And yet again...

 Considering the importance to me of creating and living in a ‘sacred space’, I have moved more times than I care to remember since my 50th birthday ‘awakening’, and most of those moves have been in the last 9 years or so: since the move south to Devon in 2015 and then back north to Yorkshire in 2020. 

Some of those moves have had rational explanations, but many seem to have no apparent reason for moving to, or away from, a particular set of four walls. Each time, though, I have had a (reducing) level of hope that here might become ‘home’, rather than simply somewhere to live for now.

This time, however, I’m speaking out and writing about a high level of hope. In part, it’s founded in practicalities most folk would understand: moving is stressful for physical, mental and financial health and my birthdays are going up in number, whilst my savings are going down! 

More importantly, though, is my need to feel I am making a useful contribution, and helping myself, others, and the planet to the extent I am able. Whilst so much practical and psychic energy is taken up with repeated moving, I am not serving as well as I might. Surely, at best, I have a maximum (if very fortunate) of 20 years of useful contribution: I want to feel I’m working from a safe and secure base to give that. When I was 30 something, 20 years seemed a long time. Now, at 70 something, that same period of time feels very different. I believe there is some AFR (actual, factual, rational) explanation of this, but I operate primarily on a feeling level…

Although to credit the AFR, another part of the explanation for having more hope-of-home this time, is that this move has taken me into housing association accommodation, rather than private rented, which gives me security of tenure not available in the private sector, beyond whatever the current contract - usually six months. At least twice in my housing peregrinations have I had to move because the owner wanted their property back. This time, as long as I pay the rent and remain ASBO free, I can live here as long as I want. Perhaps, then, it can be home until that very last home: the return to source. (Of course, it then might all begin again, but that’s beyond the reach of this blog post!)

So, here I am in Harrogate… less of a deep-time geological sense of where I am than I had for my previous two moves (although the Old Norse name likely translates as 'road to the cairn': and cairn might refer to the nearby Brimham Rocks, more than 300 million years old) but more of a recent socio-cultural history - not least the importance to the developing 17th century settlement as somewhere to ‘take the waters’ (ie, hydrothermal bathing). There’ll be more of this in a later post when I’ve taken the waters a few times myself!

For now, still unpacking boxes and arranging my sacred paraphernalia - establishing the nemeton - I’m focusing on my immediate surroundings.

But it’s just been Imbolc - that wonderful ancient Celtic/Gaelic recognition of the beginning of Spring, and I couldn’t resist a visit to Harlow Carr Gardens… a mere ten minutes drive up the road. And a new addition to my personal favourites list of outdoor nemeta. There will be more of this too in later posts.

Equinoctial and Labyrinthine Musings

 So… as we approach the Autumn Equinox, I am on the move again. In search of new work, a new way of being, new sacred space. The ancient limestone of the Yorkshire Wolds is releasing me for the Carboniferous rock formations of Otley Chevin Forest… at around 300 million years old even more ancient than both myself and the limestone I’ve been walking for the last six months, so I wonder what learning, what doing, what being is around the corner?

I have lived in Otley before - a quarter century ago - but "I am not now who then I was" as the saying goes. But then, am I who I was yesterday? This will be a very different kind of living too. On the obvious practical level, it’s a tiny rented flat in a mill conversion on the edge of the Chevin rather than the 2-bed terrace I owned right in the town when I was there before. A different kind of physical and mental geography altogether.

As a retired (as if I ever would!) non-earning, non-property owning individual, on a financial level I’m probably ‘lower’ now on the socio-economic scale than I was then, but with my pension-ettes and occasional donations for the work I offer, I don’t need to earn a living as I did when I was in Otley before, and that has a major energetic difference for how anyone lives. And I have different priorities in other ways too. And… writing this, I have realised something quite remarkable.

I moved to Otley for the first time just after I had my labyrinthian epiphany and received inspiration for Journey to the Centre which was the name I was given for my therapeutic and personal development ‘business’. Setting up JttC, I became officially self-employed and let go of earning any money at all via the educational system, or via any other kind of work as an employee. I did return briefly to employee-hood some ten years or so later, when I did my TESOL training (teaching English to speakers of other languages) in Spain and used those skills to earn a little money there, and when I subsequently returned to the UK with no real idea of what to do next in my life.

Fast forward another 15 or so years and after another epiphany just a week ago I find myself signing up for the Otley flat. This new epiphany, like the previous one, was no doubt ‘brewing’ for some time - and I had recently set a conscious intent for new sacred space - but it initiated fully into my consciousness via a dream.

This time, instead of walking a labyrinth, I was walking the Chevin in a wild, wild wind. So strong was this wind I allowed myself to lean backwards into it and fully relax. I did not fall to the ground. Nothing but wild air supported me for what felt like, in the dream, forever: as if it was a permanent state of being. It was only whilst forming these words I remembered that although I rarely went up the Chevin when I lived in Otley before, on one occasion when I did, I had exactly (yet not) this experience: it was a wild, blustery day and the wind felt so strong that I decided it would support me if I leaned backwards into it and fully relaxed. So I did -  and fell to the ground, bruising both coccyx and dignity.

