Where the Land Speaks (Part 1): Homecoming to the Land of Éire
Wanderlust and Her Wells of Grief
An audio recording is included as invitation to experience the sacredness held within the voice (and tradition) of oral storytelling. If it resonates, please enjoy at your leisure - maybe curled up with a warm cuppa or held within the wild embrace of the magical natural world that surrounds you.
Mo ghrá go léir,
Erica
At the top of a recent Writers’ Knot1 gathering, a quote was shared with us that strummed resonant strings of longing and grief throughout my whole being.
I am haunted by the light of the things that I have not yet even known. (Remember the light)
, Cacophony of BoneWhile, I didn’t have a logical explanation for the rise of emotions, I trusted the wisdom of my body and took to the page.
This is what sprung from the wells within me:
This haunts me through to the bone
In the most hallowed of ways;
This is what my path of re-membering,
Of the here and now,
Feels like to me.
I know the frequency
And range
Of my soul.
I know the magic that dwells and surrounds;
Alongside the mothers and grandmothers,
Within.
And yet...
I have forgotten the way.
I don’t remember.
Why can’t I remember?
What have I forgotten?
Can anyone hear me?!
As someone who’s always danced between realms, it’s not unheard of for my Otherworldly eye2 to blink open, or for Spirit make its presence known, when I’m held within the creative portal of writing or a sacred story. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I cried out that Spirit answered.
Can anyone hear me?!
Earthquakes of exasperation echoed through the exhale of the final line.
After this initial inspired writing, the tides of grief pulled through me; beckoning me to follow. So, with gentle curiosity, I leant back into my office chair.
Within a cycle of breath, I found myself in the company of an ancient Bean Feasa (a wise woman), wise and wild - waiting at the edge of a well.
I knew she [and the sacred story dancing around me] had more to say. So, I closed my eyes to listened - and this was the vision she shared.
Stones among
The rugged green
Cliffs of Éire.
An ancient woman
Waved in
White lengths of hair.
Silks and linens of
Greys and silvers
Swirled around her beingness.
Mosses and pyrite adorned
The ridges of her dresses
And gathered at edges of her crown.
She’s softer,
Tender,
Gentler,
Than she appears
She hugs me
So tightly that I can allow myself
To soften into my grief
Of feeling lost
Of feeling of alone
Of what belongs to me
And what is not my own
Standing at edge of the well
She dips a chalice
Bronzed and gold
Into her waters
She offers the cup
And tells me to drink
I do, and
I soften even more
Into myself
Soon,
Hovering above the opening
I find myself
Descending
Deeper and deeper
Into the womb of
Of Her
Earth
As I travel,
Burrowed within the dirt,
Off shoots from my path,
Rest parallel tunnels of light
People buried within
The grief and sorrow
Held within
The hollowed bone
Of Her
What's within the wells of the grief in my body?
What's within the wells of grief in the collective body?
What's within the wells of grief of the land Herself?
The answer dwells here.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a wanderer. Whether it was day-dreaming in class as a young girl, traveling throughout my twenties, or teaching in the north, there’s always been an impulse within me to move - like a part of me was searching for the embodied relief of knowing this is where I belong.
wan·der·lust ˈwän-dər-ˌləst : strong longing for or impulse toward wandering
Merriem-Webster, Online Dictionary
These days, I find myself wondering if there’s a connection between those of us raised within a cultural diaspora and those of us “bit by the travel bug”? Could a disconnection from ancestral lands stir a longing to seek out a sense of home - to re-member what it feels like to live upon the lands of our blood and bone?
This same part of me also wonders if the better word would’ve been wanderlost?
Either way, throughout my life, wherever my feet have found themselves, the land has always held me - offering gentle invitations to align with my body and spirit more deeply. However, little did I know, the land of County Galway would offer her invitation in a very different way.
Back in the summer of 2018, as my first trip to Ireland was coming to a close, I sat alone in a small black box theatre, excitedly anticipating the start of Trad on the Prom - alongside maybe a hundred other folks.
As the lights dimmed, the audience was soothed by stillness and silence. Yet, we didn’t rest here for long, as the haunting keen of [what I later learnt was called] the uilleann pipes wailed through the dark cavernous space.
In a matter of milliseconds, I was covered from head to toe in goosebumps and ugly crying. Between sobs and snot, I’ve never been more grateful for a theatrical pause held within a blackout lighting scheme.
I tried my best to muffle my crying, but for the full length of the song gales of grief rolled through me.
After this experience, my life has never been the same. I look back on this night and believe it was part of a sacred homecoming. A poignant step along my path of re-membering all that I am.
A soul retrieval of sorts; as it helped to draw close the emotional chasm held within my body that has longed for home upon a distant shore. My heart held wide open to soul parts that had been left behind in Galway [maybe in another lifetime], where finally back whole with me.
Grief was [and continues to be] a pivotal expression within my re-membering. Looking back on this particular experience, I now compare it to an embodied sense of my DNA turning back on; midwifed by the song, the spirit, and the land of Éire.
