forests in Michochan, Mexico from which their great-grandparents took flight on their own epic journey north? It was raining wing and mystery in those hills. My heart is pulsing differently now.
There were miracles everywhere. The trees looked autumnal, flanked not with falling leaves, but beating wings, the flames of Monarch butterflies, in their hundreds of thousands, giving rise to something closer to awe I could not name. How do the Monarch’s make the 3000km journey from Canada to arrive, four generations on, to the same Oyamel forests in Michochan, Mexico from which their great-grandparents took flight on their own epic journey north? It was raining wing and mystery in those hills. My heart is pulsing differently now.
Then there was the flight of a flock of pink flamingos overhead, traveling in a perfect V, their necks elongated in elegance, traveling down the Rio Celestun on which our little kayak prevailed, just, in the deceptively strong current, granting us the privilege of witness. We paddled until we met a flock of about 60 of these long-legged wonders feeding on crustaceans from which their colour derives.
Then were was the sea waters, azul, clear, and the waters of the caves- crystalline. A terrain of limestone, much like the Burren of the West of Ireland, which, given its propensity for porosity and erosion creates the conditions for over 6000 cenotes, or sink holes, sacred watering grounds, seven of which my body felt like it pilgrimed into. Submerging, there was a sinking in, held by mother and nature, and the ever renewing force of water. Surfacing my world and understanding of magic was rebirthed.
It was a month of travels populated with such explosive beauty but not without witnessing explosive tragedy too. The Maya Train, a project of the current president, designed to bring more tourists, and therefore pesos/ dollars/ euros/ yuan to the Yucatan peninsula, a land so rich in biodiversity, and so primed for migratory species, that to do anything but preserve and restore is a devastation. But, sadly, shockingly, the railway project is ploughing through virgin forest, its wildlife scattering for cover, its people’s voice going unheard, and countless trees being felled in the name of ‘progress’. It is a scar on the landscape, not just of the region, but in our own collective efforts to preserve and reserve. I’m still reeling, and so angry, and aware of my own complicity- my presence there counted as another tick in the tourist numbers. Justification. But the wrong kind of just.
And it was in this month I encountered protest, as thousands of women took to the streets against the waves of femicide and violence against women in Mexico. There was an anger, at times rage, being lashed in graffiti against walls and monuments; a visceral aggravation to attest to the larger social fabric which at times feels like at war with the feminine. To be in that power, and that anger, felt daring and electric, which still simmers in my veins wondering where next to move.
I think the best kind of travel is as much an inward journey as an outward one, taking us to new aspects of ourselves, questions perhaps, or capacities and even challenges. Here, in meeting the wider world we encounter ourselves so we can return altered in some way, and renewed. And so, as my month of travels still churn, with colour, taste, smells, learning, I am still trying to unpack it all, giving space and shape for the words and experience to land. My hope is that it continues to shake, with wonder and repulsion, spurring me onwards, onwards, onwards, in words and in story and in action.
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 regenerative power of words, place and story. I hope my work offers nourishment for mind and soul. Thank you for being here. Clare x
Burren Winter School: A Story in Layers
Over the few days of the Winter School, I see the participants getting to know each other better, and being in this layered learning together. I can’t help but play with the landscape as metaphor too. The Winter School has become a haven in the fissures of our global fracture. Here are 22 participants gathering to pause, learn, regenerate. They represent 15 nationalities. There are singers and scientists, social entrepreneurs and sociologists. There is a medic from South Africa, a young family from Afghanistan. They are from Palestine, Cambodia, Nigeria, Japan, Germany, India, Ireland. They are all people who want to be part of writing a new story: This is Ireland. This is us.
Photo by Caitriona Rogerson
You can listen to this story below (10 mins)
The Burren landscape is full of cracks. Fractures and fissures divide the limestone, which, as we walked across the stone slabs on a cold, crisp January morning, were rendered both beautiful and dangerously slippy. The light that morning was as if Yeats himself had laid down the heaven’s embroidered cloth, but we were also were being warned: thread softly.
