Winter Solstice Ritual: A guide to cultivating hope

Hello to you on this December day.Here in the Northern Hemisphere the days are short and the nights are long, but we are soon approaching the turning. Soon, the nights will shorten and the days will lengthen and the tide of the year will swing once again.This cyclical turning of time was an integral part of the ancient celtic calendar. Marking the passage of time and the movement of the planets offered a clock based on the seasons. It gave markers for when it was time to rest, plant, tend, harvest and return to rest again. At eight points in the year, particular crossings or thresholds were celebrated, the Winter Solstice being an important one of them.The was a celebration to both honour the dark and welcome the light. It was a time of pause, magic and mysticism- nowhere more evident in some of the architecture of the time, when the solstice winter light was magically tunnelled down passage tombs such as Newgrange, to illuminate an inner chamber within the tomb.Christmas too 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 itself comes from the Latin, meaning, Sol (sun) + Sistere (to stand still). And so, this reflective planner and these simple rituals are designed to help us do just that- to take some pause, to stand still for a few hours, to re-claim our dreams and in doing so cultivate our hope. They will help us to tune into our inner voice, power and wisdom at a time when we need it the most. This is my gift to you, as a way of supporting you to tune into the possibilities of magic and in doing so welcome the light into the inner chambers of your precious heart. 

To access the free planner sign up to my mailing list here and you will be sent further details with a download link. 

Then, print off, carve some precious time, and enjoy the turning time.In this practice you will be invited to: 

• Honour the role of darkness in your life
• Welcome in Magic and Synchronicity
• Write a Letter from the Future
• Create a Wreath of Intention
• Craft your own Winter Blessing

Blessings for the Solstice,Clare. x

More or less?

More or less? Here is a 5 mins writing practice to take us to our real cravings…....Less scrolling, more connectionLess fear, more hopeLess stuff, more spaceLess noise, more storiesLess cynicism, more actionLess doubt, more faithLess shallow, more realLess isolation, more belongingLess milk chocolate, more dark chocolateLess skepticism, more listeningLess bullying, more befriendingLess strangers, more neighboursLess drama, more presenceLess hesitation, more courageLess hate, more love Now over to you: What are you craving less of to have more of? Grab a timer, a blank sheet of paper and a pen. Set the timer for 5 mins. Keeping writing until the timer rings. Go. .. Want to stay in touch? Sign up to my newsletter for more creative practices and tools for creative leadership.

Poetry Salon // 4

Welcome Back!Delighted to bring you episode 4 of December's salon. (15 mins)Today I'm exploring poetry and the body, sharing poems from Kerrie Hardie, Sharon Olds, and once again Mary Oliver- poems which were like lifelines for me during times in my life when I, and my body, needed them the most.Would love to hear what poems you have turned to? What poems have been your life-raft? What do these poems spark for you?Enjoy, and happy listening.Clare xx...You can listen to previous episodes here:Episode 1: Poetry and the Salon IntroEpisode 2: Poetry and childhoodEpisode 3: Poetry as maps ...Want to stay in touch? Sign up to my newsletter for happenings and more creative resources

Poetry Salon // 3

You can listen to Episode 3 here. Have you ever felt lost, homesick, wondering if you will ever find your way?Here in this third episode of the poetry salon I explore poetry as a map to help us find our way back to our inner and outer worlds.Today with the help of encounters with Seamus Heaney, David Whyte and David Wagoner- some a little more literal that I would have liked!Total running time: 14 mins.Hope you enjoy and would love to hear what poems have been maps for you over the years.Clare xx Want to catch up with other episodes: Episode One: Poetry as communal act and the introduction of the salon, with poems by Mary Oliver and Rachel Holstead. Listen here Episode Two: Poetry as lineage- and a cauldron of childhood memory. With rhymes from my Nana, a poem from my Dad, and a poem which took me into political awareness. Listen here. ...

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Poetry Salon // 2

 Next up in the December Poetry Salon- some reminiscences about childhood and our relationship with poetry growing up.. plus a secret confession!So I invite you to make yourself a cup of tea, pull up a cozy chair and listen inwards...You can listen in here:  (13 mins)Hope you enjoy.Clare xxMissed episode one?You can listen to that again here.