Over the years, I’ve learnt to lean into my creativity as part of the integration process.
Today, these same strings of grief sing to me but in a different way. As I listen to the land and my guidance from across the veil, the next sacred story longs to be told - De thír mo mháithreacha: Of the Land of My Mothers.
As part of the Irish diaspora, this new piece is inspired by my personal journey [both physically and spiritually] towards finding a sense of rootedness within my culture [and ancestry] as an Irish-Canadian woman; while also, seeking to understand what it means to live between the lands of Éire and Turtle Island.
Some of the questions that are whirling within the womb of De thír mo mháithreacha include:
How does grief impact the bodies and psyches of the Irish diasporic population today? How is this particularly embodied and expressed in women?
How does the colonial history of Turtle Island reverberate through the bodies and psyches of the Irish diasporic population today? Can one truly feel a sense of home upon lands that are not ‘of their own’?
How does speaking An Gaeilge, learning traditional songs, and sharing of Irish mythology or folklore provide a soothing balm for the parts of the soul that feel severed from home land?
How does re-membering of the her-story and traditions of the Mná Feasa (the Wise Women), the Mná Chaointe (the Keening Women), the Mná Leighas (the Medicine Women), and the Sovereignty Goddesses help to ground a sense safety, power, wisdom, and magic within the body? How does this then serve to support the community [wherever one resides]?
What does the spirit of land know that the human body and soul long to re-member?
For now, the answer calls to me as: go back to the mothers and grandmothers. Start with those of blood and bone. Then be open to those who tend to the here and now around you.
The mothers of the plant realms just outside your door.
The grandmothers who whisper wisdom within winds.
The mothers within the rivers and streams.
The grandmothers within the stones.
The mothers with feathers.
The grandmothers that slither - and the ones that swim.
The mothers and grandmothers that walk upon four legs.
The mothers and grandmothers of the physical realm.
The mothers and grandmothers of the spiritual realm.
They all hold space for us, as we find our way.
Perhaps mother is just another word for home.
Perhaps home is just another word for safe,
or content,
or whole…
, Cacophony of BoneSo, maybe following one’s desires to move or travel isn’t wanderlust?
Maybe in moments of unexplainable grief, we’re being offered one of life’s greatest navigational tools?
Maybe this the soul’s way of calling us home; while also asking us to hold faith in the light at the end of the tunnel.
Spirit through Song
As a part of the creative process, I’ve started compiling a playlist for De thír mo mháithreacha: Of the Land of My Mothers. Most recently, I’ve added Take This Body Home to the soundscape. I feel this new release by Rose Betts really speaks to the moving croí agus anam (heart and soul) of this new sacred story. For me, it’s been on repeat for the past several days and I felt called to share it with you.
Being of Irish and French ancestry, I continue to be reverently grateful to the traditional spirits and land keepers [past, present, and forth-coming] of the unceded and unsurrendered territory of the Algonquin Anishinabeg Nation; where I was born and currently reside.
Míle buíochas for the opportunity to live, create, share stories, and walk alongside you.
Interested in more information on 1:1 supportive offerings or my approach to sacred storytelling?
Please visit Into the Circle with Erica O’Reilly for more information.
From the bottom of my heart, míle buíochas for sharing your time with me.
If this is your first experience held within our corner of the Substack realm, I would love for you to continue the journey with us - and if it resonates, invite a friend along!
I would love for Weavings of the Wise & Embodied to be an opportunity for all of us to connect in community. A homecoming of souls around the hearth within this sacred liminal space. So, please, feel welcome to contribute or share by leaving a comment below. It would be wonderful to hear from you.
What resonated most for you?
What would you like to see, hear, or experience while resting within our sacred space?
Until we meet in circle again, may grace and ease continue to find you.
Le dea ghuí,
Erica
A term I discovered (and embraced) through the wisdom share of
ofPhotograph Links/Credits
i) Saint Caimín's Holy Well. County Clare Heritage Office.
ii) Saint Colmán Mac Duagh's Well. County Clare Heritage Office.
iii) Saint Mary's Well. County Clare Heritage Office.
Thank you so much for this beautiful writing. It resonates so deeply with my recent experience visiting the land of my mothers Scotland (Alba). While there I felt the grief my ancestors felt when they had to leave their beautiful home. The land was alive and I recognized it as the elements that make up my blood and bones. I realized I’d missed the land my whole life.
While there I dreamt I looked down at my bare chest and saw a large, healed scar over my heart. As if I’d had a heart surgery long ago, and it was all healed now. The meaning of this dream keeps unfolding in new ways for me, but the base of it is that a large and deep wound was healed while I was Home.
Oh, Erica, your voice is such a gift - both on the page and when it resonates in our ears. I'm so grateful for the mention of our beloved Writers’ Knot and love knowing the way that those lines from Kerri's gorgeous work keep working on you, as they do on me. Here's to bringing the light to the shadows of our diasporic longing and to the gorgeous way you celebrate all that is.