Nicole Samantha Fishkind's Posts - The Wild Geese2024-03-29T10:25:01ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkindhttps://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/68534601?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blog/feed?user=0cht17rpz7dh7&xn_auth=noSeven Days of Fulfillmenttag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-31:6442157:BlogPost:2025772016-10-31T23:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719513?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719513?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">A</span>s the crisp air blows down the rocky hills and shadows creep on across Western walls</strong> of leaning stones, the great Celtic Pilgrimage finds itself in the home stretch.</p>
<p>The Westies of the Wild Irish West Tours came to Ireland visitors -- some returning, some new -- with a specific focus in mind: to tap into Irish…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719513?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719513?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-center" width="750"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">A</span>s the crisp air blows down the rocky hills and shadows creep on across Western walls</strong> of leaning stones, the great Celtic Pilgrimage finds itself in the home stretch.</p>
<p>The Westies of the Wild Irish West Tours came to Ireland visitors -- some returning, some new -- with a specific focus in mind: to tap into Irish traditions during the Thin Time of the year. The hour of Samhain approaches, whipped on by the lashing wind heralded by cascading golden leaves. The crossing of roads and the lay lines of ancient forces guides the pilgrim into the territory of spirits and ancients, of Good Neighbors and impish fiends.</p>
<p>Ever present in the landscape today is the feeling of the world being thoroughly and appreciatively lived in. The buildup of great mounds in cemeteries; the usage of acreage on monastic lands, right down to the ever-present intertwining of building and burrow of earth points to balance (and effort to maintain said balance) the human and the wild.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719524?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719524?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-left" width="442" height="294"/></a>Cistercian remnants of Corcomroe as narrated by Pius Murray on day two of our Ennis stop teem with leftover life. From stone effigy to the domed roof of a church erected in 1142 (and neglected not long after due to the fiscal demands of land and repair), the walls of Corcomroe ring with presence. From the top of the great hill behind the abbey, one can see the entirety of the land the monks used to tend and the great mapping of green beyond. The monks, in keeping with nature as well as religion, tilled the fields through a Benedictine rule of prayer and hard work [something the modern day & age could take to heart, but that's another story].</p>
<p>Circling overhead during our stroll, black crows fly across silver skies like brush strokes on fading parchment. Kohl strokes of memory emphasising that never more shall humankind outdo nature's resilience. The grounds are much more wild in Corcomroe now, and the church & grounds last most effectively used by none other than John O'Donahue, who took pilgrims hence on Easter for bonfires and mass--one-half of which was outside, and the other within the church's crumbling walls. A fascinating blend of respect for nature and tradition coupled with spiritual worship, and another example of classic Irish duality.</p>
<p>What is also interesting about the living history that is the old Corcomroe Abbey is that families through generations have continued putting headstones and memorials within the abbey walls. Dates such as 1947 to 2009 can be found amid markers so old lichen and time have claimed their recognition. To be a part of the land and history is to keep it alive for generations to come. It's taken most literally around here and likewise through most of the West of Ireland.</p>
<p>Like the white thorn on the hills which bends to the wind, so have the Irish adapted to maintain themselves in an untamed landscape. Sure, domestication exists in the form of farming and fishing and towns, but there is also an unspoken realisation of coastal rip currents, bogs, and the ever present focuses of weather & time.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719562?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719562?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-right" width="404" height="269"/></a>On the limestone steps of the Flaggy Shore, the Goddess invites any to join her hall of greenery and jasper, of sea and weed and water salty or sweet. John O'Donahue himself has encouraged nature to reclaim him, in a sense--his grave, which we had the pleasure of visiting today, faces East [as all Irish graves do] and is a garden unto itself, with shrubs and prayers intermingling in abundance. To give oneself back to the elements is to embrace and accept the rhythm of a lifecycle--to allow the body to return to the clay, the breath to the air, the blood to the rivers, the spirit to the great fiery energy whence it came.</p>
<p>In the clearing of brush and bonfires or candles to welcome back the dead this time of year, there is a sense of communal peace, not the traditional Westernized fear of the unknown; the horror. There is a purge of prior problems; material or otherwise. This is a homecoming in the hearths we make and are taken to. Michael Waugh brings us in conclusion to his own hearth and home: the place of his grandmother, Margaret, who a hundred years ago this October ago set out from rural Ireland for New York City. She left home with aspirations to achieve for herself and her family what was considered a better life. You may find it delightful to know that, no doubt in at <em>least</em> part to Margaret's determined efforts, the land has not changed hands or left the Waugh family--Michael's cousins Brendan, Winnie, and others help with the upkeep of the property--and that it is thriving with life and living history.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719582?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719582?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-left" width="416" height="277"/></a>With the true spirit of Irish hospitality; as Michael has shown throughout his guidance on this very personal tour of faith and healing, Michael and co. [ever-lovely Trish and ever-lovely Geraldine] welcomed us into a home that was a place that burned with the bright light of love. This evening as I reflect on all the poems, prayers, sights, sounds, smells, and feelings of the season, I throw open the gate of possibility and welcome back the memories and phantoms of years past.</p>
<p>I think fondly of my grandmother in her cable-knit sweaters; making her food or tending her garden, sometimes listening to her Irish music or playing her harmonica. I think of my great-grandmother Locke; of the O'Shaugnessy clan and the countless family I may never know, or have yet to meet. I think of the most recent passings; of my own cousin Margaret who left us mere days before this trip was to begin.</p>
<p>It's a poignant lifting of a veil, to look not only into the other side, but also to look within. To see just what's been buried under limitless distraction and casual dismissal--when walking in silence, engulfed by motherly nature, one feels nurtured and whole enough at times to take part in self-reflection. It is at this time of year we ask for help from Mother Earth, to get us through the darkness and the cold--but we thank likewise the Cailleach for her own version of hospitality within ourselves: an invitation to ruminate and ponder in the long dark hours of rest to come.</p>
<p>Pius said something that is very true of not only this whole pilgrimage, but in life: a question he saves majorly for his students about the concept of what it means to be alive.</p>
<p><em><strong>Are we humans on a spiritual journey, or spirits on a human journey?</strong></em></p>
<p>Something to think about in the time of shadows and cold, with a fire to scare off your fears and a willingness to live a fulfilling life to the utmost potential.</p>
<p>I leave you with a few less prosaic thoughts on this Eve of All Saints:</p>
<p>To Be an Erratic Stone.</p>
