There is a little café in the woods here -- within a vegan bookshop that emphasises books of resistence and community and earth -- that is a place of support -- so quietly, so unobtrusively. An oak of man who sharees the path with me. And those I gather with online, family and freinds, people I'm mentoring or facilitating, people who are holding space for me in turn (including you). And sometimes -- in real life -- I'm about to set off for a month of gatherings to celebrate books published over 20 years, and gatherings with dear ones along the way. Together these fragments make all the difference.
Time keeps moving. I am always saying… I wish every day of spring was two weeks. I say the same in autumn, in winter…
I’ve taken to thinking about deep time. A lot. Trying to live in the dirt and among the roots of the very present moment as often as I can. Trying, so hard, to accept and acknowledge reality and find the beauty in the ordinary moments of my days. Time is the same no matter what I do or how I spend it. Sixty seconds is a minute no matter what. But it sure seems to stand still, feels it, when I can truly be present, eyes open and seeing with clarity, or eyes a bit closed and awake-dreaming into the reality of the spirit of things.
My sweetheart, my love, turns 75 today. All kinds of feelings come with this. We are packing light bags and heading to Ithaca to walk in the woods and listen to birds, to see the fern fronds unfurling, to visit the ephemeral blossoms that only grace us for a few short days. These beings are also community.
I loved reading this, Kerri. So grateful to have found your voice here. Thank you.
"I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m missing the seasons completely as they unfurl." This is the feeling I've had for a long time, but this year even more so. How are we already in the fourth week of the fourth month, as you so beautifully say? April is also my birthday month, by the way, and it was a big one this year which I'm joyfully embracing but still I wish it didn't go so fast and I had time to pause and consider the light. To both build and partake in community, I am leaning on (in?) my women's circles, and I recently created the online Selkie Circle, to let ourselves be held by story through these "times of chaos and worry and so much worry". Thank you Kerri, as ever, for your soothing words, and the light you bring, always xx
Kerri, your words always move me and inspire me. My son turned four during the pandemic and I remember following the moods of the changing seasons with such careful precision that year. His growth and the turn of the world felt like one and the same. I miss that careful attention, and when I feel that I've drifted away from it I look for light. I look for my sons face and voice. Thank you for the reminder of fallow years, that we are trees. We moved last year, so my energy went into that, like growing leaves. I'm ready to grow in new ways this year. I am thankful to be in community here with you, on the other side of the world, able to hear your voice and thoughts, pretending we are all in the same forest, waving our wands.
Kerri, you always bring me such light with your words. Even the very name of this new course is gorgeous, and brimful of such ‘you-ness’. I’ve been thinking of ‘the hour of spring’ these past two weeks—your magical boy. I’m so glad you’ve found this community to hold you. I am trying to let myself be held, even if only by me, and it’s hard. I loved reading this. Thank you. x
There is a little café in the woods here -- within a vegan bookshop that emphasises books of resistence and community and earth -- that is a place of support -- so quietly, so unobtrusively. An oak of man who sharees the path with me. And those I gather with online, family and freinds, people I'm mentoring or facilitating, people who are holding space for me in turn (including you). And sometimes -- in real life -- I'm about to set off for a month of gatherings to celebrate books published over 20 years, and gatherings with dear ones along the way. Together these fragments make all the difference.
This, every big of it, gave me such joy. Yes to life, and to the light and the dark and all the parts between x
Time keeps moving. I am always saying… I wish every day of spring was two weeks. I say the same in autumn, in winter…
I’ve taken to thinking about deep time. A lot. Trying to live in the dirt and among the roots of the very present moment as often as I can. Trying, so hard, to accept and acknowledge reality and find the beauty in the ordinary moments of my days. Time is the same no matter what I do or how I spend it. Sixty seconds is a minute no matter what. But it sure seems to stand still, feels it, when I can truly be present, eyes open and seeing with clarity, or eyes a bit closed and awake-dreaming into the reality of the spirit of things.
My sweetheart, my love, turns 75 today. All kinds of feelings come with this. We are packing light bags and heading to Ithaca to walk in the woods and listen to birds, to see the fern fronds unfurling, to visit the ephemeral blossoms that only grace us for a few short days. These beings are also community.
I loved reading this, Kerri. So grateful to have found your voice here. Thank you.
Oh how I loved this note from Your dear tender heart ! Happy birthday to your love x
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"I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m missing the seasons completely as they unfurl." This is the feeling I've had for a long time, but this year even more so. How are we already in the fourth week of the fourth month, as you so beautifully say? April is also my birthday month, by the way, and it was a big one this year which I'm joyfully embracing but still I wish it didn't go so fast and I had time to pause and consider the light. To both build and partake in community, I am leaning on (in?) my women's circles, and I recently created the online Selkie Circle, to let ourselves be held by story through these "times of chaos and worry and so much worry". Thank you Kerri, as ever, for your soothing words, and the light you bring, always xx
Kerri, your words always move me and inspire me. My son turned four during the pandemic and I remember following the moods of the changing seasons with such careful precision that year. His growth and the turn of the world felt like one and the same. I miss that careful attention, and when I feel that I've drifted away from it I look for light. I look for my sons face and voice. Thank you for the reminder of fallow years, that we are trees. We moved last year, so my energy went into that, like growing leaves. I'm ready to grow in new ways this year. I am thankful to be in community here with you, on the other side of the world, able to hear your voice and thoughts, pretending we are all in the same forest, waving our wands.
Kerri, you always bring me such light with your words. Even the very name of this new course is gorgeous, and brimful of such ‘you-ness’. I’ve been thinking of ‘the hour of spring’ these past two weeks—your magical boy. I’m so glad you’ve found this community to hold you. I am trying to let myself be held, even if only by me, and it’s hard. I loved reading this. Thank you. x