Clare Mulvany 15/10/2025 Clare Mulvany 15/10/2025

Along the Pilgrim Path

You can listen to this post here (5 mins)

Days dream themselves into being in the high places, and dreams dare a little deeper there. Beside the sleeping lake, the still surface reaches up at the first sign of contact. I hover my hand above, and watch her rise to greet me. We both exhale.

In the high places, along the pilgrim path, the old stories are walked along, an ancient route, thousands of footfalls worthy, of pilgrim and fox and hare and wren. These were the walking routes to silence.

We joined at Kealkil, four of us, spreading across two generations, some with more tales in our step, some with more spring.

We gather first in circle.

‘On the old paths, we walk with intention’, I offer.

‘A Sankalpa’, someone else brings.

‘It need not be said aloud, but in your heart’.

We bring our hands together, like a star, or a cross.

‘Go team’. And so we begin with laughter.

The high paths are never straight. We pass woodland, tinged with Autumn. We pass a singing river. We pass slabs, stripped-lined with quartz. ‘We are walking on millennia’, I say, and we take a step back in time.

In the high places, conversations move at the pace of breath. We walk in and out of silence, then stories. We talk of poetry and places, and of travels which served to take us home.

At the clearing with the welcome sign, we lay our picnic under ‘failte’. The rise is welcoming us. The feast multiples as we each lay our bearings.

Along the old path, there are songs, silly ones, and the one which invites brothers and sisters to come down to the river to pray.

At the river, I wash my face in her flowing waters. I drink. I joke, ‘If I die today, it is a good day to die. And part of me is not joking. I place my hand on the grass, and a bee stings my palm. It swells with the possibility. We walk on.

My friend has a chime. Every fifteen minutes it rings like a resonant singing bowl. It is a moment to pause, to come back from the story to the self, then listen deeper. I keep looking forward to the chime.

At the hawthorn tree, the berries are like congregations, offering their gifts. The silver birch, leafless now, reaches out her limbs for nests. Their wintering is a generous place. We walk on, zigzagging up the steep.

At the highest place, a lake surprises us. I sit by her waters and see the ancient deep. Here she is, settled in her nook, as her waters are forever replenished, rising and falling. The mountain breathes.

After the high places, there are low.

The hills begin to fall and curve; the path a folding current to carry us to the sanctuary.

We pass through hazel, oak, ash, like walking into the memory of the place still dreaming itself awake.

The high place, the old pilgrim path, opens to another lake, then drops to an old monastic site, upon which a chapel rests. Gougane Barra, the rock cleft of Barra. Finbarr’s site.

I do not enter. Instead, I walk to the water’s edge, and see the chapel reflected there, then turn to take the next step towards home. The path continues outwards, onwards. I do not know how long it will take to get there, but as my feet know by now, the journey is a resplendent thing.

**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 15/10/2025 Clare Mulvany 15/10/2025

For Manchán

In memory and honour of writer, broadcaster and friend, Manchán Magan.

Clare Mulvany 02/07/2025 Clare Mulvany 02/07/2025

Love and Ink

July days are here. I’m sitting outside as I write this note to you. A chatter of chaffinch and sunbeams join the mix. Around me, seeds I planted months ago are now in bloom; colour bursts. A parade of wild pink roses sit on my table as greeting. The year spins with petal and promise.

By July every year, I am ready for a rest, and some play. After the busy academic months and full season for organisations, summer stretches out a bit, offering some gentler rhythms and time to plan. I took myself off to Seville last week, thankfully missing the height of the heat, and switched off some of my brain for a while as I wandered narrow streets and stared lovingly and longingly at art. Now home, between swims, I’m taking stock, taking time.

I look at the world, and my heart breaks.
I look at the bloom, and my heart sings.

It’s all here; the pain and the promise, so much of both.

Often in my journal, when I am feeling a little overwhelmed or unsure, I turn to a voice inside me. I call her ‘The Wise One’. It’s the ancient elder in me, the voice which is timeless and eternal. I believe it is in all of us - a part of us that knows what is best, what is the wise course of action. But I think it takes practice and time to find her. She is below the noise and the ‘shoulds’, she (or he or they or them- or whatever you choose to call), seeks the best for us. For me, she speaks with firm compassion, sometimes so directly it stings, sometimes so subtly it can be easy to doubt her power. But there she is nonetheless, speaking her wisdom.

