I was so glad to get to the woods. There was a heavy fog, rain misting. I walked my usual route, up up through the tall pines, curving through the old oaks and then out into the arms of the oldest part of the woodland, insulated, padded with moss. I was so glad of it. Its stillness, its aliveness, its serenity, its depth, its mystery, its support.
Life has changed so profoundly in the last few months. There is no going back, but also no grasping it yet fully either. I am not sure how to navigate this new landscape. It is harsher, rawer, far, far more savage. It is truer, deeper, howling.
These last few days have been so strange. I’ve felt so close and in love with my family. The warm kisses of my six year old, the clear joy of my nine year old, the fierce hugs of my eldest son. This love has felt so pure. It has also felt like a lie. So many others are not and will never again be near those they love. I’ve played rowdy gorgeous party games in Christmas kitchens with uncles and children and grandparents. I’ve then stepped out of the fun and sat in the bathroom in cool silence and thought of a man holding the hand of his child. A hand no longer connected to the rest of his child. I’ve washed my own warm painted hands and gone back to the party games. The dissonance has felt at times unsurmountable.
Oh the world feels so wild, its maw so wide.
I’ve felt this closer to home too. On Wednesday, in my own house, those jaws were so close I could smell the monsters breath. I saw how vulnerable those we love are. How close to danger. How impossible to fully protect.
All of this, I carried with me to the woods. To the woods I love, who are always patiently waiting.
I’ve walked these woods in a sweaty rush,
I’ve walked them texting and talking and looking at my feet.
I’ve carried my son on my back through the undergrowth as he yelled.
I’ve lain on my back on the forest’s belly looking at the stars.
I’ve licked tear drops from the ends of its branches.
I’ve held questions and walked through the bracken open hearted, and always been gifted with replies. Replies that have changed the choices I make, replies that have made things crystal clear, replies that have shown me what I already know.
My dear friend Mari Kennedy taught me how to walk in this way – a Celtic Immram, a communion and communication with the natural world. The woods have been so wise. I am so glad of them
And then, a gift in my inbox. A post from Kerri Ní Dochartaigh about the Celtic Omen Days - a way to witness, observe, allow in what wants to come.
She writes:
Most who observe this period
go out daily into the natural world and simply wait.
We listen and look and we bear witness.
The vital part for me though is the recording of it all.
Making the time and the space to get it down; to try to put into words an ineffable, ethereal and often times surreal feeling.
A sense of something.
Something dipping and diving at the periphery.
Something coming in then out of view. Something known in our core but too hard to find words for, until we begin, and then we understand the process is the important and transformative part. (Of course it is.)
I knew the moment I read her words that this is what I needed to do. A daily Immram between now and January 6th, Nollaig na mBan. A daily opening, allowing, accepting, shedding, facing, recording. A way to try to witness the dissonance. To hold the horror and the fear and the joy.
First, it was a long low fleet of birds flying snug against the surface of the sea. They were a pack, a movement, a murmur. Sure of their direction. Moving with arrow-like grace.
And then it was the moss. The moss in my woods. In the blessed holding of the woods. I sat by a tree wrapped and draped in it, dripping rain. My bum was wet from sitting on it, my hands spread out over yet more, but of a different variety - fern-like in its pattern.
I place my lips to the moss on the trunk of the tree and suck to see how much liquid it holds. I taste resin and pine.
I bury my face in the fern-moss on the forest floor and inhale fungi, damp, growth, decay.
It is this moss that brings the tears. I am so grateful for its holding.
I walk on and think of how much we need to uncover new (ancient) ways to make choices about and move through the world.
To begin again to listen.
To fall apart and pay attention and be tender and active in our hope.
Audre Lorde wrote:
The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.
My lips on the moss felt like a beginning of doing things a different way.
A beginning of this dismantling.
For these Omen Days that
What is it I can do?
What is my role in the dismantling of this poisoned house?
How can I contribute to the building of something new (ancient)?
I know the answers will come. Sideways, strange ways, unexpectedly. But they will come, are probably tucked away in me already.
But the moss and her friends will remind me of what I need to know.
///
I’m going to be taking a pause from writing this page for the next two weeks. A long-planned stepping back from outward production and online presence. A mid-winter reflection.
While I am gone, my dear friend Ruth Smith will be guest posting. She will share two posts with you. You are in the best of hands.
Ruth is a multi-disciplinary artist, teacher and body-worker from County Galway, Ireland, with an active interest in many areas including land-based spirituality, trauma informed somatics, mythopoetics, music and intersectional social justice.
I’ve known Ruth since our first day in college nearly 25 years ago now. She is so warm and wise and is a woman I’ve witnessed open like a flower to the sun in recent years. You can listen here to a powerful interview she recently did with Síle Seoige for her popular podcast Ready to be Real, or you can find her on Instagram here.
I will be back with you on January 19.
Huge love to you all,
Layla x
"I saw how vulnerable those we love are. How close to danger. How impossible to fully protect." I have felt this icy fear grip my heart in the past month too, and I have taken it to the sea. Now I realise I need to seek out the company of trees again - it's been far too long. Thank you for articulating all of this so stunningly and movingly. So grateful that I came across this post 💛
I’m grateful to have stumbled upon this beautiful post.
Being in nature is a visceral, magical experience. It really does heal us and clears the way to our path.