So, I await developments. And whilst waiting, I’m thinking about the community allotments directly over the road from where I’ll be living, and where I hope to volunteer. I wonder how sacred space will manifest there, as well as in my own personal space, and whilst walking the Chevin, embracing that wild air. And surely, water, earth and the fire of sun and stars too.

As yet, I have no photographs of the Chevin taken by me, but the ones here are taken by Sarah, a many years friend of mine (from when I lived in Otley first time round, in fact) who has herself lived in Otley for almost 300 million years, and who frequently walks the Chevin. Thank you Sarah, for the pics, and for what else you’ve brought into my life.

A geological Nemeton: some personal learning

 I haven’t posted for a while. There are always ‘reasons’ of course for not doing things we feel we need to do, ought to do, should be doing, etc and it’s definitely useful to check out those shoulds-musts-oughts. If you’ve been ill, or stupidly busy (with non-stupid activities) then give yourself a break. You’ll get back round to doing what you ‘should’ be doing. Sometimes deeper exploration is needed: we find that the SMO’s are not always genuinely ‘ours’, but inherited stuff from various earlier authority figures we can let go of now we are big grown-up people. 

But sometimes we truly are not doing something we want to be doing… so then it’s time for the useful question of how come not? For me, not writing when I want to be, can be just laziness - which definitely needs challenging! But this time, writing for the Nemetona blog - or rather not writing for it - no, not laziness: there has been a psychic validity. And a geomorphic validity.

I have been unsettled in my own nemeton: although I love this wonderful geographical and geological area (and indeed the lovely town of Market Weighton itself) the practicalities of the four walls of my current rented place have not turned out how I expected. No need for the boring detail, but I’ve been negotiating with my landlord for some work to be done which is sadly unlikely to happen. I’m now facing a decision about living in what is likely to be a cold (or too expensive to heat) winter place - unsatisfactory in some other ways too - or to move yet again. Those of you who know me might think moving again is hardly an issue for me - I’ve been doing it regularly for a while now.  

Rare habitat: Market Weighton's chalk stream

But this move has been significantly different. I did - still do - feel this new geological landscape is where I want to be: it’s truly a ‘natural’ fit for me. Over and above all the places I’ve lived  - including wonderful time in Scotland which contains some of the most ancient rocks on the planet, as well as most other known geological formations - I am loving the Cretaceous marine limestone of the Yorkshire Wolds. There’s something very wonderful about walking around on all those long dead sea creatures! Or maybe it’s to do with my own crumbling bones… I remember on the day I got my osteoporosis diagnosis wandering on the beach, picking up shells, and wondering about their formation and degradation…

Sand bones

Tree bones

I must chuckle though when I think of finding another place to rent… most letting agents are used to questions about proximity to facilities, or is there somewhere to park… much less so about is there a garden I can work, which way does the house face, and is it built on igneous, sedimentary or metamorphic rock! 

So, that’s the geomorphic validity. As for the psychic, until this moment, I’ve allowed the uncertainty about where is my own personal indoor/outdoor nemeton to be to obstruct my work. I’ve been able to do some reframing around that with help from my daughter, who reminded me how often I’ve been a ‘guardian gardener’ rather than an owner gardener. And also help from a client of mine with whom I’ve worked for many years, and over many house moves, who reminded me about how well I create safe and sacred space wherever I happen to be living. And finally a reminder from myself about agency… that is, I still have some!

When I facilitate others, their work is so often about finding what resources they do have, especially when they feel they are resource-less. If I don’t stay here, I will find somewhere else… I’ve done it many times before. Nemeta can be created anywhere. Though I will still be looking to have those ancient sea creatures crunching under my feet.

Beltane Eve, 2023

 Beltane is upon us. I am in a new nemeton for this, having moved in just a couple of weeks ago. More about this important move to a very different geological and psychic territory in the next post, but for now an acknowledgement of the sacred space of Beltane: one of the four key ‘fire festivals’ of the Celtic/Brittonic traditions.

I am alone this evening although connecting in mind and heart with ‘my’ people. The fire is prepared, food and drink is prepared for afterwards, the birds have fresh water and their new sunflower hearts feeder. The garden is as prepared as it can be, given my very recent occupation of it. I will be lighting the fire, connecting with the elemental forces, and sitting in reflection very soon. I’ll have fresh air around me, new earth under my feet, water in my tiny washing-up bowl ‘pond’ (though a fast racing chalk stream just yards away… more about that later too) and, as well as the fire, some new solar lights which I hope will be glowing for the first time in the somewhat overgrown euonymus where I've placed them.

The pic below is not the rather boring euonymus, beloved of urban landscape planners, but the far more glorious 'may', or hawthorn. Slightly cheating pic actually since here in the north of England it's not quite at its most glowing until we are well into May. This is the origin of the saying "Cast not a clout 'til may is out..." in other words, don't shed your winter clothes until the may blossom is as exuberant as it is below.

There are some (carefully curated!) links below if you want to read more about Beltane: the briefest point to make here is that ‘May day’ celebrates Spring at its peak, fertility and new growth, and the coming Summer. 

