Seasonal Blessings
Giving thanks and small gifts
I think about you a lot, you, my readers. I see your names when you join me, and I say them aloud and give you my thanks. Do you hear me? Do my words enter your consciousness like a small internal breath of air, a movement or feeling which expresses my gratitude? I thought this journey with the Cailleach, this surrendering to the dark and cold would be a lonely one, but it has not. Loners all, marching through space and time in perfect step, shouldering the burden of wisdom and age. Burdens which are also gifts, but bring with them frustration and sadness in equal measure with joy.
This year has formalised my belonging to the land and brought me to my adopted Mother Ireland. It is where I was meant to be; my great-grandfather was Irish, an Ó’hÚallachain, anglicised as Houlihan or Holland, something I never knew until I put down roots here. It has also set my hands to traditional crafts, and focussed my mind on wild plants and their uses, and how I can best serve the wild. The path stretches before me, and there is still such a long way to go.
I want to thank you for trudging alongside me, for sharing your thoughts, for lending support, for reading, for pressing that red heart button when something I have set here in print resonates, for consistently opening my emails and joining me on this wild journey. Your companionship means more to me than you know.
I am going to share with you a poem I have been working on. Consider it a small gift. Really, it charts my footsteps across this land as I discovered its history, mythology, and its wild beauty.
TOUCHSTONES -- Ali Isaac What ruins lie buried beneath each hill? Monuments born of antiquity, Forgotten and ignored but standing still, Touchstones of human chronology. What histories infuse these ancient stones? Tales decayed with the fall of walls, The sag of dynasty, crumble of bones, The march of ghosts through tumbled halls. At Uisneach, by the lough where Lugh was drowned, I watch Bealtaine fires dance and leap. On Tara’s hilltop, where high kings were crowned, The Lia Fail stands, silenced in sleep. I walk Moytura, where Gods fought their war, Climb to the vantage point of Lugh’s Seat. I lament at the steep mound of Sheemor, Vandalised by Christian concrete. In the Cave of Cats I meet the Great Queen, Face to face, under earth, in darkened womb. The Hag, enthroned at Loughcrew, seldom seen, Nods as I kneel at temple and tomb. My feet stray far from the here and now, Carrying me to ancient places. With heart and mind, I make a vow To honour these sacred spaces.
Another small gift; should you wish to upgrade your subscription, or give one as a last minute gift to a loved one, annual subscriptions are now only half-price until Women’s Little Christmas on 6th January 2024.
Wishing you all the very best of seasonal blessings. We’ll catch up in 2024. Much grá, Ali xxx
Wonderful poem that sums up a lot. Wishing you blessed holidays and beyond Ali :-)
Lovely. Love the pics too..