A natural foods store draws my attention.  Behind the counter sits a dark haired beauty with a presence that fills the space.  Karen Garvin and I become fast friends, in a matter of moments.  She says to me, “you have gypsy blood, as do I.”

Karen and I

A healer, mother, wise woman, she has been tried by fire and made into gold.  Despite the trials of a life that could foster bitterness, she is joyful and radiant!  She tells me she has a good friend she knows I need to meet, within an hour he is at the door.

Alan has a boyish charm, an intelligence, wit, an orators skill, that raises the bar.  He is a proclaimed hedonist, a Self led and soul taught man.  We wander the streets until ending up in a field that has a commanding view of the land. A weathered blue folding chair, a working man’s throne, sits a lone sentinel in a tangle of wild overgrowth.  He rolls a cigarette.  Green even in winter, it is cold enough to see our breath though the skies are clear and the sun is shining.

Our conversation seems to create itself and we follow one another into terrain that opens us both.  Alan shares his knowing about the Sheela na gig.  He says that when the Vatican attempted to control the Irish King, the King had the image of the Sheela put over the threshold of churchs, castles and other prominent buildings a blatant, “fuck you,” to those who attempted to unseat the sovereign, the Goddess. From the beginning of known time, the Goddess has ruled this land and the King was a devoted servant; betrothed through sacred sexual union with the Goddess herself.  It is said that she appeared to him as a crone, not a youthful and desirable maiden. The King by lying with her had to intentionally let go of his passions, illusions and desire for the superficial and transient, in spiritual terms, the ego.  He made his union consciously with the wise and immortal, only then was he fit to be King.  The Irish are legendary in their resistance to foreign invaders, even to this day you sense their fierce independence, and freedom of spirit.  Alan is passionate in his storytelling, and I find myself in another place and time.

My days in Kinsale are seamless.  Karen takes me to her place of pilgrimage, a truly holy place.  Guagan Barra was founded by St. Finbarr, the patron Saint of Cork.  The oratory sits on a little island in the middle of a lake where a pair of mated swans glide on glass smooth water.  The air is mountain fresh, and fills every  hopeful cell. The river Lee finds its source in the surrounding mountains.  We walk in a hushed silence.  In a circular stone enclosure are several little caves where the monks of long ago slept.  We enter the solitary dampness of these ancient wombs, and trace our hands over moss blessed stones that have endured for centuries.  Once again I am struck by the relative micro existence of this fleeting life, of the bones within my body that will someday be soil.  Entering the small oratory I turn to see my beloved lady of Guadalupe in faded glory hanging above a host of burning blue candles.

Our lady of Guadalupe

Here she is, the Goddess once more in one of her many guises.  I have been to her basilica in Mexico City, seen the place where she revealed herself to Diego in his near disbelief.  I wear her image around my neck, a constant reminder of my true nature.

Karen and I walk in a mystical woods just down the road from the island.  It is clear to me that the place is enchanted, a place where the little people make their home, where the elementals stake their claim.  I feel my senses sharpen, as the air becomes fine and the light prevails.  The veil between worlds thins, I step into the unseen.

Guagan Barra

Water snakes its way down the mountain side finding its way into a clear stream.  Trees tower above us in emerald green perfection, wild grasses mound in a pattern only nature could create.  We see a small white kleenex hanging on a little branch.  It is the entry way to a dark forest within the forest.  We cross a small stream, bow low through a narrow opening to find ourselves in a hallowed place.  Karen wraps her arms around a tree, I sit on a raised earth.  A thousand eyes upon us we merge with this sanctum.  I raise my arms to the sky and I thank in whispered hush my beloved for bringing me home, for blessing my life with amazing grace.  I have found my tribe at long last. Surrounded in the darkness, in the midst of day, I feel at peace.

My last day.  Karen and I go to the English Market in Cork, we are going to feast! No meal out tonight, we are going to dine at her home with her two boys, her former partner and their yorkie, Joey.  The market is a food lover’s mecca.  Specialty shops all under one roof.  We buy smelly french cheese, artisan bread, olives in every size, shape and color, fresh basil, sundried tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, home made pasta, organic apples and a mixed berry custard tart, and cream.  So much fun!  She and I are sisters, moving in joyful tandem from one culinary intrigue to the next.  I find myself wanting this time to last, to be kept alive, to be an ongoing experience. We make our way back to the car but not before listening to the lyrical sound of the pipes played skillfully by a Russian busker on the street.  He looks as if he was just transported from another era where music was the bloodline of the people.

I awaken at 4:00 am.  The city sleeps.  I drink my cappuccino graciously made by the night porter.  I unroll my window to let the darkness in.  The air is crisp and sunless. I drive on the left, my arrow still tucked within sight.  I want to close my eyes to remember every bend in the road, the power of the land, the way I feel in my body. Now I am transiting.  A long day of three flights, several layovers, mechanical failures, and late departures.  Air bound, I watch the patchwork quilt of west Cork disappear into the mists.  I will make Ireland my home.