Maybe all this seems too far-fetched, too ‘out-there’, but for me it has been a way of really discovering what is ‘in here’. Dialoging on the page with her, I find answers my rational and logical brain does not ordinarily extend to. It takes imagination and the voice of ‘another’ to reach to ideas and pathways which my noisy, overwhelmed brain would have dismissed. But the wise voice is consistent, persistent.

This morning, trying to plan my next few months, and feeling totally aghast, once again, at the news, I asked for her guidance. This is what she said:

The sun is here for you.
And this day: a blank page.
Your pen is here. And the marriage of ink.
Your love is here, let it write the next sentence.
That’s all you’ll need:
Love, and Ink.

Love and Ink. That’s what I have. My words. My art. My offerings. It’s not everything, but right now, she has reminded me of the gifts: a blank page, a summer unfolding, and ink to write it into being.

Clare Mulvany 16/12/2023 Clare Mulvany 16/12/2023

Things I’ve loved...

A round up of books, films, places and learning resources- the best of 23.

It’s been a big year, and like every year, it brings its twists and turns, challenges and delights. On the delight end of the line, here are a round-up of some of the books, films, places and learning spaces which I’ve loved in 2023.

Schull Library

Libraries are treasuries, and librarians are treasure keepers. We are so very fortunate to have the most wonderful librarian in our local Schull library, Alan, who is a guardian of mind and hearts, recommending books to idea wanderers in need of nourishment. (I also promised I'd put him top of my list, and I now hope he is suitably embarrassed/ chuffed!. You are brilliant Alan, and thank you for all you do for the community)

Books

I dove into the magical world of Children's Books this year, and gravitated towards authors whose words straddle age categories, and genres.

Katherine Rundell has proven to be a stellar delight, catering to the child in all of us. Impossible Creatures was both mythic and wondrous. I also I particularly loved The Golden Mole- a series of short pieces by impossibly wondrous creatures too, written for an older audience. Back in the kids worlds, The Wolf Rider's wolves and lead character of Fedora have also stayed travelling in my imagination, while Vita from The Good Thieves’ feisty spirit and verve added dimension to how young girls are characterised in fiction. I’m now looking forward to reading her book, Super Infinite, about the life of John Donne. Short Note: I am a big Rundell fan.

Another delightful discovery this year was the work of Kiran Millwood Hargrave. I relished the world of The Girl of Ink and Stars, while her two collaborations with her artist husband, Tom de Freston blew me away. Julia and The Shark and Leila and the Blue Fox, and the gothic descriptions in The Secrets of Bird and Bone. Her adult fiction book, The Mercies, is on my to be read list.

Philip Pullman's words have been filling my world with the possibilities of imaginal realms. I did not read his books growing up, and so am only coming to them now, which, while regretally late, is a gift to the imagination itself. I traversed the world of His Dark Materials, and, in audio versions, have been captivated by Michael Sheen's readings of The Book of Dust and my current listen, The Secret Commonwealth.

And Wow. Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Road was hauntingly beautiful.

Other books which stood out for me this year included Feather, Leaf, Bark and Stone by the impeccably talented artist and writer Jackie Morris. It came at a time when I needed soul solace, and it snuck in under the covers of my darkness, offering balm and light.

Jay Griffiths is both rebel and sage. A Love Letter from a Stray Moon was the poetic prose which straddles both, with the life of Freida Kahlo as the medium. Why Rebel is a powerful manifesto for protest.

Anna Jones, A Modern Way to Eat and One: Pot, Pan, Planet. I was in need of some new veggie inspiration, but these have been a total revelation. I even have a new found love of cauliflower.

Anna Swir's poetry, Talking to My Body spoke to the mystery in ways other words have never reached.

Rich Rubin's The Creative Act, offered ways into the creative process, which opened it up to both the sacred and the beautifully ordinary, with a twist of zen.