Emma Beddington’s Guardian article is an interesting and cool appraisal, though there is plenty of far more histrionic writing and videos online, should you be interested in the more outrageous aspects of Beltane: always considered the ‘wildest’ of the four festivals, even within the wilder reaches of the Pagan/Celtic/Magickal etc communities.

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beltane

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/apr/27/dawn-of-the-new-pagans-everybodys-welcome-as-long-as-you-keep-your-clothes-on

https://www.britannica.com/topic/Beltane

Winter Floodland

The warning sign at the side of the road tells me the bridge ahead over the river is closed, because of recent flooding. For the last twenty minutes or so, I’ve been driving aimlessly around, trying not to go home, because there are boring tasks to do. I prefer to be out - even in a car – in this early January early afternoon peculiar quality of half-light.   

It’s a flat and some would say featureless landscape I’m driving through – a quiet rural road with nowhere to go at the end of it because the river has once again broken its banks. I expect to see little traffic, or people about, and indeed see neither. I drive right to the edge where road meets floodwater, stop, turn off the engine, get out of the car. I take a couple of deep breaths and look around this mysterious new world. Little waves lap at my tyres, as if I’ve driven my car onto a beach somewhere, to the very edge of the ocean.  It’s strange to see a well-known road, normally with stretches of fields on either side, suddenly become one massive waterscape. I find all bodies of water fascinating, from oceans to woodland streams, but particularly so when they appear as unexpectedly as this. When they are not where they are supposed to be.

I stand still a moment, feeling my way into this liminal world. Border territory: earth and water, dark and light, civilisation and wilderness. Post the storms that caused the flooding, it’s now a nothing zone: no breeze, no noise apart from some lapwings calling, nothing to be seen except for a village in the distance looking like something out of ancient legend, completely surrounded by water, apparently deserted. No people, no vehicles, no movement. Nothing stirs.  

I pull on my wellingtons, and binoculars round my neck, step into this mystical waterscape, moving slowly into the water. I know I’m just walking along the road, I can feel it beneath my feet, though can’t see it, and as the water level doesn’t appear to be getting much higher, I continue walking into this newly created sea. Slowly moving further and further into this other reality, I am soon surrounded by water, and my car appears to have become smaller.   

The rational part of me – sensible brain, I call it - knows this is probably not a particularly sensible thing to be doing, in flooded terrain on a darkening January afternoon, with gathering grey clouds and more rain imminent. But I am enchanted by the oddness of this transformed landscape, and now I see a pair of swans sailing along together down this minor B road. I stand still and scan for the lapwings I heard earlier. There’s a small island of earth over to the right, with a few shreds of vegetation showing, and there they are feeding, presumably having found rich pickings in the mud from the broken riverbanks. I watch them through my binoculars and see other birds there too – a couple of crows, a few mallards. A larger long-legged bird I can only negatively identify: not heron, not curlew, not redshank.

I’m now in water almost to the top of my boots. I close my eyes, to better absorb what I hear. The lapwings are calling again and as the sound becomes louder, I open my eyes to see them flying above my head with their characteristic slow flopping movement. I watch them until they are out of sight.   

It’s now completely silent apart from a quiet shrush of the water around my boots. I close my eyes again, hoping to shift deeper into this altered state of consciousness. I feel as if I want to just walk on, until I need to swim, or even better turn on my back and float as I love to do in natural bodies of water. I want to become one with this watery environment, and it annoys me that I feel I must resist the temptation. I walk on further, and look back at my car, pleased it’s now as small as a toy.  

Sensible brain is still keeping me aware this is not a good plan. It runs the media stories as it loves to do: abandoned vehicle found at water’s edge… pair of women’s shoes next to it… no trace of the driver… drama drama.

But it’s not until I get the shock of icy cold water slopping over the top of my boots that I return fully to ordinary reality. A breeze has sprung up, and a few drops of rain touch my face. But when I try to turn around to walk back to my car, I feel my feet stuck in mud beneath the water. I must have stepped off the road. 

 
I feel no fear, just an odd curiosity… perhaps some part of me is still in an altered state. Perhaps this is how it is for people who drown themselves by walking into the sea. No fear or panic, just a simple one foot in front of the other until their legs are buoyant and their body floats away.  

I can’t see the swans any more, and there are no birds feeding on the little island. A few lights are now twinkling in the village, making it seem like a distant cruise ship, moored in some vast ocean. I notice a set of car headlights: the only moving thing, it seems, though not coming this way. I feel as if I have been here for hours, walking and standing in this watery wilderness, though when I check my watch, I’m surprised to discover it’s barely half an hour.  

I wriggle my toes, twist my ankles a little, and try a couple of tentative steps one way, then another. I soon unstick my feet and find a way back to the submerged road. I’m almost disappointed, but sensible brain stays alert and I reluctantly set off towards my car, home, and the waiting tasks. 

I do enjoy the water squelching satisfyingly in my boots though, and that it’s raining heavily now and I’m beginning to feel cold. As I switch on the ignition, and the car heater, I can play with the notion of being in far more danger than I probably was. I head for home: centrally heated, and with a casserole in the slow cooker.