We had gathered as part of the Suas/ Stand Changemakers Academy, a 6 month learning programme designed to support young changemakers with the learning required to both navigate the fractures and fissures of our world, and gain skills to build, repair and advocate for a better one. I have been fortunate to be a part of the design of the programme and was now in attendance as a facilitator at their Winter School through my work with Thrive School. Our home base for the week was Common Knowledge, a regenerative learning centre, rooted in the Burren. On this wintery morning, as the rocks and cracks told their ancient story, we were being guided on a place-based learning walk with Áine Bird, from the Burren Beo Trust, another organisation which seeks to connect people to the landscape and its care.
Photo by Caitriona Rogerson
Bearing the fossilised memory of millennia, on first glance it can be easy to read the story of the Burren as one of erosion, but, as Áine points out to us, on deeper reading, it also tells a story of protection, conservation and preservation. What we learn instead is that the system in which the landscape evolved is a complex interweave of narratives: human, ecological, agricultural, religious and cultural. To understand the full, systemic story, we must understand the relationship between the layers.
‘Live in the layers’, another poet, Stanley Kunitz has counselled, and so: the layers. When we put on an ecological lens we learn that the fissures are home to some of the rarest plants and insect life in the country. As the rest of Ireland becomes increasingly depleted of its biodiversity, it is landscapes such as this that become both habitat havens and critical species preservation hubs.
Photo: Clare Mulvany
Next layer: reading the landscape as a sacred text, we learn of the large cycles of worship which have played out on its altar. From pagan rituals, to early christian oratories, from holy wells and places of pilgrimage, time and ceremony have marked meaning and myth into the stone. With eyes in search of the sacred, we see the sacred.
Then with the eyes of an agriculturalist, we learn of the complex, interconnected relationships between man, bovine, plant and place; how the landscape- this place of sanctuary for marginal and rare species only is because of relationship. Take the cow, for example. As the wintering herds graze, keeping back potentially encroaching hazel bush, so too do they distribute seeds and nutrients to enable the flowering of rare spring bloom. Wild flower meadow and cow literally sustain each other. What dies, becomes, and what becomes feeds a wider circle of life. The key is in finding a balance between the elements: hazel bush, grazers, cows, plants and the right timing of the seasonal movement of herds to enable the plant life to flourish. Here communication is transhuman- man, animal, plant and place all in dialogue in to ensure mutual flourishing.
Next layer. With the eyes of the historian, in a single frame we can see the parallel of past and present. The mounds of an ancient Fulacht fiadh- thought to be an old cooking pit, now sits adjacent to a concrete watering trough for cattle. Just out of frame, there is also a famine house, its crumbling walls telling part of the larger story of how a community faded into decline through the systemic interplay of colonialism, economy, land rights and food sovereignty.
Each layer offers more readings. Each reading, brings up its own set of questions. The landscape is a living text, only fully decoded with open eyes, open minds and open hearts. So, in a complex layered system, and particularly as changemakers, we need to ask questions which probe into each layer, questions such as: Whose needs do you prioritise? Whose wellbeing is centred? What story is given voice? Who is not being heard? Without understanding the layers and characters in the narrative, we risk telling, and preserving, only a partial story. Story, we learn, is central. Without story, we may just fall through the cracks.
Photo: Clare Mulvany
Over the few days of the Winter School, I see the participants getting to know each other better, and being in this layered learning together. I can’t help but play with the landscape as metaphor too. The Winter School has become a haven in the fissures of our global fracture. Here are 22 participants gathering to pause, learn, regenerate. They represent 15 nationalities. There are singers and scientists, social entrepreneurs and sociologists. There is a medic from South Africa, a young family from Afghanistan. They are from Palestine, Cambodia, Nigeria, Japan, Germany, India, Ireland. They are all people who want to be part of writing a new story: This is Ireland. This is us.
We begin our days in circle. The circle is a container to hold the learning and each other, as we meet our edges and our hopes. I invite in our difficult questions, and our uncomfortable quests. How can we learn to navigate them if we can not support each other to be brave enough to ask them. Our questions are so we may learn to move through the layers of self and the systems we inhabit, to live more vitally and more fully, for all of us.
On our opening night, as the winter light falls back to a breathing dark, we light a gathering of candles in the centre of our circle. It’s an acknowledgment of the darkness in our systems, in our midst. A soulful young man from Palestine reads a poem from his people, in English, then in Arabic. The poetry travels as remembrance and witness. We leave the silence rest for a few moments, then we give the night to poetry.