<p><em>Conspiratory skies in symphony above</em><br/> <em>Fill themselves with angels winging swift</em> <br/> <em>Thin is the time between the veil</em><br/> <em>And earthly curtain soon to shift.</em> <br/> <em>Great leafy animals converse top fertile stones,</em><br/> <em>Laughing, she-rivers swim backwards toward the sea</em><br/> <em>Goddess-rocks hum and sing as they perform</em><br/> <em>The wildness of domesticity.</em> <br/> <em>Hearth of Samhain burns with force</em><br/> <em>A caldera of starry thorns entwined</em><br/> <em>Sparkling cornet skywards goes,</em><br/> <em>With death and life having thus dined.</em> <br/> <em>Hazel wand raised toward glacial North,</em><br/> <em>The sun settles soft where dove is down,</em><br/> <em>Mountains sing with breeze and tree</em> <br/> <em>As turns Pooka with horned crown</em> <br/> <em>All in softness sweeps twilight shore</em> <br/> <em>So glimmers silver offering</em> <br/> <em>The hunting horn, the harvest leaves--</em><br/> <em>Voices raised in triumph sing</em><br/> <em>Victorious reels of welcoming,</em><br/> <em>The Crone humanity so bereaves,</em><br/> <em>the Cailleach of ponderous eves.</em></p>Six Steps Is Just 3-1-2-3 ...tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-30:6442157:BlogPost:2027762016-10-30T23:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719485?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719485?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>he oratory of St. Colman echoes with hundreds upon hundreds of years</strong> worth of worshipful memory.</p>
<p>In a secluded glade of ancient trees nestled against the breast of the Burren, a landscape so surreal and old it seems the surface of a planet in a galaxy far, far away, the ruins of yet another holy structure keep…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719485?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719485?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>he oratory of St. Colman echoes with hundreds upon hundreds of years</strong> worth of worshipful memory.</p>
<p>In a secluded glade of ancient trees nestled against the breast of the Burren, a landscape so surreal and old it seems the surface of a planet in a galaxy far, far away, the ruins of yet another holy structure keep watch over a whispering waterway known for its healing properties.</p>
<p>Moss twines around the twisting trees, and lichen [the sign of an environment rich with oxygen, says our Wild West Irish Tours guide for the next few days, perky pedagogue "Pius" Murray] hugs the bark and stones that gesture grandly as only pure nature can toward a cavern at the top of a steep, damp hill.</p>
<p>It is here the hermitage of St. Colman occurred; in singularity for devotion and solitude. His Holy Well is one of supposed healing of eyesight, much like another well we visited earlier in the day [that Pius mentioned may also have been used for letting go, for insight, and introspective growth], albeit, according to accompanying Irishwoman Geraldine, this may have been a Christianization covering up the concept of visiting one of these wells in search of wisdom. This was of particular interest to folklore enthusiasts as the pathway leading up to the Burren, for example, was tunneled by a copse of constant hazel trees. For those keeping score, the hazel tree, one of the nine sacred Celtic trees, was the tree of wisdom.</p>
<p>You might know the story of Finn McCool and the Salmon of Wisdom. How did the salmon get so wise? It ate the hazelnut from the wise old hazel tree, of course -- and Finn in turn [accidentally] ate a bit of the salmon whilst burning his thumb cooking it for his druid mentor, Finnegas. The story was, perhaps, an allegory for those desperately seeking wisdom -- to just allow the universe to take care of it. What is meant to be won't pass you by, as they seem to say around here.</p>
<p>Journeying into the wilderness of the Burren was something that seemed meant to be. To take in the sight of spiraling mountains, the two leaps of the devilish Pooka on the craggy cliffsides -- to hear the whistle of the soft breeze across the cracked and untamed karst accompanied by the occasional trickle of water or bleating of foothill goats ... at the steps of the steppes that seemed to be in a constant shrug towards heaven, one can understand why pilgrims took [and still take] the journey across such raw terrain -- and even why someone such as St. Colman settled there, tucked close to the heart of the towering slopes for his sanctuary and reflection.</p>
<p>Pius advised us on our sojourn -- not only pointing out the way the spirit could be revitalized through conversation and communication with others about the flora [which he described with equal parts accuracy and delight], but also ... with individualization. Or, not so much individualization, as Pius encouraged us to move away from the ego. To put down the phone or the tablet or the camera and simply experience things firsthand.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719497?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719497?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="368" class="align-left" height="553"/></a>"Exercise is the gateway to the spirit," he'd said. It gets you away from internalizing and the ego. Meditation is also key. He gave us silence, and a mantra to follow -- to count our steps and focus in on the senses. Senses that took in all I mentioned before and so much more. We walked in total tranquility, each of us clutching a stone whose rough edges represented our troubled thoughts -- but our thoughts were not about us, but the steady mantra of 3-1-2-3, over and over again, until we reached the next part of our presentation to nature.</p>
<p>And it was rather like being presented to the wildness of the spirit. To be in the presence of unforgiving wildness that was not without mercy was something extraordinary. It was incredible to see how the world of Ireland began, with its natural occurrence of pure water first visited by ancient pagans, then by the Christians who sought to contain, canonize, and capitalize on it -- </p>
<p>However, years of nature being itself proved at each site that nature can escape and reclaim anything man seems to make for it. It's evident not only in the way the moss and roots reach up to wrest stones out of place, or how water weathers away the wondrous old architecture mankind built to contain it, but also in the way the very countryside's history is slowly being swallowed by the shrouds of strong ivy or sunk into the bog. It is a quiet, but firm understanding of the Irish that they see their memories scrawled into the surface of each building -- they see the bad that comes with the good, the duality of acknowledgment and defiance in letting the Earth reclaim what's hers despite whatever memory came with the article in question.</p>
<p>Pius has nothing but love for the landscape he seems so very much a part of -- a tall and energetic man who is much a mountain brush as the scrub itself, he informed us of how the natural world gets along with itself in the most impossible ways in the Burren -- how alpine, Mediterranean, tundra, and Irish flora all intermingles with ecosystemic impossibility, yet flourishes in absolute harmony despite differences ... something we could all use further reflecting on, I think, as a species.</p>
<p>[Albeit Pius did point out it's been an absolutely dismal year for hazelnuts: Not much wisdom to be found outside those who already have it this time, I'm afraid. So who knows.]</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719717?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719717?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="403" class="align-right" height="268"/></a></p>
<p>Too much analysis can lead to paralysis, so Pius mentioned. To overthink is to be ego, and to be ego was not to be fully present whilst walking in the Burren. In a life full of constant distractions, materialism, and commercialization, there was an unbridled joy I took in climbing into the trees and the dales to seek shelter where a man surrendered everything to be closer to the Spirit and nature. A man who lived in poverty beyond poverty to enrich his soul and the world around him in the humblest of ways. It was freeing to step into the cave he'd supposedly dwelled in and sit in the darkness for a while--to lay a hand on the oratory and curl my fingers around the cyclopean masonry, noting that behind the seemingly steadfast face of enormous stone, rubble and debris waited within.</p>
<p>And that's a good metaphor for the human spirit, I think. To build up one seemingly perfect defense through which no one can see -- but behind that wall is an enormous pile of jagged self-doubts, worries, frustrations, and tumultuous disorganization. It even parallels with entering this world of the Wild Irish West in that the cracks begin to form, and, for sure, a fissure emerges through which you can see yourself and who you truly are.</p>
<p>You have to let go of yourself to find yourself at times.</p>
<p>But take what I say with a little grain of salt --</p>
<p>Or a hazelnut, if you can find one.</p>
<p><em>---</em></p>
<p><em>What sight do pilgrim eyes behold</em></p>
<p><em>But golden granite manifold</em></p>
<p><em>The embrace of the mountain breast</em></p>
<p><em>Against which saints wept; confessed</em></p>
<p><em>their deep love of wild sea</em></p>
<p><em>their never-ending symmetry</em></p>
