Dear Reader,

So, as some of you will know or even be vaguely aware of, I am creating a thing (I call it a thing because I am not sure if it is a book, a novel or a programme or perhaps all of the above).

It is called the Quest for the Enchantress and came from my realisation that the triple crown of womanhood Maiden/Mother/Crone is obsolete and should be replaced by a sovereign archetype : The Enchantress.

If you want to know more, carry on following me. There is more… o so much more…

I present Zoom calls on the topic, record them and then, possibly, they will form the pillars of the greater work.

So, this week, it is The Mother. Well in an hour or so.

The way I work is very intuitive, I set the topic and then I mull, I ponder it or it ponders me. Whatever. Eventually, the topic and I come to some understanding and we present something which generally works for my people.

So The Mother.

Researched stories, spent hours on the Crimean War and Mary Seacole, decided on another story, pondered this and then that.

Last night around 7pm a message appeared on my phone “What are the dates in August again?”

My heart missed a beat… surely…

I sent the dates again.

NOTHING

You see, there was an incident last June, there was a fall, a quite serious one and that was followed by a kind of family council. Decisions were made. Promises exchanged. Boundaries safely negotiated.

One of them is I need to go away in August for 10 days.

They are meant to be standing by.

Just in case something goes wrong.

The second message came around 9.

“We will be on holiday then abroad”

Not sorry, no we know we are letting you down… again… no. Just a message. We will be on holiday then, abroad

Then I got my final piece about The Mother. That myth created by men (mostly) and also complicit women in the Victorian age.

There is no such thing as being a Mother. The Earth is not my Mother. No one is mothering me and I am not meant to mother anyone and anyone I have ever mothered does not owe me anything because they did not ask to be mothered.

I saw the light last night. I am on my own in this adventure. Mother or not mother.

I am fine with that.

I just wish someone had explained that to me forty years ago. Then I would not have felt obliged to contort myself into strange shapes to “mother”, to serve, to do any number of things I had no desire to do.

So tonight, I will talk about the myth of Cerridwen, the Pig Goddess of the ancient Welsh and how she tries to be the best mother she can be, how she sacrifices everything for a son she does not particularly like and how it, literally, blows up in her face.

Fancy listening to the recording?

Let me know if you do.

It is going to be good!!!

Two people liked my latest post… TWO!!! And they were anonymous!

What, too ashamed to admit they’d liked it? Or robots? AI types?

Remember, that is the one you probably did not even bother to open or read the first line and thought….NO NO NO. I can’t be doing with someone having had a lovely day.

So back to the serious stuff.

I was in a workshop with morning, marketing type thing. Lovely marketing lady says “How many hours do you really spend prepping for an event?”

GULP!

I am currently ploughing my way through the rather tedious autobiography of Mary Seacole, the Enchantress for my Zoom call on Sunday on the theme of The Mother Archetype.

I am also revising my knowledge of the Crimean War (because, you know… context)

And also Florence Nightingale…. Well, in for a penny, etc.

And listening to an excellent biography of her life written by Helen Rappaport, all marvellous 12 hours of it.

So say, 3 hours of the (mercifully short) autobiography, a couple of podcasts (Empire - recommended), the Rappaport tome, that is what… 14 hours give or take.

Then there is all the posting, setting up the Zoom, sending reminders etc. Etc. Say 3 hours.

How much am I charging for the actual event? 30 euros….

So that would be around 1 eu an hour…

I must review the situation!!!

Here is a portrait of Mary Seacole and if you want to come on Sunday, comment!

Fingers crossed you open this one!

Until we meet again….

I usually strive to write meaningful content. Stuff relating to my Quest for the Enchantress Project, deep and relating to some archetype or another.

But

Tonight, I want to tell you about my lovely day.

In details

To immortalise it perhaps or to remember that lovely days exist.

Today, I had a surprising day, a flowing day.

It started at the crack of dawn with taking some friends to the railway station for their great adventure of a holiday. I enjoyed the getting up when the house was all still and soft. The wash in cold water as the booster was not switched on and the gentle hum of the waking land as I chanted my mantras in the kitchen garden.

Then swiftly back home for breakfast and some yoga (I cannot miss the yoga portion of the day - keeps me supple and balanced).