The poetry salon comes into shape by way of gathering around candlelit tables. I speak a little to how poetry can open us up to insight and meaning making, which otherwise may remain out of view. I’ve choose a selection of poems which speak to the inner quest for purpose and value, and how we may travel. ‘Start close in’, came words from David Whyte, words which teach us how and where to listen. ‘To know kindness as the deepest thing inside, we must also know sorrow as the other deepest thing’, offers Naomi Shihab Nye. But let us not forget to rise, says Maya Angelou, nor forget to feast on our lives, reminds Derek Walcott. As each poem arrives, the salon participants share their responses. They speak to the questions the poems deliver or expose, and to the memories the words may evoke. Poetry is opening a door, and we step through.
Over the few days there is also project work. The participants have been assigned teams, and given challenge briefs by a range of community partners. They learn about design thinking and root cause systems work to build solution prototypes. There is an ideas to action cafe, to help them design and evolve their own personal projects too- a project which will nudge them to develop the changemaking skills they are seeking to strengthen. Then we add a buddy system to help sustain the process beyond the School.
Another morning, still threading softly, we go on a silent Imram- a mythic Celtic walk out into the layered landscape which helps us listen to ourselves and our questions more fully. ‘Everything is connected’, says a participant as she begins to see in relationship and not in silos. ‘When I am quiet, memories can rise’, says another as he gets in touch with the regenerative power of nature’s wisdom, and it’s beautifully dangerous awakening too.
Then there are games and laughter, and career talks and delicious food, and by night, we fall back to story and song. Inspired by The Moth Storytelling movement, we tell stories of rupture and relief, of courage and confidence, and even some of pure embarrassment. The stories are torches, illuminating pathways of connection. Later there is a night of song and dance, and making room for what happens when we feel free to offer whatever talents or gifts are seeking to be shared.
Everything is connected, yes, and so are we.
Photo: Caitriona Rogerson
That winter morning as we walked down from the Burren with the light cascading in ribbons of honey and awe, careful of our footing, Yeats words came back to me, and I spoke them aloud.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
My dream, I realise, is this new story in the making. As we thread softly alongside the fissures and the cracks, as these young people, and myself, learn to listen to the layers of story, as we try to build the skills, and moral muscle to straddle the divides, I can’t help but feel expanded, connected. The dream is in the layers and in the rising. The dream is in the writing and the telling. But it’s also in the circle, with a light at the centre. And they are it. We can all be it. It’s all connected.
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 regenerative power of words, place and story. I hope my work offers nourishment for mind and soul. Thank you for being here. Clare x
A Winter Blessing
Under candlelight and flicker, guided by the spirit of poetry, and the tradition of Celtic Blessings, a group of Poetry Salon participants created a collective blessing for the world. In an act of daring, gentle beauty, as each participant was reading their line aloud, I imagined the ripple effect of their compassion and care spreading out, illuminating pathways through these dark times.
Below the blessing, with an invitation. What line would you add?
Here was ours, written on Winter Solstice, December 21st 2023, with participants from Ireland, UK, Spain, Portugal, US, Belgium and Switzerland
Under candlelight and flicker, guided by the spirit of poetry, and the tradition of Celtic Blessings, a group of Poetry Salon participants created a collective blessing for the world. In an act of daring, gentle beauty, as each participant was reading their line aloud, I imagined the ripple effect of their compassion and care spreading out, illuminating pathways through these dark times.
Below the blessing, with an invitation. What line would you add? (you can add in the comments below)
Here was ours, written on Winter Solstice, December 21st 2023, with participants from Ireland, UK, Spain, Portugal, US, Belgium and Switzerland.
Collective Blessing, written by Salon participants
May we allow ourselves rest in the “in between”.
May we remember that we belong to each other.
May we honour the self in ourselves and each other.
May we be the mystery keepers at the crossroads of our senses.
May we pull down the curtain embroidered by those who would keep us apart to quell our power.
May our current darkness birth life and light in the world and in us.
May the people of Gaza have clean water, shelter, medical care, enough to eat and freedom to live without bombs.
May the cycles of life fall gently on you, may your storms be few with many shelters.
May we all the remember our hearts being blessed.
May we accept the protection of our wild waiting kin.
May there be light to open humanity’s dark mind and see what really is.
May we become a sanctuary for ourselves and for others.