Wild Swimming and Wild Words

  You can listen to this blog post here:    I never saw myself as one of ‘those people’.‘Those people’ were a different, alien, species. They were the ones with an extra gene to bolster against the Atlantic cold, and, at birth, were born with added doses of bravery and physical stamina. No, I have never been one of ‘those people’There is a chill in the November air now- not biting cold, but nippier. The wind has a bit of a whip in it too. I look at the sea though and still I hear an invitation: dive in.Really?The thought of the cold plunge sends butterflies to my nether regions, followed by nervous energy which could be labelled as ‘fear’ under certain lights and ‘madness’ under others.I’m not one of the turbo clad wet suit slick swimming elite. I like headstands and handstands and strange yoga twists, sure, but ask me to swim out to sea, in November? That’s for ‘those people’.I have to make my decision to swim before I leave the house, otherwise the excuses start to accompany me to the shore and prevent my passage. I put on my togs underneath my clothes. On good days I even remember to pack my knickers in my swimming bag, and my courage too.I check the tides. The tide clock is not even a clock I had really been aware of before, but here I find myself, checking for the swell. High tide in Schull is the best. The water seems richest then, enriched with seaweed minerals and curiously dark, definitely at its most inviting.Yesterday was calmer, sunny even. I’d seen some of ‘those people’ dive in earlier in the day braving the depths as if their life depended on it. No excuses. The kickers got packed. The togs were already on. Walking to the shore the decision was made. No backing out. No backing out.And then: the sea. There is something about the water; all glitter and roam, a touch of sparkle and a hint of mischief. The fronds of seaweed were waving, the light dancing as it if was at the best party in town. No excuses.I strip down to my togs. I nearly slip on the wet stones. I remember the trick: no dawdling, just straight in. Before I have time to think about it, 1-2-3. In the space of a breath I am actually one of ‘those people’ now, swimming wild and into the Atlantic, in November.The sea will do that to you: break you and remake you all in a breath.The fear tends to leave as the the water welcomes. The cold embraces every pour but has a touch of unconditional love in it. I have a random thought: If I can do this, become one of ‘those’, well, what else can I do?Swim by swim, I tell myself. The first step is to become a December swimmer, then a January one. It’s not brave after all, it’s just a becoming, entering into a reinvention of what I thought was possible.I return home. I make a coffee. I open the blank pages of my journal. I pick up my pen. I dive.Then I wonder: where will this tide take me? Break me and remake me all in the breath of a page? I have been learning: it’s time to take on these wild words too. Finally.

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What is your equivalent of wild swimming? Is it time to take a plunge?

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Samhain Ritual :: A practice for contemplation and reflection

A little treat for you today, as we move into Samhain.I had a sense to create a Samhain Ritual, one to help me tune in with this powerful time of year. And so, I stayed up late last night creating a planner and working my own way through the questions. It was a beautiful experience, helping me to appreciate old wise ways of this land of Ireland and the power of reclaiming rituals. Its part of my own quest to live more seasonally and in connection to the cycles which inform our lives.As I mention in the introduction:'In ancient celtic times each year was marked with moments of pause, celebration and ritual. As the modern secular world gets noisier and we are more connected to our devises than each other, the reclamation of these rituals can help us tune into our inner voice, power and wisdom at a time when we need it the most.So, whether you are craving space in your business life, creative projects or personal relationships these pages will offer questions to help you tap into your own insights and point you towards your deep inner world of intentions and dreams'The planner is 11 pages, with space for journalling and reflection.

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Then you'll be sent a link to a download page.Then if you'd like to take this work wider and deeper, the next Living Seasonally Course is starting on 1st Nov. The focus will be on creating practices and plans for the winter months ahead. You can find out more and register online here. I hope you enjoy and savour this Samhain ritualWith love and blessings, Clare. xx 

Old ways, new ways: Planning for business & life using the celtic cycles.