Then, off again to pick up another friend who needed rescuing from a car issue, followed by coffee in town when I noticed I was quite close to the Opel garage. That is where my car came from so I thought I’d randomly go and have a look at new cars. Just in case.

It so happens that they have a rather exciting new/old car (well certainly newer than mine) coming in at the end of next week. Ooo…

Then back to town to meander some more, buy the Indian food I like at the Asian market and, on the spur of the moment, deciding to have my left ear re-pierced - the holes had closed and that had been annoying me for ages. I chose some triskeles earring for the Enchantress. They look lovely, don’t you think?

Then, feeling bold, I went and had my hearing tested.

I am not going deaf!!!

Back home, the grand children were busy clearing all the cuttings left over from my hedge cutting marathon.

Made pancakes

Electricity went off

Had previously steamed asparagus for supper.

Electricity still off

Decided to go and get some chips. Chips, salt and vinegar + asparagus and mayonnaise.

Heaven

Sorry no photo… was too hungry!

Electricity still off

Got the camping gas out and made a cup of mint tea.

Electricity back on

All and all a lovely day!

Tomorrow, I will get back to trying to be clever and deeply meaningful.

Meanwhile.

Good night all!

Today is the New Moon! Hurrah! Time to let go, burn stuff, cut the ties!!

What? Again?

You know, I am rather tired of all of this letting go and burning stuff.

I feel wrung out and rather bare.

Like a tree in winter but without the hope of spring.

Tabula rasa, once more onto the bridge,

washed washer than white, born again?

Why on earth would I want to do any of that?

To plant new seeds obviously, you fool, I hear you cry.

Only, we are in the middle of June and the time for planting seeds is either too late or too early, and, what, with the weather we are having, I am watching my poor seedlings struggle as it is.

Besides, planting seeds involves a lot of patience and commitment. Look at this lovely garlic bulb I picked in the kitchen garden this morning. I planted it way back in October. It has been through months of wind and rain, frosts and heat.

People say garlic is easy to grow. They would be people who have never prepared the beds tenderly, dug the holes at just the right depth and blessed the soil.

Looking after seeds takes much longer than the cycle of the moon!

So, if I am neither letting go or planting seeds, what could I do?

Because I do like the new moon,

Its possibilities, the turning of the tide

But I do not want to erase the beach!

I love that painting. It reminds me of home.

Every time I look at it, I see something else. Over the years, I have contemplated it from many angles, and every time, I see something different.

And I do not want to “let it go”, I want to re-visit it again and again. Every time, marvelling at the artistry of it.

So instead of “letting go”, this New Moon, I am seeing the picture of my life from a different angle. Like that special painting. Not something to erase, cut bit off because I no longer like nor need them.

For example, there has been a lot of talk about the importance of neighborhood, village community, local activism.

My problem is that I do not really have that many connections where I live and certainly not connections to people my age.

So, I could “let this go”, plant new seeds, try harder, go to the Women Shed in town, try the reading group at the library, anything at all really.

OR

I could look at the neighborhood idea from a different angle.

What if my neighborhood was my online community? The many special friends that I made during the Covid years and since, all over the world. Women and men who know me in a deep way, even if I have never met them physically.

What if, instead of planting new seeds, I was to cultivate my online friendships, honour them and give them the time they deserve?

Pruning tenderly what needs to be pruned, the way I prune my hedges at this time of year, making sure the trees are not suffocated by weeds.

My friend, Aish and I were discussing our new programme the other night, it’s called “Phoenix Fire, Candle Magic”.

We have decided to no longer rage and rant about how our world is being run by forces that have no care for humanity or the planet.

Instead, we have looked at another angle.

Our course offers an alternative. Another way to look at the situation and instead of fighting it, magically instill change.

Not every New Moon requires the same approach. Before you decide what to do with it, look around you. What are the trees up to? What does the grass look like?

Act accordingly.

Then decide to look at things from a different angle, see what happens when you do that before you let go and burn things. Because, you might accidentally cut off something that you had not looked at closely enough, something that deserves more attention, something that, viewed from a different angle, might change your life for the better.

This idea for this article came from a conversation with special writers friends

Sasha Kerry Smith (her Substack is Joint Philosophy)

And

Renne Proulx (her Substack is Renproulx)

Check them out!