May we all turn towards the love in our hearts, and from this place of peace, bless love as the guiding force in the world.
21 December, 2023.
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 regenerative power of words, place and story. I hope my work offers nourishment for mind and soul. Thank you for being here. Clare x
Available Now
An Intentional Year
Focus on what matters most, and create an intentional 2024. Guidebook and an Intentional Year course now available
Winter Solstice Prompts
But what does it mean to cultivate hope?
One of the origins of hope is pause. To sit still in the fullness of our lives and give ourselves back to the magic of joy, generosity and to the dream of better days to come- for to be hopeful is to have belief in the possibilities of the future, as individuals and as a collective.
The word solstice comes from the Latin, meaning, Sol (sun) + Sistere (to stand still). And so, I invite you to take a few moments of pause, to sit with the questions of the turning of the season, still honouring the dark while calling in the light, a way to cultivate your own sense of hope in these turning times.
December is deep upon us and here in the Northern Hemisphere the days are short and the nights are long. However, celebrated around the eve of the 20th December, the Winter Solstice is a turning point in the year, where a reversal in the light happens and the days begin to lengthen. It is not surprising then that many ancient and religious festivals take place around this time of year, for the solstice represented a renewal of hope and a reminder that the light would return and with it the warmth required for the seeds of new life to germinate. As the light arrived our ancestors knew the tide of the year would turn too.
In ancient times in Ireland, this magical turning was reflected in the architecture of the day. Newgrange in Co. Meath is perhaps the best known example of this, when, at dawn, the soft winter light is tunnelled down a long passageway to light up a burial chamber. It’s a remarkable feat of science and engineering, and hints to the mysticism and magic embedded in their honouring of the natural cycles of the year.
Christmas has long been associated with magic. Santa, flying reindeer, presents left under trees are modern day embodiments of these ancient practices of honouring this time of year- a time of giving thanks, of joy, of hope and yes, magic. And yet, for many Christmas is a hard time, the financial pressures of an overly commercialised festival, the missing of loved ones and absent friends, or even the deeper struggles to find a home in the wider place in the world, can all be amplified at this time of year.
Switching on the global news headlines does not seem to help either- one would not be alone in giving oneself over to cynicism. Hope then, in these days of uncertainty and fear becomes even more powerful and more urgent.
But what does it mean to cultivate hope?
One of the origins of hope is pause. To sit still in the fullness of our lives and give ourselves back to the magic of joy, generosity and to the dream of better days to come- for to be hopeful is to have belief in the possibilities of the future, as individuals and as a collective.
The word solstice comes from the Latin, meaning, Sol (sun) + Sistere (to stand still). And so, I invite you to take a few moments of pause, to sit with the questions of the turning of the season, still honouring the dark while calling in the light, a way to cultivate your own sense of hope in these turning times.
Prompts for honouring the dark:
This is a time of year when the light is beginning to lengthen again. Before welcoming the light, take a moment to honour the dark time of the year.
Consider spending the evening without the use of electric light. As the dusk settles, take a few moments to sit in the darkness.
What does the dark represent to you?
What does the dark have to teach you?
For the ancient celts, there was a deep recognition that life begins in the darkness. The earth’s new life comes only after a period of hibernation and rest.
Are there areas of your life that are still craving rest?
What aspects of your life want to hibernate?
What can you do to honour this need in yourself- is there something you can release?
Prompts for welcoming the light
Suggestion: write/ contemplate your responses by candlelight.
What aspects of your life are coming into light right now?
What do you need to shine a light on?
And prompts for cultivating hope
What does hope mean to you?
How can you cultivate hope in your life right now?
How can you help to share a sense of hope or light with those around you?
Happy Winter Solstice, and perhaps I will see you at the Special Winter Solstice Salon, on Dec 21st.
Blessings for the Season.
Clare x
Coming on December 21st…
A Solstice evening of Seasonal Poetry, Journaling and Seasonal Ritual.
Online, December 21st. 7-9pm GMT
Book your tickets below, offered on a sliding scale.
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 regenerative power of words, place and story. I hope my work offers nourishment for mind and soul. Thank you for being here. Clare x
Available Now
An Intentional Year
Focus on what matters most, and create an intentional 2023. Guidebook and an Intentional Year course now available
Winter Solstice Prompts
But what does it mean to cultivate hope?