<p><em>of sleeping rock and stolen stream,</em></p>
<p><em>a poet's sojourn and one saint's dream<a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719780?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719780?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></em></p>A Fifth of the Soiltag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-29:6442157:BlogPost:2024822016-10-29T22:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719105?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719105?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>o fully experience the Celtic spirit, one must embrace not only the essence</strong> of a pilgrim, but also the land the pilgrim walks upon.</p>
<p>Places such as Galway's Brigit's Garden are sacred keepers of beloved earthly traditions. A calendar year in the form of gardens lovingly corralled by their keepers, the Garden plays…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719105?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719105?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>o fully experience the Celtic spirit, one must embrace not only the essence</strong> of a pilgrim, but also the land the pilgrim walks upon.</p>
<p>Places such as Galway's Brigit's Garden are sacred keepers of beloved earthly traditions. A calendar year in the form of gardens lovingly corralled by their keepers, the Garden plays host to a variety of cultural concepts represented not only by the flora, but also by the structures erected to display the four key festivals of the Celtic year.</p>
<p>Artists encompassing the life of each season in elaborate displays of metal and stone work weave concept into accessible reality. Every season has its place among the Garden walls, and care has been given to each item within the enclosures.</p>
<p>Jenny, our guide, brings life back to the old stories with soft-spoken yet unbridled enthusiasm. Her reenactment of Brigit's Cloak is worth a mention--as is her connection to the land and its sustainability in spirit and physicality alike; which in itself is a very Celtic concept. There is also an aspect of a pilgrim in Jenny, as she is from the South of England--but willing to journey not only into another world, so to speak but also in terms of living and opening up both heart & nature center to others. Children especially can benefit from such an enriching experience that is a nurturing place celebrating their history: the cultural revival and sense of kinship with the land is alive and well in places such as Brigit's Garden.</p>
<p>It's easy to see how everything ties in to a quest for spiritual fulfilment here: it's children of all ages that wander through those doors, looking for some connection to their literal and figurative roots. Jenny does well to cultivate the interest of others and respectfully demonstrate how best to get in touch with one's ancient traditions and relationship with the rugged and intoxicating landscape.</p>
<p>Another example of connecting spiritually to the world of Ireland can be found in the windswept landscape of Connemara--one of tumultuous hills and enormous mountains, furious streams boiling with bright white passion and thrashing fish. Everything seems to be rising to fight the very sky itself; all while spreading ever further across marsh and moor as if to say: <em>I am here. This is my place of dwelling</em>.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719299?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="465" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719299?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="539" class="align-left" height="358"/></a>To drive down the roads leading into the valleys and heart-chambers of this land is not unlike feeling born again--there is a freedom in the escape of culture and the release of civilization, rushing past fields dyeing bronze under a shockingly-clear blue sky. Wild horses roam the waving grasses; sheep cross the roads with the tough-guy attitude of "go on, hit me, I dare ya".</p>
<p>Everything has to do with nature coming back to meet mankind, and mankind's acceptance and adjustment to nature's preferences being one that is both lovingly and grudgingly given--lovingly for how the land prospers and flourishes in its climate; grudgingly in that man's desire for control can often isolate him from nature.</p>
<p>A garden, more oft than not, is one place for humans to find their balance with the natural world again. Whatever one chooses to believe in, gardens have existed since the first of us put down our weapons and said, "hey, we can probably use this" as agriculture began. As technology and society progressed, more and more of the world was eaten away by towns and pollution and distraction and walls. The touch of nature was slowly brushed away until it was viewed almost as a separate entity; and not something we ourselves came from. We have forgotten, in a way, what it means to lead a self-sustaining life. There is, in the Western World especially, a great emptiness that cannot be filled--a tiredness and a need to look for something to keep going. To not stop and rest as our ancestors would've, when the year slowed down and the hours turned darker and deeper.</p>
<p>I myself have always joked that this time of year is one of hibernation. Jenny happened to mention in passing that those who came before us DID view it as such, to some degree--that ten hours of rest was not uncommon, and that people didn't take the downtime for granted. Their determination and focus in the fields yielded profit in the form of time they could bank on later, if the harvest was kind and the weather forgiving. In modernity, it's easier to avoid that and keep going--yet I cannot help but wonder if this attributes to things such as seasonal depression. When nature rests, man should rest, for man is a part of nature. It has to do with following a cycle and falling back into a rhythm in one's own life that coalesces with that of nature's own.<a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719511?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719511?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="628" class="align-center" height="950"/></a></p>
<p><br/> In the approaching months of dark and quiet, do try to set some time aside for yourselves to meditate on yourselves. Become introspective. It can be hard to look into the abyssal cavern of the human spirit; especially one's own--it's hard enough to look in the mirror sometimes, much less address problems you cannot see, but know you might have. There's a reason this time of year comes with ghosts, goblins, and monsters we stir up in the night that somehow don't exist come morning: we've come to view the darkness and stillness as something of a negative entity. That we must constantly fill our lives with noise and color and light to be fully alive.</p>
<p>The truth is, things aren't meant to go all the time. There is a necessity in reflection, a need for the dusk and softness so that new life can be coaxed out of the shadows. Lay back by a dying fire and appreciate the simple things. Your harvest can be a holiday table if you so desire. Your hours of rest taken on your much-needed holidays. You may need to come out here to fully experience what it is to be fully present. To be tuned in to what someone is saying without checking your phone or wondering when this'll be over so you can move on to the next Task at Hand.<br/> There is something magic and old in the country here that encourages respite. That rekindles passion. That keeps faith afloat. That allows what's been cut away to grow again.</p>
<p>The human soul is a garden in desperate need of specific nourishment, and that, I firmly believe, is a nutrient one can find here: in the rich turn of peaty earth and the fruits of the hazelnut tree.</p>Four Elements, Three Souls, Two Seasons, One Selftag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-28:6442157:BlogPost:2022962016-10-28T23:00:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719014?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719014?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">A</span>ll Souls Night. A time of bonfires bursting to life beneath a cloudy sky.</strong> The grass wet from late Autumn mists that tumble haphazardly down the mountainsides as if driven by reckless celestial abandon. The soft moan of wind as it rushes through the caverns and craggy hills, meeting the water trickling into emerald abyss…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719014?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719014?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">A</span>ll Souls Night. A time of bonfires bursting to life beneath a cloudy sky.</strong> The grass wet from late Autumn mists that tumble haphazardly down the mountainsides as if driven by reckless celestial abandon. The soft moan of wind as it rushes through the caverns and craggy hills, meeting the water trickling into emerald abyss gilded by the touch of death that turns all green things gold.</p>