Until we meet again…

Yes, this was created in collaboration with an AI. I am saying collaboration because it took a good couple of hours and back and forth to get the tone and look that I was looking for.

Look at me, read my words, I am already on the defensive.

I am very creative with words but total rubbish at producing images and all my Canva efforts always come out wonky and unsatisfactory although, of course, Canva is also using an AI.

Anyways, I was really pleased with my (our) effort(s).

Then, the sky fell on my head (as they used to say in ancient Gaul), I got a message from a friend telling me that the owner of Chat GPT is bankrolling the American Governement.

What to do? I mean, I love my image and I co created it but how can I publish it? Will it make me an accomplice of what is going on over there and how it is being funded?

As a dare, I asked Chat GPT, curious to know what the answer would be. It candidly confirmed the story and offered alternative AIs without such dubious links.

Although, the French one, amusingly called “Chat” (cat), is actually owned by the French Government so… can it be trusted?

I started to lose my mind with all the worry and the questions.

Took myself off to a visit to The Enchantress and asked for her advice.

I came across Eleanor of Aquitaine, here she is,

It says the image is “digitally enhanced” whatever that means.

Anyway, I asked her advice and she said “Use what you need to use to put your message across. The great big corporations who run your world do not have any qualms of conscience and neither did I when I decided to leave my first husband, Louis of France. I had better fishes to fry and so to do you.”

And she walked away with a swish in her skirts, intent on whatever fresh adventure awaited her.

So I am asking, what do you think about all this?

Are we really on the edge of the end of human civilisation as we know it, are our brains really going to atrophy if we use these new tools, will they take over the world?

Or are we as frightened and reluctant to accept advances in technology as the people who smashed the first Jacquard Looms?

I wonder if the men of the Stone Age felt as threatened as we do by the arrival of coper tools..

I was “home” last weekend. In inverted comas because I mean France, the country of my birth, which had no really felt like home for a very long time, busy as I was trying to create “home” somewhere else.

Which made what I am about to tell you even more powerful.

Just landed, I was whisked away to a generous house party. Not quite sure what to expect, I was greeted by the most wonderful smell of jasmine, draping the front door.

Stepping through that gateway was far more magical that I ever imagined. A wall of the most incredible energy welcomed me as people turned around to greet me.

I stood still, too shocked to move, stepping outside once again to regroup and try to make sense of what was going on, I understood something extraordinary.

Most of the people in the room were mirroring me back. Same age, same appearances, all French speakers, artists, musicians, writers.

I had not felt mirrored by my environnement for a very long time, I realised in that instant.

Where I live is perfectly fine but that is it, perfectly fine. Is perfectly fine good enough? If we live in a world where we do not feel mirrored back, is it indeed good enough?

What happens if a person is not mirrored by his or her environment is that their identity shrivels or they try desperately to become like their environment and thus deny who they are. In many small ways, this is what has happened to me over the decades of being in (voluntary) exile both from my country of birth and, as it turns out, from myself.

I don’t know if you are familiar with the concept of “mirroring”, I learnt how to do it at Therapy School, very clumsy it was too. The teachers there said that the therapist had to somehow mirror the client, the client had to feel reflected in their eyes. A tricky thing to achieve that can become contrived. For example if the client smile, smile back, inclines their head to the right, do the same, you get my gist.

The idea is to make the person feel comfortable and “seen”, give them a taste of what a benevolent environment could be like. As I said, it can be very contrived but on Saturday night, it was spontaneous and I could have cried. Took me a while to get back into the house and start chatting to people.

Then another strange thing happened. I introduced myself automatically as Béatrice Rouzoul.

I know you know me as Baya Salmon-Hawk but that is not actually my name. It is a name I adopted a very long time ago to try to fit into the Anglo Saxon world. Because not many people over here can pronounce my second name for starters so I thought to make myself more agreeable and select a more English sounding name.

My name is Béatrice Rouzoul. That is the name on my passport and all my official papers. I don’t use it ordinarily and there I was introducing myself as her, probably because in that hall of mirrors, this is whom I felt I was.

I felt like I was Cinderella at the ball that night, in my beautiful gown made by my fairy Godmother, dancing with a whole lot of princes and princesses, transformed and enchanted.

