a glimpse of the mystery

— on summer

‘Stardust, ocean, soil, toil, flame. The riddle we can’t give words to, the grief we can’t participate in, an unkept promise, a glimpse of the mystery, of the unbroken planet that may or may not have existed, the world of dew, the leap over time, there and not there. We’re here and not here. Summer is made of the memory of summer.’

— Nina MacLaughlin

Last weekend in the west of Ireland we had the most beautiful few days; sunshine, stillness and beauty. It’s grey again now, but I needed those bright days so very much indeed.

The poet Kathleen Jamie talks about there being a day every year where we know the spring has come along, but for me the days that seem to matter most of all are the first ones where summer shows herself.

Those days certainly came over the weekend just passed by.

My family went to a meithal (communal work gathering) at some pals’ farm. We worked, we wandered, we planned, we ate cake in the shade and drank water with mint fresh from the place where it had grown.

On the way home we stopped off at a wee bay we’d not been to before, and I swam with dragonflies, coots and mayflies.

My son and lover in the shallows in front of me, the vastness of the great unknown above and below me.

The day before we had gone to another friend’s sauna opening at the harbour. On one of the cold plunges in the lake, swimming with friends, our babes running wild behind us, music playing and cake waiting for us, we all said how overwhelming it sometimes felt, this reality of being alive right now.

How lucky we are.

Our safety.

Our joy (which is a form of resistance.)

This is the kind of summer I spent so long longing for, and I can sense her, right here at the edges of thing: a glimpse of the mystery.

Last summer was a wildly transformative one for me in a number of different ways.

I’d just had my first night away from my son in our whole two years.

I’d just published my second book.

I’d just received a huge rejection for funding to write a third book, one I so desperately wanted to write but was terrified to I’m equal measure.

I’d started to imagine a very different way of being on the world than I had for many years.

I wrote about it quite a bit, and this post— my last one before summer solstice last year— feels like it properly charts a cusp moment for me; unlike any I’ve quite experienced before. It feels surreal that I feel at a similar cusp moment just now, with the borage flowering again, on our way towards the solstice.

As last summer unfurled, a part of me I’d thought was long gone began, slowly, to make her way back. I’m not used to summer being a season of transformation; winter has long been my time to grow.

And to be totally honest I still feel a little caught up in it all; summer was barely even gone when I broke my ankle— ushering in a whole other set of deep and unstoppable changes. I realised, last weekend, that I never got a proper chance to process last summer at all. To allow the changes to be fully internalised. It was a handful of days after the autumn equinox that I decided I needed to walk away from the book I’d spent months on, and make my way towards another book; one that wasn’t asking me to put things into words that I knew would be extremely difficult.

A book that—unlike that other one, didn’t ask me to speak of a time that was more raw, more scary, more wild, more heartbreaking— than anything I’d ever experienced before.

A book that, unlike the one I walked away from, allowed me to hide within it.

The thing is, though, this is not the season for me to hide, nor is it the one for me to shy away from things that I know I so much need to stay with. That girl, the one who came back to me last summer, is still there, calling to me again, and I am beginning to feel that this summer might offer me a way back to her.

And I want to do it all very differently this time round.

I want—for the very first time—to allow myself to be enveloped by summer’s mystery. All those vast unknowns.

Instead of fearing the uncertainty and the shifting sands, I want to lean right in.

And so I’ve walked away from that other book, the easy one, and I am placing my energy right now exactly where it is being called.

To growing.

Within myself.

And also to growing other things.

Food.

Flowers.

Community.

Women’s circles.

My creative practice.

My confidence.

My heart.

And so here are a few of the things I’m giving my energy over to growing, in case you want to come and gather, too.

Tomorrow I’ll hold my first online women’s circle — MOSS MOTHER MOON— all women welcome.

THREAD - a gathering for paid subscribers of my substack, first session - Thursday 6 June 18.30-19.30 BST.

To upgrade your subscription click here.

Finally, I am joyful beyond all words to be able to offer the summer follow up to Glimmers—

SUMMER SOLSTICE: colour / chaos / compost / cusp

~ Thursday 20th June 10 am - 12 BST via zoom.

~ £20-£30 investment as per your individual means, never any questions asked and as always there are two slots for solo mamas.

~ Email inchwhooperswan@gmail.com to book.

~ Card readings / journaling / writing the sexy season / poetry / myth / Celtic wheel

~ No need to have attended GLIMMERS & this is being recorded to allow for best accessibility.

I am more excited than I possibly say to welcome this summer.

To lean into growing.

And I’ll allow myself to listen to that book, and to that girl the book wants to talk about.

And who knows where this summer will take the pair of us….

What are you giving your energy over to growing this summer?

Brightly,

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