<p>It can be a very solitary feeling, facing Death and all its agents. With Death comes an associative feeling of fear; one of dread and cumbersome burden. There is a trepidation that puts down the heads of those who'd normally look up; keeping their nose quite literally to the grind so that when Death comes, it's expected, but still, somehow, a surprise -- because in immersing oneself in the physical world, we have a tendency as a people to lose sight of what lies beyond. What feeds the body will not necessarily feed the spirit, and while life's necessities [shelter, food, the insustainability of bills] must be taken care of, it is important to tend one's own personal hearth for creativity to nurture the spirit.</p>
<p>We burn so much oil in trying to sacrifice ourselves for the sake of our mundane lives. We, for the most part, wind up moving in a maze of gray concrete and spire-traps of steel. A blue sky can't be found with a cinderblock ceiling hanging overhead, seemingly coming ever nearer with each passing day.</p>
<p>All souls does mean all souls. In certain Wiccan traditions [as taught by our lovely visitor Simone], there are three souls, another parallel to the Celtic variation of the focus in threes. This can also be translated to, of course, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost if that's the direction your faith takes. But in this circumstance, there are three worlds working in tandem with one another to create a balance or flow of energy. And that energy can be felt in the solitude of prayer [shamanic work, for example, is very singular--a sojourn of its own], in a moment of meditative reflection, or on a quiet stroll.</p>
<p>Whilst walking by myself through the valleys under the watchful dark eye of Diarmuid and Gráinne's cave, I found myself not experiencing the solemnity and seriousness of a grim and structured life, but a raw and indescribable power of openness and belonging. One can feel so small; lost in a sea of other people and noises and things, just trying to swim upstream. Or, worse, falling in line with the school of other fishes trying to figure out how to get where they needed to go and look impressive whilst doing so.</p>
<p>This was much less like feeling insignificant, and more like feeling as though I was a part of something greater. That I fell into place, provided I stayed on the path and looked for signs [for example: I tried to photograph some set-back ruins and found myself pushed back not once, not twice, but three times by various forces of nature (mud, trees, and stone) -- at which point I gave up, said, "alright, sorry" and walked back onto the trail]. The valley felt lived in, not only by the sheep and their keepers, but by the stones and trees themselves, with a constant artery of water flowing down the mountain and into the heart of the valley, which spilled forth an abundance of conifers. A patchwork world of jade and jungle greens stitched itself into a sky of briefest turquoise etched with silver and gold. A sundog came out to play amongst the clouds surrounding the sun, and all seemed to breathe a deep and relieved sigh: like the Earth itself was rejoicing in its own supposed death.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719092?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="680" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719092?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="680" class="align-center"/></a>Death is nothing to fear. Simone, our shaman guide of the evening, mentioned it in her teachings as a separation of the human mind from the spiritual: a modernity cultivated to further isolate people from cultural traditions such as respecting the dead and giving thanks to the spirits beyond the veil. Hand in hand with this, our hostess at the lovely Yeats Lodge; Geraldine, echoed O'Donahue with emphasis on the subject regarding one of the greatest sins being the unlived life. There was a local man who waited until he retired to do what he loved; to make music, and waited too long--it's life that gets in the way, not death, and we have but one life until we pass on--it is a shame to limit it with fear & false barriers.</p>
<p>False barriers are a common thread found here in Ireland as well as the rest of the world. There is a societal embarrassment; a shame when it comes to expressing oneself through the old ways and traditions. Young people especially are at odds with carrying on the cultures of their parents and family, as technology and commerce threaten to extinguish the delicate flame of traditional passions. Geraldine knows all about the rhythm of the universe, and how people seem to be thrown out of it by the simple nature of commerce and capitalizing on productivity. She herself works as a cosmic cog in the realm of hospitality, yet somehow finds (no--makes) the time to create magnificent art and ponder the way the world works. She is of a dual nature, just as the seasons are--one of logical psychology and a loving, artistic heart.</p>
<p>In this, we can find a connection to the duality of the Celtic year -- its four gateways to the seasons being emphasized by three [the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone], and then two: Summer and Winter. Summer brings heat and excitement and wildness with sidhe emissaries to accompany the Mother. Counter to this, the arrival of Winter brings a different type of sidhe; frost, storms, and silence with the Crone.</p>
<p>But surprisingly enough, it brings with it a darkness the Celts did not fear.</p>
<p>In duality, there is the ability to find the good with any bad. This is another reflection of the truly Irish spirit. In darkness, good things can grow: the womb, the seeds in the Earth...at all times it is believed Winter is preparing for Spring by gestating the world; incubating it in hibernation for the greater good. The crone is wise. She knows what she's doing. There was optimism in the darkest time of the year, and still ought to be: Spring will come back. All things are cyclical. Life itself is a constant exchange of energy and acceptance of movement. But we as a people must respect Winter, and welcome each season equally. All things deserve their due.</p>
<p>Duality can be found in the four elements -- particularly in fire and water. Both are cleansing, both are mutually used in prayer and sacrifice. Fire is a cauterizing force, a clearer of forests and a burnt offering for release. Water is a washer of sins, a curing of inner ailments, and a nurturer of the ground. Each work in harmony with the other, and provide a balance visualized, for example, in a Tarot card: the Card of Temperance, or the ability to find balance within oneself. <br/> Along a similar line, the Tarot of Death [as I might've mentioned in an earlier piece] is an item of change, not ending. So as the world begins to dip into the dark and cold and quiet, do not be afraid. Lift the veil from your own eyes; this veil of electricity and smog and disillusionment, and take a moment to assess the changing landscape. Assess your own changing landscape, as you age and shift with the stones beneath your feet. As you breathe in the morning air and allow the sunlight to touch you. Set fire to the idea that you are of one mind, one spirit.</p>
<p>You are the souls of everyone who came before you, stacks upon stacks of genetic echoes singing you into existence. Less poetically, you are not alone -- but sometimes it's nice to step back and sever yourself from the mortal coil. To float away from it all to some soft, dusky place of tranquility, where the Apple Lady waits to guide you to the spirit world, when the veil is thin and the drumming of your own heart steady with near-sleep.</p>
<p>Before you can find anyone else, you must first find yourself. And you cannot necessarily find yourself in a raging sea of clamorous people. Belief and faith are your dual guides.</p>
<p>The journey starts within.</p>
<p><a width="750" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719179?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img width="501" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719179?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="664" class="align-full" height="441"/></a></p>A Third of the Journeytag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-27:6442157:BlogPost:2022592016-10-27T23:00:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84718940?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84718940?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>here is poetry written into this land. Much like there</strong> <strong>is poetry</strong> written into the Irish soul. Poetry is not, as many think, a pretty art of whimsy and folly. Poetry, more oft than not, is the rawest and freest means of expression a person can have. I have always written poetry, but I began writing it in…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84718940?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84718940?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>here is poetry written into this land. Much like there</strong> <strong>is poetry</strong> written into the Irish soul. Poetry is not, as many think, a pretty art of whimsy and folly. Poetry, more oft than not, is the rawest and freest means of expression a person can have. I have always written poetry, but I began writing it in earnest when events in life made me more guarded. I have continued writing in all forms as a method of saying what I cannot say aloud--either because I feel unsafe, or because society does not accept poetry as a directly verbal form of communication.</p>
