How do we find that place of compassion deep in our soulful hearts to forgive our ancestors? For the mistakes that they made, the suffering they may have caused or endured, and for the wounds that they may have passed down to us through the generations?
Read MoreOften it was just the scraps I’d saved for the small blackbird with a bright yellow beak and a clear eye, who would visit every morning and sing to me so sweetly. It was my joy to feed him whatever I had left from my meagre meals.
Read MoreThe practice of Utiseta is an old Norse tradition. The wise women, the seers, would sit out on the burial mounds of their ancestors or that of a wise leader, to seek knowledge and to gain answers.
Read MoreI would simply listen for the laughter of William, Thomazin, Thomas, Jane, and John carried on the wind in high summer across the green fields and Cornish hedgerows.
Read MoreMy voice now holds the voice of the storyteller; the voice of the poet; the voice of my ancestors and adopted ancestors whose voices I hear still echoing in the place of their trauma, waiting to be cleared
The alchemy, the alchemy, the alchemy of lime. Black smoke, red fire, white slaked chalk.
Read MoreRead MoreFor every cloak has a secret pocket, a pocket where wisdom is kept, the wisdom which is gathered over a lifetime.
