Human hands

On letting go / on holding /on having

I’ve been thinking an unfathomable amount these last weeks about hands.

About what it means to have human hands.

To let go.

To hold.

To have, in those human hands, all that we choose to have.

To hold what matters.

To hold it, and hold it, and to never let it go.

What matters to us?

To these human, human hands of ours?

What, of all that weighs us down with grief and pain, might we let go of?

What might you let go of so that you may hold, in your human hands, all the things you would prefer to hold?

Three weeks ago I had the deep honour of being in community with a group of beautiful, heart full humans as part of Community Foundation Ireland’s Climate Convening.

I don’t know what there is to say about the time in Mullingar, except to say that it changed me in ways I’ll be grateful for, always.

Returning there, to that midland place of loughs, and starlings, and swans, was a kind of rebirth. My first time properly back in the land where we made our child. Where I grew him inside me, and birthed him into this exquisite, almost unbearably beautiful world.

On the morning of my presentation, a dear friend guided a small gathering of us in mindful meditation, inviting us to take something from the beautiful mandala she had laid beneath our feet. Holding this delicate, unspeakable beauty in my cold, early morning hands felt like a kind of ritual I need more of; a kind of sacred holding of which my hands are in deepest need.

As the world outside has felt louder, more terrifying, more full of grief and deep ache, I have turned more quiet. I have found it harder to write on here. The Notes section has made me feel increasingly unanchored, lost at sea. I have felt the need to consider ways of really connecting, of being with you in a way that feels more gentle, and I’m not quite sure what that looks like. I know that the more I sit with shaping MOTH

ER —

m o t h e r s in e c o l o g y —

the more I understand that I am longing, more than anything, to hold connection, real deep connection, in these human hands.

But what does that look like in real terms?

How do we hold one another?

How do we do this as creative women ?

How do we do this, especially, as working mothers with limited time and resources, bone-tired, and full of grief?

As Ursula Le Guin says —

‘We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.’

I have felt increasingly uneasy about, for example, the supposed boundaries between what I freely give and what I charge for. It happened a while back that I began to feel unsure why exactly I even have a paywall here. I fully appreciate that I need paid for my work— as words are work— but actually the price I charge is simply random anyway, so in some respects why charge it at all?

I definitely feel what I deliver is worth what so many of you beautiful humans pay but I also don’t feel it’s enough of an amount that I’d miss it so much if I simply gave it to everyone who can’t afford it. But where is the line then between labour and survival?

I try my best to give freely in the ways I am able but recently I’ve had a feeling I can’t shift that I need to work a little at what I give, to whom, and how.

A while back I was asked by the beautiful poet Sophie Haworth to read at a fundraiser for Palestine along with many other incredible poets. I wrote a new piece for the event — DURING GENOCIDE, THE WOMEN HOLD THINGS— and to this day it remains one of the pieces I feel most moved to have written in my life. One of the most common things we are told as writers is that once we start being published in a mainstream way, we should make a point never to give away work for free. We should insist, always, on being paid at least a small nominal fee for any work we create in the event of it being printed for sale.

With this poem, I made the decision to send it off to

Genevieve Beech

for consideration for her BODY issue of MOTHERLORE, one of the most important and beautiful publications on (m)othering & caregiving in the world.

Purchase BODY here to experience this unequivocal beauty.

MOTHERLORE is run single-handedly by Genevieve, alongside mothering her two toddlers, and alongside a full on job. It is currently run alongside an additional burden of lovework— a phrase used by Genevieve and others to speak of the work that is often unpaid, and undervalued— long distance caregiving.

It is brought into the world with tenderness, care, love and compassion. It has changed the landscape of mothering & caregiving in myriad ways, this small but mighty publication.

I gain from my work appearing in its pages in ways that are hard to quantify, and I feel like this is just one example of the ways late stage capitalism within the publishing world is failing (m)others. Women in general, actually, as I firmly believe we all mother one way or another. How do we put any price on the lovework that is the holding and the letting go and the having of something like MOTHERLORE, that has revolutionised the lives and creative reality of so many of us?

When I gather with women, some of whom have paid me a fee, some of whom have not, and we all gain from that gathering; we all come away holding things differently from before; or having been able, finally, to let go of other things: how do we put a price on a single bit of it?

If it doesn’t feel like work, should I be being paid? Is paying my ridiculous electric bill for my freezing, damp rental home by holding space for women I adore really something I can do?

I’ve been working in my gatherings since the beginning with a sliding scale payment scheme. This applies for everything I offer, no questions asked. There are always two spaces allocated without a fee for single mamas. It doesn’t feel like much but it’s a start.

I still can’t get my head around the fact that the Arts Council awarded me a Literary Bursary this year. It feels like the most wild and truly gift like thing I could possibly dream of. The time to write what I want to write about. What an unbelievable thing.

As part of my work for this project, I have been offering a totally free co-writing space for mothers on Thursday mornings 10-11 am GMT on zoom.

The joy this delivers to me is beyond all words, and the positive impact it has had on my own writing is unbelievable. Holding mothers close, holding safe space, is a deep gift; one I’ll be grateful for always.

Email me if you want to join us: inchwhooperswan@gmail.com

Beaver / frost / mourning moon.

I have never felt a deeper need to gather with women in my life than now.

If you feel called to sit with your grief, to mourn together in a safe circle of love and holding, email me to join us.

November 15th 7-8 pm GMT on zoom.

All women welcome.

WINTER LIGHT ON MOSS, falling ….

I have been asked so much this year for a follow up to last year’s GLIMMERS workshop, and here it is.

A winter workshop for those who still love the world.

We will hold space, hedgerow like, for all there is still to hold close.

12-14.00 pm GMT Thursday 28th November on zoom.

Investment €20-40 as per means.

Two spaces for single mamas as usual.

Email : inchwhooperswan@gmail.com

The world, still so beautiful, is so worthy of our love.

Let’s hold her gently as winter light begins to fall.

Finally, a wee reflection on holding to close this all up.

This month I’ll celebrate six years sober.

Six whole years holding my own self as tenderly, as gratefully, as lovingly, as I can.

It feels like an unimaginable kind of thing; deserving of the wildest possible kind of celebration.

As part of that celebration I’m giving away, from my human hands to yours, six paid subscriptions to this substack for a year.

So if you’re unable to become a paid subscriber but would gain from a paid subscription, please comment below, share this post on notes and tag me.

Sharing my substack on instagram will give you another entry.

If you are in a position to become a paid subscriber, and have been on the fence, why not consider signing up and joining this beautiful, supportive community this winter?

In brightness, always

X