<p>There is poetry to be found in the movement of the coastal waves. How they rush in to sweep the earth off her feet and drag her down into a primal dance of life and death: minerals and erosion; tide and collapse.</p>
<p>The weather winks in cheeky metaphor. Every Irish person apologies for the clouds; the mist, the rain. I even met one fellow on the seashore road with his dogs who apologized for the light and said he hoped I got good photos despite it. I shall let you all be the judge of that, but I shall also tell you what I told him:</p>
<p>There is no bad light, simply bad angles.</p>
<p>It becomes a matter of perspective. John O'Donahue spoke of a nurturing land; a landscape that was (and still is) living, sacred, and eternal.</p>
<p>There was poetry to be found in Michael Quirke's hands; gnarled like rowan and sturdy as oak as they worked their fellow wood into shapes only he could sing into existence via lyrics of chisel and tinkling of tools. There was melody in his method of telling stories while he worked, surrounded by (again more or less in O'Donahue's words) a house that held onto echoes of things before: a heart full of memories.<a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719038?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="463" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719038?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="463" class="align-left"/></a></p>
<p>And Mr. Quirke is all heart. The resin that holds the old world to the new, Michael radiates with light of his own as he works patiently and meticulously in a shop filled to the brim with his love and knowledge. He is as quick with his wit as he is with his work; which seems more like a playful lesson than an actual chore. It's no wonder he calls himself "the worst butcher in the West"--if he can't trim the fat off a conversation (not that he of all people ever should): God only knows how he ever even considered trimming the fat off meat. The world is richer and healthier for having him doing [and telling] as he does.</p>
<p>It is a rare thing at stake (see what I did there?) to know we stood in the presence of a man so well-versed in so many arts dear to Ireland--all of which have roots in poetry. He retold stories of Oisin and the the Tuatha; of the origins of names and photographs. There were mentions of what poems the monks scrawled in their margins for good measure, and Michael even opened a wood-stained poetry book of ancient Gaelic translated by scholars--and proceeded to share with us (accompanied by a mischievous twinkle in his eye) better and more evocative interpretations:</p>
<p><b>Mise Raifteirí, an file, lán dóchais is grá<br/> le súile gan solas, ciúineas gan crá,<br/> ag dul síos ar m'aistear le solas mo chroí,<br/> fann agus tuirseach go deireach mo shlí;<br/> féach anois me lem aghaidh ar Bhalla<br/> ag seinm cheoil do phócaí falamh'. <-- </b>The last line there, Michael pointed out, was more along the lines of "with my backside to the world" than the softer interpretations of certain translators, who prefer something along these lines:</p>
<p><b>I am Raftery the poet, full of courage and love,<br/> my eyes without light, in calmness serene,<br/> taking my way by the light of my heart,<br/> feeble and tired to the end of my road:<br/> look at me now, my face toward Balla,<br/> performing music to empty pockets!</b></p>
<p>As I walked along the shore tonight, and thought to myself how it is the Irish shore and her people endured so much: that the beating waves of life and water could not wash from them their history or their echoes of memory. How intertwined with their landscape they are, especially the older people with their weathered faces like dune rock and their hands twisted strong by work in fields and hills.</p>
<p>The soul of words is here, softly grazing with the cattle. It stands tall and watchful over the ocean. It holds up the light of the sun when it peeks through the clouds. Every stream, every sigh of wind is a promise of something good to come from something bad. Another rising from the ashes and another burst of buds in the Spring. Thoughts and feelings are sparked by the rhythm of Laura Ganley's feet--she is alive with the spirit of creativity. It drives her to move even when she should be still, and her language is that of the pulsing drum and rushing flute. It is the slang she speaks when she slaps her soles and heels to cobbles and wood. It's the bright way she smiles when her dancing is mentioned, and evident that when she performs her reels and jigs, she is at her most content.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719461?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="428" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719461?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="428" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p>Poetry does not come from happy places so much as it creates places of not only happiness; but contemplation, and feeling. It comes more, I think, from a deep understanding of the world we live in. Sometimes that understanding is optimistic; but more oft than not, it is a reflection of our deepest frustrations. What we require, more than anything, is faith--faith we express in song. In movement. In art. It is forged as iron is; with force and heat and direction. It's carved into us as legends are etched lovingly into the surface of shining wood. Poetry leaves its marks on us, and we in turn try to give those marks a more palatable display of explanation to those who have difficulty understanding certain aspects of who we are.</p>
<p>Patience and respect are difficult to come by. Like the cliffs clinging to the shore; rising over the white heads of gnashing waves, we struggle to remain upright and dignified against our own private adversities. But I think that the resilience of the Irish spirit prevails against all howling gales--and so should we learn to live with our troubles. To not only accept them and decipher them, but to laugh about them; finding that one grain of humor in every barrel of tragedy as these fine people do. I'll trouble you no more with prose, but instead give you my thoughts by end of day.</p>
<p>I only hope my song is a window through which you see hope, and know that even though life can be difficult, there is light beyond the clouds. And there are no bad lights. Only tricky angles.</p>
<p><em>With the mortar of words</em><br/> <em>And raked clay from the moor</em> <br/> <em>We've fashioned a house of memories</em><br/> <em>Thatched with living verse</em> <br/> <em>Woven by worldly hands</em> <br/> <em>Universal communication</em><br/> <em>in music that skims the sea</em><br/> <em>swift as swallows</em><br/> <em>Sprayed with salt</em><br/> <em>across granite faces</em> <br/> <em>No corner shall I keep</em><br/> <em>wherein my secrets lie.</em><br/> <em>Rather shall I stretch my arms</em><br/> <em>and shout to the heavens,</em><br/> <em>"Here I am!" and let my voice</em><br/> <em>be lost to the roar of crowding winds,</em><br/> <em>To be lost at frothing sea,</em><br/> <em>forever echoing in valleys rich with grouse,</em><br/> <em>This is where I've built a home,</em><br/> <em>and nature shall answer,</em><br/> <em>your home is kept within.</em></p>
<p><em><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719439?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719439?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></em></p>The Second Cycletag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-26:6442157:BlogPost:2023352016-10-26T22:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><br></br> <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719008?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719008?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="680"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>he ritual of cleansing oneself with water to begin anew is an old one.</strong></p>
<p>From the seemingly simple act of taking a shower to the tradition of baptising a baby, water is seen as a nurturing source of life and a cyclical element. Its passage through the world, be it fresh or saltwater, is a constant variable…</p>