Music

Allison Russell has been on repeat (and I can't wait for her gig in Dublin in January)

And Aukai offered a sonic backdrop much of my writing this year.

Film

Watching An Cailín Ciúin, The Quiet Girl on Cape Clear Island as part of the Fastnet Film Festival was a definite year highlight let alone a film highlight.

American Symphony, a documentary which carries us into the exquisite and raw love shared between Jon Baptiste and Suleika Jaouad shows how even the hardest possibilities of love makes us expand.

Swimming

I have spent many hours this year in, on and around water - as ever a place of enlivenment. A huge shout out to Sarah McKnight, swim coach (@sarahseaswimming (who literally takes a village to the water) @westcorksauna has also been a huge asset to our West Cork watery world.

Thrive School

Over at Thrive School, it has been a year of much facilitation, teaching, collaboration and learning. Grateful to having some brilliant co-conspirators in particular, The Brave Lab, Stand/ Suas, and Global Action Plan International, and for my work in Trinity College Tangent, UCD Innovation Academy, Dublin City Council, Jigsaw- The National Centre for Youth Mental Health, and The European Commission.

Travels

Over in Oxford I was impressed with how The Pitt Rivers Museum is examining its colonial legacy and making more transparent efforts to narrate a more nuanced history of how their collection of archaeological artefacts have come to be.

While over in Amsterdam I loved the sensory explorations and interminglings of their 'Everything is Connected' exhibition

Also cycling in Amsterdam! A city which does bike infrastructure properly (please take note Dublin, and Cork, and... )

Learning Spaces

I found myself both hosting and participating in many various and powerful learning spaces this year.

The Wolf Willow's Imaginarium, hosted by Vanessa Reid and co, highlighted new ways to navigate complexity through engaging with our intuitive and sensory selves. And Kaos Pilot and L&S Shakers, offered insight into using facilitative tools for progressive dialogue. I loved the panels Kerri Ni Dochartaigh curated for Climate Action Day in Dun Laoighre.

Grateful also to the team and my classmates at Kingstown College, Dublin, where I completed a Professional Diploma in Coaching and Mentoring.

In my own hosting, the Poetry Salon, continued to shape, inspire and nurture offering a poetic sanctuary in a turbulent world. The Intentional Year cohort, offered a rhythmic way to check in with our deeper selves, while Writing Wild, brought us the wild edged in ourselves, and the natural world. Looking forward to lots more in 2024

Friendships- human and more than human.

I have listed many resources in this post, but perhaps the ones I have loved the most is the network of friends, human and more than human, that circle and enrich my life many folds over. From the little robin who visited my front door daily for months on end, to the four-legged woof whose companionship is bordering obsessive, to the many wise, funny and supportive friends, near and far, who inspire me, guide me, pick me up, and travel this creative - if sometime circuitous- road, I want to say, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Coming Up…

Clare Mulvany 04/11/2023 Clare Mulvany 04/11/2023

Grief is another word for love.

I do not know what it is to lose a child, but I know what it is to grieve. In the social media squares I share a quote, or a headline, or more numbers of the dead. But what I am really trying to say is: my heart is breaking.

The children’s bloody and tear stained faces scroll by on the screens. The numbers go up. Around them there are justifications, pontifications, the weighing of sides.

What would happen if we really let our hearts break, allowed those numbers in, gave them their names back, their lives, their loves? What would happen if we collectively allowed ourselves to crack open and grieve what we have become?

You can listen to this piece here (4 mins)

The children’s bloody and tear stained faces scroll by on the screens. The numbers go up. Around them there are justifications, pontifications, the weighing of sides.

I spent the week working on a children’s book I am writing. It is about wildness and connection and the imaginal realm. It is about wonder, and joy, and figuring out how to solve problems systemically, collectively, human and animal kin alike. It is about not having a singular hero or narrative. It is about love. The children in this war, any war, will never read this book. Nor any other. They will never be able to let the wonder in, or let themselves imagine what they want to be when they grow up. For war is a denier of the best of what we can be. For we, humanity, we are engineers, imagineers, pioneers. We, humanity, we are filmmakers, firefighters, farmers. We are scientists and song-writers, poets, philosophers, educators, homemakers. We are parents, daughters, sisters, lovers. And once we were all children with hopes and dreams. Some of us are lucky to still have them.