 January seems like a long time ago. All that talk of new years resolutions and the push for ‘a new you’.You know that feeling: January arrives, the planners come out, you look at the year ahead and think, this one will be better. So you set goals, and intentions. You do great for about 6 weeks and by mid- February you are back to your old tricks. We’ve all been there, done that, back to the drawing board.The challenge with the year-long planning mindset is multiple.Firstly, it’s a timing thing. What brain actually works in 12 months cycles? Plus, at the beginning of January - at least in the northern hemisphere- we are right in the thick of winter. June is but an aspiration, and as for October, well it’s moons away.Secondly, it’s to do with goals. Well, not goals per se, but the factors we take into consideration when we set goals.So often we set goals based on an external sense of what success ‘should look like (a certain weight, a certain salary, a certain number which think we should attain). We work to attain this external validation, but when we get there it is never enough and so we choose another number to reach for. The striving is endless, and exhausting…So, what if there was another way? What if we could introduce points in the year for celebration and reflection, moments for recalibration and checking in with our goals incrementally. What if we took time to tune inwards, to listen deeply to what our inner selves are craving, sense into our dreams and visions, and plan from that inner place? And what if there were other rhythms and cycles which we could harness to help us to all through all of this.Well, thankfully, there is another way, and it’s been under our noses for centuries helping the world spin from time immemorial. Simply put: the seasons. For a long long time, before time was regulated with clocks and mechanical things*, our ancestors used the natural turning of the earth to set their patterns. They knew when it was time to harvest, and time to rest. They learned when it was time to sow, and time to wait. They knew that every season had a rhythm to it, and to live well was to honour that cycle. In between these seasons there were points of pause, celebration, and sacred moments give thanks for the world’s spin.In the old celtic calendar, the four points of winter and summer solstice, and the spring and autumn equinox became markers in the year, plus each mid-point between the season, making 8 points on the yearly cycle.For the last number of years I have been working much more with this celtic calendar- both on a personal and a professional level. By creating my own planning ritual on each of these 8 points of the year, and tuning in with the intention of each season, I have found  an new/ (and old!)  way to set learning objectives and check in with my business and project growth.Now as I turn inwards to listen, I find that my planning cycles have shifted significantly. I use winter as as time of quiet and reflective creation, the spring as a time to nurture new projects, summer leaves room for play, and autumn has time for allowing what’s not working to fall away. I create project deadlines and targets within this structure too- so, for example, I have set the winter solstice as a writing deadline for myself, and Imbolc (early Feb) as another. In this sense the cycle of the year has become a way to understand and navigate the creative process too- particularly when it comes to allowing new projects and ideas time to percolate in the unknown (winter), and then, in their own time, to germinate (spring).So by reclaiming these old cycles and honouring the points of ritual throughout the year, I have found a way to break the year into ‘chunks’, creating projects and rhythms which feel much more in sync with the wider systems in nature, and therefore in myself. Things tend to flow better this way, and I’ve more energy too because I have come to appreciate the value of rest and the value of the unknown. So, come January, there’s no need for new year’s resolutions- instead, I look forward to the points in the year when I mark each season with ritual and intention, and create goals and plans from there.Interested in finding out more and taking part?Living Seasonally is my online course where I share my process. Over 10 days we tune in to the wisdom each season has to offer, learn more about the celtic calendar and, using a seasonal planner and a series of creative and reflective practices, set our goals and intentions from an inwards place. Along the way there will be poetry, journalling, meditations and time to contemplate and recalibrate.My intention for the course is to create an online sanctuary- a gathering place, a watering hole- where we can learn new skills and creative practices and where we can share our own insights and stories while soaking in some nourishment for the season ahead.The Winter 2017 edition is now open for registration and starts on Nov 1st.You can sign up over here… Hope you will join us!Clare xx    *for a great read about the history of time, I recommend Jay Griffiths book ‘Pip Pip: A Sideways look at time’.

The Wintering Questions...

  You can listen to this post here:    How are you all doing out there? It’s been a swirling time. Ophelia made the force of nature very much known, and with more storms forecast for Ireland, the inward pull is even more alluring! So I am feeling very grateful to be back in the creative den, working on my new book, Home on the Edge, but also enjoying updating my online programmes, particularly Living Seasonally. The first flower bulb I ever planted was a hyacinth. I remember needing to leave it in pot under a dark shelf at the back of our primary school classroom. For a long while, nothing. I wondered if the bulb was ‘broken’, or if I had done something wrong. My teacher insisted on leaving it in the dark for longer. I waited, getting down on my knees to peer deep into the low shelf, ‘Are you alive in there?’I waited some more, and more. Then suddenly, one day, the growth. A shoot appeared, taller and taller until the bloom appeared, slowly at first, but then finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the opening. I had expected the bloom, but not the fragrance- the magnificent perfume that wafted into the room like an unexpected, welcome visitor. It was one of the closest things to magic I had ever experienced.It left an imprint: first the dark, then the blooming. For a long time after though I used to hate the winter. I hated how it slowed me down. I dreaded the long, dark evenings and I particularly wanted to avoid the commercialism of Christmas (especially when it all started to kick off in October)However, when I first started learning about the Celtic calendar,  and the seasonal wisdom of my ancestors, there was a remembering and an inner awakening to the knowledge that the celtic new year begins just after Hallowe’en, or Samhain, in the darkness. Just was it was for that hyacinth, the darkness is the beginning. Yes, first the dark, then the blooming.Now, I can honestly say that I look forward to winter. I’m still not a huge fan of the dark evenings, but I do have a new appreciation for what that darkness brings- space for reflection, contemplation and deep creativity, and in it’s own time and place, the blossoming. I realise that winter has many gifts, if I care to stop and appreciate them, and also offers wonderful metaphors to work with, helping me tune in with my deeper longings and callings, and to plan from there. When I honoured the seasonal cycle of time and energy, I knew I was honouring my own inner cycles and wisdom and when I stopped resisting and trying to run away from the dark, and instead sought its refuge and sanctuary, then I found more flow and acceptance in my day to day life. It’s these learnings and more which I have taken into Living Seasonally, designing a course to help us all cope with the increasingly busy and stormy days- internally and externally.Over the course of 10 days we work through a seasonal planner, accompanied with journalling practices, creative exercises, reflections, meditations and questions which help us to harness our own inner wisdom. By the end of the course, participants have a clear plan for the season ahead, based on their inner dreams, callings and longings.I am delighted to say that the next Winter edition starts on Nov 1st, and registration is now open. I’ve made video to explain some more. Please get in touch if you have any questions- I’d love to have you on board!(For those of you who have already taken the course, I’ve made a few developments to this one- the course is a bit longer, and also will incorporate fresh meditations, reflections and creative activities- in all a deeper and more robust process- plus fun too!)Until soon friends.. I’ll be sharing more creative practices and tools with you over the coming weeks, so stay tuned.Clare. xx

In memory...