<p><br/> <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719008?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="680" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719008?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="680" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>he ritual of cleansing oneself with water to begin anew is an old one.</strong></p>
<p>From the seemingly simple act of taking a shower to the tradition of baptising a baby, water is seen as a nurturing source of life and a cyclical element. Its passage through the world, be it fresh or saltwater, is a constant variable that changes, connects, intersects, and forever maneuvers the way the human race develops. After all, fertile crescents and oases could not exist without water; nor could humans flourish the way that they have.</p>
<p>We began Day Two in the misty morning of October the 26th, breaking fast and heading out to the megalithic sites of Carrowmore. The clouds rolled back to open a brief window to a blue sky, just above the largest of the sites of anthropological [and archaeological, though that was not our focus here, as guide Michael Roberts was kind enough to remind us] excavation, before it closed once more. It seemed to be a godly wink down at the travelers about to experience another [literal] element of renewal: Irish rain. <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719008?profile=original" target="_self"><br/></a></p>
<p>As we stood on the fields and reflected on the things that came before, we listened to Michael's melodic voice carrying us away to a time of communal understanding, tribal equality, and the lore of mountains made immortal by tales of their chieftains. It was there we heard the first mention of water, really -- how ice carved out a home for the first ancient peoples of the land we stood on, melted, but stayed in the memories of those who told stories and built altars to whomever they so believed in that ran with the blood of animals given with thanks to the gods for their lives.</p>
<p>Blood is another parallel to water [a literal parallel--it was another legend that said the Druid defeated the Warrior in Ireland, way back, and when the Warrior was laid low by the Druid, the Druid turned the Warrior's blood to water for the rivers]. In stories of Christ, it was said He turned water into wine; and later, the wine became symbolic of being His blood a person drank for communion. Another cleansing. A renewal. It is the life source of any animal on earth, much like the systems of water are the Earth's lifeblood. Arteries flow, and the Earth is sculpted by their gentle insistence to best suit the way the water wishes to move. So the ancients built altars to run with gratitude, and moved with the flowing of time.</p>
<p>They moved so fluidly, in fact, that it was reflected in their beliefs regarding reincarnation. Just as the water cycle recalls rain to the sky via evaporation, then sends it back to earth once more with condensation, so does the soul [in ancient tradition, according to Michael Roberts] return to the world in a new form.</p>
<p>Spherical in literal and metaphorical elements, the peoples of Carrowmore's sites would shape stones to perfectly round orbs and wear them around their necks [if they were a person of some important skill, such as an artisan or wise-person] after reaching a certain age. As they aged further, it was believed their souls would slowly trickle into the stone, and that stone [a soul-stone, to be precise] would be passed down post-mortem [and bone-fire, or bonfire, of the deceased, then a washing (yes, more water!)] to a young woman of the family's next generation who would then become pregnant, give birth, and that child was believed to be the soul of the deceased coming back to the living to continue their journey -- by starting anew.</p>
<p>All of this and more washed over us as we stood on a hill overlooking ancient stacks of stones -- accompanied by a wash of soft drizzle that seemed sent by Maeve herself [as she hid behind her "skirts," as Michael so referred -- a layer of mist through which her cairn could sometimes be glimpsed, stones stacked high and proud against the gusting winds of Knocknarea].</p>
<p>Water, as aforementioned, moves in cycles. It is believed by anthropologists that cycles, or circles, are a feminine symbol -- whereas structures, or specifically standing objects, were more masculine. This is also reflected in water as it is a giver of life. Those of the Carrowmore area believed, back in the day [7,000 years or so, depending on who you ask] in a feminine deity--as theirs was a life-giving land rich with soil and rain. A mother, a goddess, who was there to give life back to the land.<a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719136?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="680" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719136?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="680" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p>This we also found at the Holy Well we visited, albeit skewed by a different set of religious beliefs -- the message was much the same: one of healing and change. It was a place of respite, of quiet prayer, solitude, and a sense of great peace. There were places at which one could light candles, to dip one's hand in the liquid and bless oneself, and places to lay prayers in the trees. It was at the point I saw the trees full of rosaries, lost loved ones, ribbons, and writing that I myself welled up with water and cried. Not quite a lake of tears, but a stream of my own. A release, somehow, that told me I was not alone in how I'd been feeling regarding the state of our world of late.</p>
<p>[Michael Roberts had pointed out that it was interesting to see how the trees filled up with prayers and messages during times of worldly unease -- to see the holly weighed down by so many emotions really hit home.]</p>
<p>After we parted ways with the man of the land and lore who all but disappeared into the mist [so subtle and unassuming was his exit], we left for our last watery place of the day, moving in threes as Celtic lore suggests doing, a triskelion of our own completing its second cycle.</p>
<p>Fowley Falls was a hidden gem of rushing rivers and falling waters that all but burst for joy out and across their stones, filling the world with the song of the wilderness as it leapt forth through the surrounding forest. The first thing I did, in fact, upon seeing it, was laugh along in amazement -- a stark contrast from the tears shed at the Holy Well earlier. It was an entirely different piece of emotional movement -- one of pure freedom and weightlessness. It was refreshing to be there -- rejuvenating.</p>
<p>Inhaling the damp earth, its vague cinnamon afterscent, and the crisp freshness of leaves, I took a moment at each point along the path that I could and thought about what Trish had said before starting the journey -- reading passages from John O'Donohue's book regarding the element around which this entry is based. "<em>I would love to live as a river flows</em>," said O'Donohue, "<em>carried away by the surprise of its own unfolding</em>."</p>
<p>I have surprised myself by being here. It is . . . very difficult for me to let go of control, sometimes. To be [to pardon a pun] out of my element. At many times, I am structured, I am ritualistic, I am ingrained like the ground to follow certain protocol. But as one should not [and sometimes cannot] control the movement of the water, one must adapt to work with the flow of whatever's happening around oneself. Erosion will happen whether you like it or not, so it's best to erode with the current than to break down faster trying to work against it. To be shaped by the river of time is fine -- the shape the waters of life gives you has a message.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719508?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="680" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719508?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="680" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p>There is something to be learned in everything. A drop of knowledge to a sea of learning can mean the difference between drought and streams when the sun is high and the weather unkind. Sometimes it's essential to simply sit back and study the reflection of the world through a stream that catches the sky. Circling [see what I did there?] back to the Druid that Michael Roberts mentioned . . . they worked to solve their differences through discussion, rather than the defeated Warrior, who tried to settle their scores with war and destruction -- one can only hope the world will cycle back in that direction sometime soon.</p>
<p>One can hear the discussion of the rivers as they whisper and bubble up and sigh through the nine sacred trees of Fowley Falls. One need only look around to see that there are places in our world that need help, not further hindrance. Water, the source of life, is constantly threatened by stubbornness and the warring nature of certain ideals. I won't get into all that, but I will simply say that nature is always trying to talk to us. To guide us, when we hit walls we don't know how to get around.</p>