P.S.

Someone asked just this morning what my most amazing moment in Ireland was. It was when a beautiful Irish, renaissance man, serenaded me in the wee hours with his musical genius.  He playfully made the instruments come to life, to tell a story without words. I sat spellbound, as my heart and soul took flight with his. That moment will live in me forever…

santidevi

Labeling is merely a tool to make the world and everything in it more manageable, and less threatening.  When we label anything we reduce it to our own relative perception and understanding.  Labeling is a function of the ego, the analytical and intellectual aspect of the mind, and is based on concepts, ideologies and conditioning, all of which are inherently limiting.  Labeling is a static process, a closed system. This type of reductionist thinking attempts to separate the part from the whole.  It is a futile attempt to make life predictable. When we label someone we can no longer see or relate to them authentically. Our minds have predetermined who and what they are, and thus there is no mystery to discover or experience.  We are safe!

Naming something, on the other hand is a dynamic, intuitive, inclusive and expansive process.  For example, in many indigenous tribes throughout the world, newborns are not named by the parents, but by the indwelling spirit of the child. The infant is symbolically presented to, and acknowledged by the sustaining and elemental forces of nature.  This affirms their interdependence and connection to the circle of life, which symbolically represents the whole of existence.

Through consistently relating to and observing the nature of the child, their innate talents and abilities are seen and fostered.  These inborn qualities are understood as an intimate expression of the incarnating soul.  The naming comes only when the essence of the child is revealed and understood.  Their name embodies their “medicine.”  Medicine meaning, the power and destiny the Creator has given to them.

Naming comes from a deep and patient knowing, from the intuitive realm, from spirit itself. Naming is powerful because it arises from the truth or essence of something or someone. It is not contrived by the human mind, or by the conditioning of experience or environment. This is an entirely different way of relating to the world, and to each other.  The emphasis is on unity, on interrelationship and is characterized by wanting to know the truth.

What is beyond naming? Direct and immediate perception is what arises when we surrender all claim and attachment to knowing anything.  When we encounter each moment with a beginner’s mind, with a clear and receptive lens, we experience things as they are.

We no longer fear being annihilated by what we don’t know. Strangely in being present, without labels, without even the need to identify or name, we are actually liberated. We are liberated from ignorance and illusion, from the need to feel powerful and in control. The critical and evaluative quality of the mind ceases, and a profound sense of relaxation and peace spontaneously arises.

We are then free to experience without fear or expectation, without the need for certainty and predictability…  This freedom happens when we “show up,” when we let go of what we think we are in possession or need of.  This is an act of conscious awareness, of trust and faith. It is akin to throwing out the compass and the map, knowing that there is an internal and omniscient intelligence that always knows where we are and where we’re going.

Life in all of its glorious complexity and mystery is always inviting us to abandon our rationality, our logical thinking minds, for a truer way of knowing and being. Each moment lived in this way becomes an adventure, a pilgrimage to the very heart of our humanity.

santidevi

My senses are awakened.  The scent of uninhabited land, wet earth, sagebrush and pine. The wind dries my hair into winged curls that take flight and the boundary between this finite self and the natural world dissolves.  Cradled in the walls of the canyon I sigh into its other worldly embrace.  These sentinels have always silenced the inquiry of my restless mind, the ache of my heart.  Their presence a comfort to my transiency, to the briefness of my human life.  From their stony bodies they have witnessed time claim its own.  The erosion that distances history from the present moment never ceases.

I watch as fall begins to gain momentum, stealing the distinction of summers palette, the heat of desert sun, and the predictability of afternoon rain.  I feel the cold breath of snow not yet fallen, of wind that will strip bare the trees that now shade. It is a strange solace to witness this timely and ritualistic death.  Continuity within change.  Resurrection is natures grace, it is also mine.  Having cast a host of paper thin guises, as naturally as a snake sheds its skin.  In my demise I am reborn.  The earth swallowing its history, my history in guiltless pleasure, an insatiable lover.  I am fluid, letting nature form me accordingly, just as the canyons offer no refusal to the water that shapes them. We are destroyed and made anew moment by moment by the subtlety of our own longing.  Something is always thrown into the abyss of the unknown, given as a token of our trust and our surrender. We lay bare our willingness and vulnerability to face the uncertain life with noble wonder.

In the city that steals my pulse I am an exile.  Far from the terrain that reflects my soul, from the broken unevenness that I boldly tread upon.  Nature is my muse, the inspiration of my being.  I follow it into the wilds of my own insistent heart and I lose all claim to knowing myself.  In its ever changing haven I discover secret arroyo’s worn smooth by time.  If I listen closely their hush will speak to me.  There is a sound resiliency in surrendering to what is, accepting my own unearthed selves with curiosity and patient love.  In letting go, I free my hands and take flight.

santidevi