Get good vibes & more with my monthly'ish "Namaste Notes":

Lost and Found in Crete: Part Two – The lost art of getting lost.

In Healing Words, Travel on November 15

stoneperson

I’m still here and “…still feeling safely tucked under the ancient olive tree that resides high above Loutro bay in Crete. Stretched out against it’s cracked skin, gazing out over the Libyan sea, I’m drifting off behind the distant mountains with the sun.” As began the last blog post, weeks ago.

Time stretches easily in to tomorrow, next week, next month. Winter knocks gently at the door for a day or two before balmy warmth rocks up again so I never quite know what to wear outside. More →

Lost and found in Crete ~ Part One: Homecoming

In Healing Words, Travel on October 18

Dal under Olive Tree

I WENT

I showed no restraint.I gave in completely and went.

To the delights, that were half real,

half wheeling in my mind,

I went in the luminous night.

And I drank of the heady wines, just

as sensuality’s stalwarts drink.

C.P. Cavity (translated by David Connolly)

These days, I’m still feeling safely tucked under the ancient olive tree that resides high above Loutro bay in Crete. Stretched out against it’s cracked skin, gazing out over the Libyan sea, I’m drifting off behind the distant mountains with the sun.

In reality, More →

Gritstone to Loutro and the middlings…

In Loss, Grief and Hope, Travel on September 26

Strange Edge            

Since the last blog post I can report that simmer time is officially here. But how hard is to go from a fast boil to just a little sizzle?

Hard. My first two weeks of simmering allowed for long forgotten walks in the Peak District. That tenacious landscape thrilled and ignited my cells to come out of hiding, infusing themselves with heather-laden air. A re-grounding and re-wilding of internal affairs, catching the last blast of purple ling. More →

5 years ago…

In Healing Words, Loss, Grief and Hope, Travel on August 18

Fabric at City Lights

I was pinning the poem ‘Fabric’ by the poet and artist, Tim Cumming, on to a board at City Lights bookshop in San Francisco trying to not look suspicious (why on earth I was sweating I don’t know – this was City Lights – poetry pinning allowed). I’d promised Tim on leaving the UK that I would cast his words across San Francisco and in to City Lights “A Literary Meeting place since 1953”, the melting pot for beatniks and anti-authoritarian voices in the 1950’s. More →

gathering the sparks of our ancestors

In Healing Words, Real Life, Travel on August 5

Sheffield Asian Cinema

We’re back from the intermission after ‘Following the sparks’…

Reminds me of back in the day when my mum, my sisters and I used to visit The Asian Cinema on Attercliffe Road, 2 buses each way, to watch the latest Bollywood movie. It seems all the Asians of South Yorkshire descended in this small theatre on Sundays. More →

following the sparks…

In Healing Words, Travel on July 28

Storytelling

A few weekends ago, in the deepest hills of Shropshire, I found myself enchanted amongst storytellers, bearded ones (not me) and Bhangra dancers (true) at The Festival at the Edge to share and hear stories from all over the world. To make us go ‘oooh’ and ‘aaaah’, preserving the ancient traditions of oral storytelling.

Stories matter. We’ve all got one or a few. And it was the sparks of an old story that brought me here… More →

The Spirit of Iceland: Part 2 ~ Glaciers, Volcanos & Vikings

In Travel on July 20

Spirit of Iceland

Visiting the feral Icelandic  landscape around Reykjavik is like entering a high energy portal of other worldliness. At any moment, I expected Golum to jump out from the mists thrown up by hot springs looking for his presciousssss. More →

The Spirit of Iceland: Part One ~ Reykjavik

In Travel on July 12

Iceland. I love you.

A place the Vikings discovered in the 9th century daring to settle amidst fire and ice, where the world founded it’s first parliament, the land of ancient sagas and weathered texts, tectonic plates colliding creating astonishing beauty,  gurgling ponds of mud waiting for the stir of a witch’s spoon More →