<p>Sometimes you can find answers down the lane, or, more likely, across the ocean. Take the journey.</p>
<p>Or, more in fitting with our theme: Don't just dip a toe in.</p>
<p>Take the plunge and bathe in new life.</p>The First Lessontag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-25:6442157:BlogPost:2021512016-10-25T22:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719129?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719129?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>here is something deeply engrained in our makeup as a species</strong> to seek out our roots. To water them with knowledge and expressively branch out into the universe with greater understanding. To discover what makes us grow. We are constantly reaching for the stars, the skies, the freedom to be and encompass all we…</p>
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<p></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">T</span>here is something deeply engrained in our makeup as a species</strong> to seek out our roots. To water them with knowledge and expressively branch out into the universe with greater understanding. To discover what makes us grow. We are constantly reaching for the stars, the skies, the freedom to be and encompass all we find about ourselves. We are constantly seeking advancement, in technology, in love, in life, in faith -- we progress, no matter how much we seem to regress. We are, for all intents and purposes, a tremendously resilient and determined body of life.</p>
<p>In this time of change, at the turning of the Celtic year, when we're knocking on the door of Samhain, it is important to look not only at the passing of Fall into Winter; but also at the promise of Spring to follow. Our teacher tonight, Regina, a folklorist and instructor, pointed out that even as the leaves fall from the trees, there is hope in the form of new buds waiting beneath the multicolored wings of foliage. Enfolded in every supposed tragedy, hope springs eternal -- there is optimism in death, there is rebirth that will come when the ashes are swept away.</p>
<p>This embodies, to me, the source of the Celtic spirit. It is the resilience and perseverance of a people who have suffered a great deal, but take even greater joy in the life they are given. The Irish excel at their ability to put aside their problems for the sake of helping others. They are, by far, as I've discovered my first day here, the friendliest folks one could hope to encounter when traveling abroad. Their land; cleared for the making of ships and progression of farms and conquest by outside parties, continues to flourish: as lush and agate as one could imagine, an agape expression of terrestrial celebration. There is a distinct feeling of mutual understanding from the land to its people. Houses are gently wedged in dales lined with jagged stone -- all while lichen marks the rocks to reclaim them for the earth. The sloping hills shaped by glacial movement dip in a graceful bow to the valleys below. Everything works in tandem with one another, cyclical as the spinning of the Ogham Wheel.</p>
<p>Another perfect example of systems working in tandem are Trish and Michael. Never have I had the genuine pleasure of two such loving people welcoming me into their countrywide home. They do make this place feel like returning home, another spinning of a wheel, another turning of the tide -- all for the better. Debbie, another member of the tour, mentioned something that stuck with me: Michael's love shines through everything he does. And I would like to add that, reflecting on what we learned tonight from the tales of lore and legend, the hearth and the home working in sync with one another to create a stable environment in Celtic tradition is not unlike Trish and Michael themselves. Michael is the home, and Trish is his hearth -- a heart of flame forever coaxing peace and guidance in a sanctuary of new beginnings. Home comes in the form of total strangers, save for the fact they too feel as though they've been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Old souls linked by wishes on stars made realities -- from authors, to healers, to spiritualists and all manner of pilgrims from so many corners of the world. We are safe to take this journey as guided by twin flames Michael and Trish.</p>
<p>It could be said that we all go on trips to begin anew. On holidays, we can explore our questions about ourselves and the world we live in. We can improve individually and globally by sharing our thoughts, feelings, expressions, and, of course, traditions.</p>
<p>Regina, in speaking with us tonight, expressed concern over the dwindling spark of traditions amid the Irish peoples. The kindling that is centuries of practice needs fanning; the soot and the cinders swept out the door to usher in new eras of teachers to blaze a trail to the future. She spoke with quiet, focused enthusiasm regarding the goddess Bridgit [later reinterpreted as Saint Bridget], whose flame inspired countless stories and protective rituals. She herself tends a hearth that is stoked with love: Regina's words are echoed by nods of her mother, Kathleen, whose pride in her daughter's efforts to preserve their culture is unrivaled -- as is Regina's ability to enrapture us with knowledge. We sat in awe for hours spellbound in a cozy room, passing stories and artifacts between ourselves as we learned the meanings of holidays and practices formerly understood on a majorly commercial basis. It became a reiminaging of ideas, a sharing of thoughts and intermingling of souls. We all grew tonight, aglow with interest and pensive reflection.</p>
<p>As explorers, we seek opportunities for change. There is a new year to be had, even on the threshold of supposed seasonal decay. Death in the tarot, for example, is not a symbol of actual destruction, but a symbol of change. There seems to be, in turn, no actual death in the coming of Samhain and Winter itself, but rather, a continued growth that may be more easily overlooked. Winter is a hard time, and it is a long, dark time, but the world comes out brighter and better for it when the frost thaws and the buds open.</p>
<p>And the frost <em>does</em> thaw. And the buds <em>do</em> open.</p>
<p>We sink deep our roots, we reach for the sun, and we rise from the ashes as the journey begins.</p>
<p>Our fire shall never go out, so long as we remember to tend it. Nor shall we be uprooted, no matter how harshly the winds of Winter howl for our Fall.</p>A Ramble in the Skytag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-25:6442157:BlogPost:2021492016-10-25T01:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">L</span>ights of Boston trail away,</strong></p>
<p>wisps on winds born of steely birds</p>
<p>which skim the oceans with shadows stray</p>
<p>and bring with them one thousand words.</p>
<p>Soft chime the bells of sojourn's song,</p>
<p>Through leaves aflame in glorious hue,</p>
<p>Far be it from me to to wonder long</p>
<p>And wander on cosmic cue.</p>
<p>The curtain call of Autumn's end</p>
<p>In her one last elegant bow,'</p>
<p>Gestures on to something…</p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">L</span>ights of Boston trail away,</strong></p>
<p>wisps on winds born of steely birds</p>
<p>which skim the oceans with shadows stray</p>
<p>and bring with them one thousand words.</p>
<p>Soft chime the bells of sojourn's song,</p>
<p>Through leaves aflame in glorious hue,</p>
<p>Far be it from me to to wonder long</p>
<p>And wander on cosmic cue.</p>
<p>The curtain call of Autumn's end</p>
<p>In her one last elegant bow,'</p>
<p>Gestures on to something down the bend</p>
<p>That answers neither why nor how</p>
<p>But instead poses queries crisply fresh</p>
<p>to be echoed in green hills</p>
<p>Jagged cliffs agape in ocean mesh</p>
<p>Of unbidden celestial wills.</p>
<p>So sets the sun on one far coast</p>
<p>as we sail toward old shore,</p>
<p>On a ship that flies eclectic host,</p>
<p>Bound for beloved Moher.</p>The Precursor to a Daydreamtag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-10-20:6442157:BlogPost:2016092016-10-20T02:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><i><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719117?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719117?profile=RESIZE_480x480" style="padding: 10px;" width="400"></img></a> <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719275?profile=original" target="_self"><br></br></a> “As for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.” – Oscar Wilde</i></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">W</span>ell, I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.</strong> My belief is suspended on a wire made of…</p>
