In the middle of the road of my life I awoke in a dark wood, where the true way was wholly lost. Dante Alighieri David Whyte has a great image in his audio set, Midlife and the Great Unknown. He describes the moment when you are at the end of a project or when you have settled your . . .
This crop's life in the field, glowing in the evening sun. In the cycle of farming, beginning anew, harvesting seeds, some endings are also beginnings. . . .
It's been a busy time for myself and the birds around here. There are a number of nesting families very close by and I am watching their progress from my desk. There's a nest of Blue Tits just above the window, a pair of Great Tits under the granite bird bath, and a . . .
Every year at least once I remember the lines of this poem. Usually it's during Autumn in the dazzling russets of dying leaves. This year it was while walking in Mount Congreve during Magnolia time. Magnolias were flowering on dark branches and there are some ancient . . .
It's been a great year. One of the best. After years of campaigning for women's rights, I turned 60 and realised I could finally LIVE liberation rather than just hoping for it. What took me so long? What changed? Growing up in Ireland during a different . . .
Just before they die off for the winter they have their most spectacular show. Faded edges, crinkled old flowers, their faces a little worse for wear. The October sun catches them in their last glory. Having been down this path before, I know there will be . . .
During the summer of 1975 when I was on the road with an architect, a singer, an uileann piper and a gypsy guitarist, we diverted from lucrative street performing in Germany to visit Scandinavia. We travelled in a green VW van which had been gifted to us one . . .
Every year I choose a word to guide me on my way. Last January I chose Pilgrimage and set out to undertake "a long journey especially one undertaken as a quest, or for a votive purpose, to pay homage." As an agnostic, sitting on the fence as to . . .
They excel in stillness. Sitting and watching. Waiting and listening. On the corner, on a chair outside the front door, at the gate to the garden. Once I asked a Native American for a clue to the future. Am on on the right path I asked her? She was . . .
Like my own Grandmother in mourning for her mother since 1953, each one is wearing black. They peer from a chair in their doorways during the day but in the early morning or late at night they come out of their cosy seclusion. While the men are down in the bars . . .