'Her Whole Nature' is a collection of my poems which features seasonal writing, women's rite of passages and the numinous. It will be available as an ebook later in the year. To express an interest please contact me on firstname.lastname@example.org
This she knows
her nature is innately whole.
Sometimes called the ineffable,
source consciousness, the life of life
she is as much the numinous as it is itself.
Every day she leaves the house as if on paws, on the wing
for a beauty forage, a feast of noticing.
Her vocation as Soulmaker
is to find the leverage in the world as it is
to express her full pallet of lustrous colours,
sing-in all the tender ways of the sacred
in solidarity with the Earth everywhere hallowed ground,
protect nature and her creatures,
celebrate the rhythms and seasons intimately mirrored in her own,
honour the profound life passages her body travels through- menarche, menstruation, mothering and menopause
until she becomes ripened wisdom woman,
grows old upheld by her familiars and ancestors,
dies knowing in her depths
the final word is always love.
On my walk home
like the moon in an afternoon sky
I feel her before I look up
and see her
uncanny in profile
her all-knowing amber eye, kohl lined
her haunches like a woman’s.
Like a pop up shop she will be gone
before I get used to her.
She doesn’t have time for despair.
Her heart is physically bigger than other creatures.
In folklore she is protector of all the wild animals and birds.
She belongs to the stories that stoke the fire
and bless the hearth.
On a bigger arc than our lives will witness
beyond faith, deep space, the witch’s broom nebula
(where wise women have always gone for a brew, always will))
is the Unchanging
where nothing can stop the final word being
The spring day with a song out
of its mouth
before the dawn chorus
has time to perch.
skies bluer than euphoria.
Uncowed by Climate and Global pandemics it blossoms with cherry as its always done, rewilds with blackthorn
and yoke-yellow gorse smelling of coconut in the heat of the sun.
It expands ecstatically
beyond every horizon
in the usual way we never catch up
as dog-violets tiptoe across the floor of the woods
and primroses settle into the leas of moist, mossy logs.
The trees shape-shift the land before our eyes
like magicians pulling miniature leaves out from their cuffs.
Two geese fly over our garden
every morning and evening
like soulmates easy to see ourselves in,
their honking shy of singing but only just.
The spring day that teems with joy
along river-banks and burns
under bridges where pooh-sticks never get stuck.
This is not just a creaking turn
of the great seasonal cartwheel
pulled by sun and moon but rebirth.
How deeply it sits inside our need for it.
I am the featured writer in this year's We'Moon Diary. This is the introduction I wrote to the seasonal holy days.
Organising our lives around the seasons and cycles and honouring the Holy Days is not a luxury extra, it is a radical necessity.
The Earth urgently needs all of humanity to slow down and come back into intimate affiliation and rhythm with her.
The global climate crisis cannot be solved by external fixes like three day working weeks, artificial intelligence or new technologies.
Solutions need to be led by the Earth on her own terms.
The holy days are our soul’s watering holes where we ritually recalibrate ourselves, express our full palette of colours, our innate wholeness and reverence through self-styled ceremonies and celebrations.
They infuse our energy with delight and sublime gratitude, make our chosen actions more potent.
They are how we open the weave, bring in all the tender ways of the sacred, give unbroken ancestral connection back to ourselves.
Half of the Earth's quest for regenerative healing takes place in dormancy and darkness.
She needs our fallow with the land and trees as much as she needs our activism.
Dark holy days are where we restore our depth, 'see' the most far-reaching solutions especially during our bodies' times of heightened consciousness which include menstrual bleeding, giving birth, menopause, Elder age and dying.
On the holy days themselves we leave our homes as if on paws, on the wing for a feast of noticing what herbs want our attention, what Goddess, what advice the ancestors want to give us through which bird, animal, stone, tree.
Inside each holy day and at the hub of the mandala they form is the temple of the ineffable feminine.
Here in the fecund unknown we scan the WorldSoul for something to help the burning world.
A personification of source consciousness that only heals because it is rooted real in our most ancient provenance when hearth, art and religion were one, homes were temples and temples were homes.
Shining in the very fabric of the magical dark - Black Terra Mother.