 My friend John passed away last night. He was 88.I met him last year, and we struck up a friendship. He’d tell me stories about being a filmmaker and photographer, crossing India and Asia with reels of film in the 1950s and 60s. There were stories of strange airport encounters, kind people he met along the way and insights he still carried; traveller tales. He took out an album of black and white stills and recalled the moments each frame had frozen in time. There were staged photos of a hollywood actress, a portrait of Eamonn DeValera and other political figures whose names are now in the buried annals of time.Some days he read me poems, other days we just sat and watched the garden birds. He’d hang out nuts in bird-feeders by the large kitchen window and counted the passing robins, chaffinches, blue tits and the precious rare sightings of goldfinches. There was a little bird identification chart beside the window to check he was correct, for John was a man of principle and exactitude. His days had an order which gave rise to a freedom within. Or so it seemed that way.In this last year John knew his body was failing- he was in a wheelchair now, and in need a lot of nursing care- but as his limbs gave up, his mind resisted. Instead it was a treasury of memories which he added to with scrabble, sport scores, headlines, stacks of biographies, a book about the life on the Blasket Islands, contemporary fiction, other stories. When it all got too much, when headline after headline became too intense (American politics, Brexit, refugee crisis, housing issues) , it was to poetry he turned, more and more as the days passed. He had read a book review in The Sunday Times about a new poetry anthology, and ordered it immediately. He particularly liked a poem about a cockroach, or was it a turtle, I can’t remember, but he did, and asked me to read it twice. He loved the turn of words, the way the description left space for the imagination and the poetic exactitude of each line. Once, he read me one of his own poems, a short simple one, about an overcoat and an umbrella- the kind a gentleman would use. I could picture him standing right in the centre of the poem with space and sentiment entwined.John was polite in that old gentlemanly way too, never refusing my baking and cooking attempts. He tried everything from the courgette fritters with tzatziki, to the spelt lots of things, to the floppy sponge. The flop did not seem to matter, but the gesture did, which in turn made me feel good.For his birthday I gave John a little squirrel print, one of my watercolour drawings. He didn’t wait around, had it framed, and hung it among his other artwork- some from his mother, which she had bought in China in the 1920s and some paintings by his brother Patrick. My little squirrel became part of the furniture, and in doing so brought me happiness too.‘I’m too emotional’, he’d confess to me, with tears streaming down his face, remembering the days in the past, or appreciating his two children. Still, he let the tears come, wiping them away with a handkerchief and returning it to his breast pocket, as a gentleman would.When I visited him in hospital a few weeks back he was distressed. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made a show of myself Clare’, he said. He had been up during the night, in a lot of pain, and had been shouting. His body was failing and his mind was kicking back, loudly. His son wheeled him out into the lobby of Bantry hospital, overlooking the carpark. There were no little bird visitors, but there was sky and light and that seemed to help. We filled the gaps with tea and presence. It was enough for the moment.I saw him one more time after that, briefly, last week. He was at home, sitting up in his chair, in pain; the cancer in his spine was moving and shifting and darting aches and discomfort around his failing body. ‘It’s difficult, this dying’, he told me. He did not want to return to hospital and was willing to make some compromises in his medical treatment to keep him at home. ‘I’m not afraid of leaving’, he added, with another tear… ‘this earthly plane’, and in those moments all the truth and pain and courage and knowing that the life he had was leaving. His mind had accepted it now. You could see it in his face.The local Church of Ireland minister arrived, to give him solace, and I stood up to leave. I was about to walk away, but turned back and planted a soft kiss on his cheek, accompanying it with a ‘smooch’ sound. We both laughed. A little friendship sealed. ‘Goodbye John’, I said, ‘I’ll see you soon’.I’m not sad that he is gone. I’m touched, and moved. My heart is full for this little friendship that came into my life in his last year. No, I’m not sad. He knew it was time, and there was living in his dying. Our friendship was full of the simple things of floppy cake and goldfinches and poetry. It’s the simple things that we move our way towards in the end, that, and friendship. In his dying John opened a door to those things for me, and for that I’ll carry a little pocket of this year of friendship with me on my own travels. I also want to get a bird identification chart, to help me remember.…In memory of  Mr. John Sarsfield, 1929-201710 Oct, 2017.