“Enchantée” is what you say in France when you are introduced to someone new. “Enchanted” or perhaps “delighted”, it is a delight to meet you. Not the bland “How are you” of the Irish. A much softer way of greeting a stranger, of turning them into a potential friend.

So I was enchanted and remained thus for the remaining of my stay. For those few days, I embraced being Béatrice, being greeted by two kisses, one on each cheek. I embraced myself. I felt absolutely real because I was also surrounded by people who felt and looked like me.

I was one with my Enchantress, bathing in the noises, the smells and the energy of a world of belonging, at times alone but never lonely, never isolated, never the “blow in” (a rather derogatory irish expression to define someone who is not from “here”. A “blow in” is often from the next village and will remain a stranger for ever more).

I wonder if you have ever felt that way, Dear Reader, suddenly at one with the world you inhabit even for a brief moment, a moment that will stay with me, I hope, for a long time.

Then of course, I had to go “home” not my home at all but the place where I currently live. Another Irish saying is “where are you staying” not “where are you living”, the house I bought when I arrived here always being “Noel’s house” as in “I see, you are staying in Noel’s house” (Noel sold that house to someone else nearly thirty years ago and has now gone to re-join his maker but it is still his house and will never be mine). Because I do not belong here, Béatrice does not belong here.

The next thought, because I like action, is what to DO about this… move back “home”, change my name, do something really drastic?

Or…. Become my own mirror?

Because, back to the therapy theories, it is postulated that, provided you have enough therapy, you will become your own home and will no longer need an external mirror.

THIS

IS

NOT

CORRECT!

Contrarily to what we have been told, a human being is not an island, the idea that if you heal yourself you will heal the world, miraculously, is a fatuous one as we experience every day. It has turned us into isolated sad and lost creatures who often cannot remember how to organise with others to create a better world together.

Which is why our civilisation is in such decline.

So, what next?

I don’t know?

Do you?

A bientôt!

Béatrice (Baya)

And there it is. Another disaster, another war, another story that makes no sense at all.

Rage floods your body. Your eyes blaze, your heart races, your fists clench.

Then, you slump, shoulders down, in defeat “and there is nothing I can do about it.”

I used to be like that. Fuming with rage one minute and then down in the dumps with the futility of it all.

I was stuck in the third age of women. I had once been a Maiden, charming and delightful then I had become a Mother, all giving and hard working and now, now… well I was a Crone. Old and pretty useless.

No one, I tell you, no one listens to Crones. Not your children, not your neighbour, not your GP, not your politicians. NO ONE!

Then I found The Enchantress, or rather, she found me. I started looking for role models, women who had not given up, women whose life had meaning. They are my inspiration and have taught me how to live differently.

What does that mean?

JOAN OF ARC

She was a shepherdess, during the Hundred Years War between France and England.

One day, she cut her hair, borrowed (or stole) men’s clothes and went to see the King of France.

She was furious, France was mostly occupied by the English and she was having none of it. Besides, her God had told her to go and sort it out.

She was 15 at the start of her adventures. And she did it! She managed to get the King of France crowned and pushed the English out.

She got angry and did something about it.

She did not think “I did not vote for this” or “I don’t know where to start?”

She started. She went to the captain of her local garrison, managed to convince him that it was essential she met the King, managed to convince the King to put her in charge of his army (yes, I know, this is mad but true) and on it went.

If you join me on Friday May 1st on Zoom at 7pm, Dublin time, I will tell you more about her and my own personal quest.

You will find out where you also can start, what questions, hesitations are blocking your path.

I shall take you on a journey of exploration and you will meet your very own Enchantress.

This Quest will be yours and the next morning, when you wake up, you will not reach for your phone, rather you will reach for your sword (I don’t mean that literally, obviously) and go forth to change your world one impossible task at the time.

This is not about self development, this is a call to action, a call to start something, anything to make a difference.

We start on Friday 1st May at 7pm Dublin time on Zoom.

I expect the call will around an hour and a half.

Here is the link to sign up

https://www.paypal.com/ncp/payment/ZG4TJ3SDT29MA

Or is it the other way around?

The other day, I was writing a landing page for The Quest for the Enchantress. And this is what I came up with.