One of the origins of hope is pause. To sit still in the fullness of our lives and give ourselves back to the magic of joy, generosity and to the dream of better days to come- for to be hopeful is to have belief in the possibilities of the future, as individuals and as a collective.
The word solstice comes from the Latin, meaning, Sol (sun) + Sistere (to stand still). And so, I invite you to take a few moments of pause, to sit with the questions of the turning of the season, still honouring the dark while calling in the light, a way to cultivate your own sense of hope in these turning times.
December is deep upon us and here in the Northern Hemisphere the days are short and the nights are long. However, celebrated around the 21st December, the Winter Solstice is a turning point in the year, where a reversal in the light happens and the days begin to lengthen. It is not surprising then that many ancient and religious festivals take place around this time of year, for the solstice represented a renewal of hope and a reminder that the light would return and with it the warmth required for the seeds of new life to germinate. As the light arrived our ancestors knew the tide of the year would turn too.
In ancient times in Ireland, this magical turning was reflected in the architecture of the day. Newgrange in Co. Meath is perhaps the best known example of this, when, at dawn, the soft winter light is tunnelled down a long passageway to light up a burial chamber. It’s a remarkable feat of science and engineering, and hints to the mysticism and magic embedded in their honouring of the natural cycles of the year.
Christmas has long been associated with magic. Santa, flying reindeer, presents left under trees are modern day embodiments of these ancient practices of honouring this time of year- a time of giving thanks, of joy, of hope and yes, magic. And yet, for many Christmas is a hard time, the financial pressures of an overly commercialised festival, the missing of loved ones and absent friends, or even the deeper struggles to find a home in the wider place in the world, can all be amplified at this time of year.
Switching on the global news headlines does not seem to help either- one would not be alone in giving oneself over to cynicism. Hope then, in these days of uncertainty and fear becomes even more powerful and more urgent.
But what does it mean to cultivate hope?
One of the origins of hope is pause. To sit still in the fullness of our lives and give ourselves back to the magic of joy, generosity and to the dream of better days to come- for to be hopeful is to have belief in the possibilities of the future, as individuals and as a collective.
The word solstice comes from the Latin, meaning, Sol (sun) + Sistere (to stand still). And so, I invite you to take a few moments of pause, to sit with the questions of the turning of the season, still honouring the dark while calling in the light, a way to cultivate your own sense of hope in these turning times.
Prompts for honouring the dark:
This is a time of year when the light is beginning to lengthen again. Before welcoming the light, take a moment to honour the dark time of the year.
Consider spending the evening without the use of electric light. As the dusk settles, take a few moments to sit in the darkness.
What does the dark represent to you?
What does the dark have to teach you?
For the ancient celts, there was a deep recognition that life begins in the darkness. The earth’s new life comes only after a period of hibernation and rest.
Are there areas of your life that are still craving rest?
What aspects of your life want to hibernate?
What can you do to honour this need in yourself- is there something you can release?
..
Prompts for welcoming the light
Suggestion: write/ contemplate your responses by candlelight.
What aspects of your life are coming into light right now?
What do you need to shine a light on?
And prompts for cultivating hope
What does hope mean to you?
How can you cultivate hope in your life right now?
How can you help to share a sense of hope or light with those around you?
Happy Winter Solstice
Blessings for the Season.
Clare x
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 regenerative power of words, place and story. I hope my work offers nourishment for mind and soul. Thank you for being here. Clare x
Available Now
An Intentional Year
Focus on what matters most, and create an intentional 2023. Guidebook and an Intentional Year course now available
A day in the light...
A trip to an island, meandering the shoreline, noticing how the internal questions shift from large to small and back to large again, but carry on with deeper meaning and more perspective. There were the swims, of course, and a boat trip circumnavigating the island, and friendships kindled, and a love of the wild which swelled to new heights and set the heart a flame.A photo essay meditation, from Inishlacken, Connemara- to pause, to take in the light, to carry that light onwards.with love.
(This post is dedicated to my aunt, Annie Meehan, nee Mulvany, who passed away, aged 86, earlier this week. She was a bright spark, a woman of the flame, and I always remember her as being the last person on the dance floor. As I was taking these photos, she was being laid to rest; with the light beaming and the birds soaring. Our memories carry)
Letters from Clare
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