So, no, I do not know what it is to lose a child, or be in a siege, or have my future denied because of a rampage or a bomb. But I do know how to grieve, to lose a loved one, to cry with a loss that it aches to breathe. I do know what it is to live in a world which denies itself the possibility of its own flourishing, its own becoming, all because it insists on bombs and blood and sides and the justifications of taking lives in the name of protection or vindication.

The numbers rise and my heart breaks that bit more. My heart breaks to grieve, to cry, to hold the worst humanity has to offer, and to try to coax it back to love, to believing again.

I am writing a children’s book for the future, because I have to believe in the future. I am putting my grief in there. I am putting my love and my broken heart in there. Because I want children to know what it is to wonder, and what it is to dream. Because sometimes we have to imagine the beautifully impossible to believe in the beautifully possible. And I am hoping my heart still has room to break, so I can let some more grief in. Because I know that a broken open heart is a birthplace for the possible. Because I know that grief is another word for love.

#ceasefire

18/01/2019 18/01/2019

A letter to Mary Oliver

A Letter to Mary Oliver, with thanks. You have passed on, but your words have not. I think there is an extra chamber in my heart where they fully inhabit, pumping wonder and beauty into the places in my being which need them the most. I know your words circle in others peoples hearts too, lining them with awe, and grace, and now an infinite beat of gratitude. We have much to thank you for. You let your words rest on blank pages, arranged in configurations of strange symbols which we place together as consonants, then poems. But your configurations have a special quality, something rooted and ethereal at once. More constellation than star, more forest than seed. We could say your poems carry the touch of mystery, but I think you’d call it love instead; that your pen was a point of capture and your words a place of gathering, so we can see it more clearly, in the grass and the way light falls daily, or the way a cricket carries its song. You reminded us that it is all love really, this earthly presence of being, this wild and precious life. Little did you know it Mary, but for more than half my life, since I first read your poems, you have come everywhere with me. I’ve packed you in my backpack and we have travelled the world. I’ve taken you on bus journeys, planes journeys, ferry rides and long undulating walks. We’ve stayed up late at night with a torch under the bedcovers. Do you remember the time when we on a beach in Greece reading poems to the sea? Or the time when my little dog sat beside me and I read your dog poems aloud to her? Or the multiple nights on my yoga mat, when you’d tuck into position by my side, and tell me, over and over, to trust in the way of things. You’d let me cry tears if needed, whether of joy or sadness, and you’d always wipe them with beauty. You have been my companion in dark corners and tunnels which I thought would never end. Your words, the best of friends. Your poems, a lighthouse. ‘You do not have to be good’, you whispered to me in one particular dark patch’, ‘you only have to let the soft animal of your body loves what it loves’. That became my mantra, recalled with regularity and devotion.You have given instructions for living a life. ‘Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it’. In this, I can say, I am trying. And you have reminded me that the 'boxes of darkness can also be gifts'. I open them differently now. You have said the world offers itself to our imaginations, no matter who we are, no matter how lonely. So you have been training me to seek the imaginative possibility. Belong to this world, you suggested, and give yourself to it, ‘married to amazement’. In this I can say I am wed, only my vows need to be renewed daily. Your poems take me there. You have spared me the worry of haste and urgency. ‘Don’t worry’, you say, ‘things take the time they take’. And then you offered me one question which thread so close that is has changed everything. ‘So, tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’. I wake up with those words on my lips and each day I long to live into them. It it the best kind of quest. Yours was wild, yours was precious, and you have made mine all richer through the gifting of your gift. I hope to thank you in the pay it forward kind of way, in a way I think you’d like, with the simple gestures of love, and a heart seeking always to speak to the wonder of it all. Rest in peace dear Mary Oliver. May your words work their infinite wonder in the hearts of many more, With love and eternal gratitude. Clare.xx