<p><i><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719117?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719117?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-left" style="padding: 10px;"/></a><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719275?profile=original" target="_self"><br/></a> “As for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.” – Oscar Wilde</i></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">W</span>ell, I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.</strong> My belief is suspended on a wire made of gossamer and fancy. </p>
<p>In about a week’s time, I’ll be whisking myself away from the industrial and bustling city of Boston, Massachusetts, to the Wild Irish West. It’s the echo of a daydream; the ghost of an attempt made months ago come back to life. Resurrected and rekindled by the chance of possibility, I am going to tour the places my people came from years before.</p>
<p>You may remember me as the third-placer from a contest not too long ago. I wear my Wild Geese T-shirt with pride [and a flannel for extra fashion], and believed that a great achievement (as with most, if not all writers, placing anywhere in a contest is considered a phenomenal ego boost). I was content to drink coffee on lazy Sunday mornings wearing my earnings and feeling quietly triumphant, having accepted Ireland was off the table for me as a journey I could take at 25.</p>
<p>As it turns out, it was—I’m 26 when I’m setting forth on this expedition.</p>
<p>The universe had shifted to give me room—specifically, a place on a tour [the Pilgrimage, to be exact] that had prior not been open. Michael reached out to me to let me know the winner of the drawing for a tour at Cherish the Ladies [the tour’s 5-year celebration] was unable to make it, and as I was a runner up in a contest prior, he would like for me to come along. I, being who I am, had to pinch myself to make sure this wasn’t a case of a wildly imaginative hallucination. It wasn’t, and so, I booked a ticket post-haste.</p>
<p>Which brings me now to you all. It’s been a while since I posted with this lovely community. I follow it from my phone, but am shy to interject with my own thoughts a lot of the time—that and work has been keeping me on my toes. Well, now I feel I have even more of a reason to jump back into the fray here at The Wild Geese. I would love to provide you all with my experiences on this tour, rolling back the misty veils of distance and technology to offer you a window into the emerald unknown. I’ll be popping in on a daily basis while on the tour to give you all insight into just what this tour entails, from photos to reflective thoughts in the form of prose and poetry alike.</p>
<p>Quite literally, this is a dream come true to me, one I’d like to share with this group of adventurers and philosophers.</p>
<p>Sojourning with you soon!</p>
<p>-- Nicole “Sam” Fishkind.</p>
<p><i><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719275?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719275?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-left"/></a></i></p>
<p><i>[Pictured: a certain shirt flying back across the great salt pond...]</i></p>
<p></p>Songs, Poems & Stories of the Wild West of Irelandtag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-06-01:6442157:BlogPost:1599242015-06-01T22:30:00.000ZNicole Samantha Fishkindhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/NicoleSamanthaFishkind
<p><i>Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,<br></br> So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,<br></br> And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,<br></br> For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say<br></br> Is fol de rol de rolly O.</i> – Yeats.</p>
<p> It’s probably a wince-worthy cliché to begin with a Yeats, but I feel that I must. The songs of Ireland have long since compelled me to dance to their rhythm; the fluting of Yeats and…</p>
<p><i>Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,<br/> So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,<br/> And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,<br/> For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say<br/> Is fol de rol de rolly O.</i> – Yeats.</p>
<p> It’s probably a wince-worthy cliché to begin with a Yeats, but I feel that I must. The songs of Ireland have long since compelled me to dance to their rhythm; the fluting of Yeats and Wilde luring me on down paths of literary pursuit both prosaic and poetic (though I’ve foregone the Wilde velveteen pantaloons—for now).</p>
<p> Being brought up in part by an Irish grandmother (Betty Smith, nee [O’] Shaughnessy, God rest her) whose heart and soul was tied both to God and the land He made, I, like Yeats, found beauty in the wilds as a kid. I also found a wild beauty in that of the forest of words I could see the trees from; sometimes. And of course, thanks to numerous book reports, play readings, and the eventual intrigue of the unforgettable <i>Harlot’s House,</i> I found the beauty of another Wilde altogether.</p>
<p> I am a writer. Weaving words into tapestries of intangible gossamer and glistening light seen only in the mind’s eye is my passion. I write what I experience; what I feel. I write about the pounding of a drumming heart or the anxiety of a foggy day. The gloom and dread of mist rolling in over the marshes, the sheer relief of a bloody sunset when a day that hasn’t gone as planned finally dies on the horizon.</p>
<p> Less morbidly, I exfoliate my soul. Okay, so maybe not less morbidly. But certainly vivid, you have to admit that.</p>
<p> My mother is a different variety of artist than I. While I have my words and my camera, she has her paints. When I heard she was going to Ireland via a certain Wild West Tour (and believe me, I laughed when I saw “Wild Geese”—we’ve always referred to my beloved mother, Ann, as a “goose” and whenever we see geese; made a point to shout “LOOK, your brethren!” to her), I was Shamrock Shake™ (sorry McDonald’s—you’re Scottish, aren’t you?) with envy. The notion of going to Ireland had been something my child-self dreamed of as a world of fairies and Celtic Woman’s alluring lullabies; and green, rolling hills.</p>
<p> My adult self sees the chance to see where my people came from. A chance to better understand what it is I try to say every time I myself sit down to write about Ireland. It comes up a lot in my work—so many of the characters I concoct for stories or borrow from elsewhere are Irish. Aengus, for example, has wormed his way into more than one of my works-in-progress—the infamous rapscallion Tuatha Dé Danann makes multiple appearances in the things I write from time to time. Folklore such as banshees, Good Neighbors (“wee folk”), and kelpies are also included.</p>
<p> To better understand these things—the music in my heart, the poetry at my fingertips, the prose that flows in my soul; where I come from and where I’m going—I feel the full experience is so necessary to feel…authentic. Not just in my work, but as a person.</p>
<p> I’m not saying a trip to Ireland is instant validation. I’m not expecting to go there and win the next Pulitzer.</p>
<p> What I am saying is that an opportunity like this would fill me with such joy I’d sing the praises of Ireland for the rest of my days. That vow aside, I know in my heart that the restless words would settle; focused more easily on something they now more closely understand. I want to experience the open world of the Irish West; I want to feel different wind on my face and walk in the places that, hundreds of years ago, my ancestors wandered (arguably more coordinated than I), telling their own stories.</p>
<p> Stories are what I believe keep us going as a culture. They link us in a world where communication is thinning; changing. Evolving into something that, while not necessarily bad, is different.</p>
<p> But no one tells stories like the Irish.</p>
<p> And no place could tell stories like Ireland.</p>
<p> In closing, I believe our cheeky and departed friend Oscar put it best:</p>
<p><i> We Irish are too poetical to be poets; we are a nation of brilliant failures, but we are the greatest talkers since the Greeks.</i> Which is to not necessarily say I agree with him, but—</p>
<p> Ireland, I am ready to hear your stories in exchange for some of my own.</p>
<p>(p.s.: It's worth noting after I finished this, and mum returned from Ireland, she brought with her plenty of stories of her own...along with a Wilde and Yeats collection (the latter being on folklore, no less!). Go figure!)</p>
<p></p>
<p><b>Tell us why YOU want to experience the ‘Wild West’ of Ireland, and you might win a free 9-day trip there, courtesy of Wild West Irish Tours and WOW Air.</b> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/group/the-wild-west-of-ireland-you-won-t-forget-your-fir" target="_self"><b>Get the details!</b></a></p>
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