“The Quest for the Enchantress is an experience that may be of use to some women who might learn some goods things during the process. I shall tell stories of enchantresses and, if you choose to, you can join me in a visualisation/meditation where you might meet your very own enchantress. Enchantresses are archetypes whom you might find useful when you feel that the concept of the three ages of women (Maiden, Mother, Crone) do not sit well with you - of course, if you feel that they are fine, then there is no need to proceed. I hope that you might find this useful and that you will feel inclined to sign up. Here is the link. If you have any financial difficulties, do not hesitate to get in touch so we can arrange something more affordable.”

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO

Her voice jolted me out of my inspired writing.

“What’s wrong, Mary?” I asked

“You have got it all wrong! What you are writing is putting me right off. This is not how Enchantresses talk, you silly woman. Let me write it for you.”

She took control of my keyboard and this is what she wrote.

On Sunday 10th May 2026, in Kilkenny at the Koru Wellness Centre, an extraordinary event is taking place.

Storyteller and shamanic healer, Baya Salmon-Hawk is running the first of a series of events dedicated to her new project, The Quest for the Enchantress.

An Enchantress is not a fantasy, nor is she a Jungian archetype. She is a woman of flesh and blood who lived an amazing life and changed the world in some way or another. She defied conventions, made bold, often outrageous choices and lived a life that mattered.

If you are feeling miserable, like you might fall apart any minute now. If you feel that nagging feeling that there must be more to life than the current state of affairs,

that you would love to find out what you are actually meant to be doing with your life, if you long for some magic, some miracles, anything to get you out of your current rut.

Well this event is just for you. There will be storytelling, visualisations, drumming and talking. A community of purpose will be created and you will leave feeling both lighter and richer.

So you fancy this? Well, then, sign up. The cost is extremely modest 20 euro for the event. Here is the link for Baya’s Revolut account. There are only 8 places, so do hurry up.

HTTPS://revolut.me/beatrit12

And then, Mary Wolfstoncraft left…

She does write better than me, doesn’t she?

I am still learning what it is like to be an Enchantress.

See you on the 10th May if you live in Ireland, otherwise, there will be an online event on Friday 1st May at 7pm Dublin time. Same format. The Paypal link for this one is https://www.paypal.com/ncp/payment/ZG4TJ3SDT29MA

Either way, you do not want to miss this! It is going to be AWESOME!

Here she is.

She looks so prim and proper with her little legs crossed and her white shoes. She used to hate the shoes with a passion. They were there to keep her legs straight and she was never allowed to wear ballet or Maryjane shoes in case her knees buckled. That was the Wicked Witch’s story.

The Woman met her years later. The Wicked Witch was very old by then and one day, for no apparent reason and with no comment, she sent her the photo. She hardly looked at it. Put it in the file called “Family Stuff” and locked it in her filing cabinet. firmly. She forgot all about it.

Until….

Until, many years later, as she was approaching what they call her later years, she got the inexplicable call to clean her filing cabinet. After all, The Voice told her, “You are retired now, you have so much stuff that needs burning. Stuff you will never need again”. The Woman was not surprised by hearing The Voice. In fact she quite welcomed her.

She had been feeling out of sorts lately.

This retirement thing was not sitting well with her. What exactly was she meant to do now that she was “retired”, retired from what exactly?

It sounded to her that she was being asked to retire from life altogether.

She half heartedly got a file out of the drawer and emptied it on the floor of her office.

There, in the middle of all the jumble of random papers was the photo of a little girl.

The Woman did not notice the white boots or the primly crossed legs.

The first thing she saw was the crown on the child’s head.

She remembered that day. It was the Epiphany and Betty (that was her name then) had won the Queen’s Crown and she was Queen for the Day.

Next, the Woman looked at the child’s face and her rather terrified smile. Did she know what being Queen for the Day even means, she wondered.

Then The Voice spoke. “Take your mobile telephone. Open the screen. Press this button (there was an icon flashing!). And say the first thing that comes to your mind.

So, The Woman took her magic wand out (her mobile telephone in fact), waved it about and asked “Can you transform this child into a queen? AND she has to have ballet shoes. AND her outfit has to be spun with gold.” The mobile answered “Your wish is my command, my Lady” or words to that effect.

A few moments later, this is what appeared on the screen

Look at the smile! Completely transformed! That is what a golden dress and a pair of ballet shoes will do to a girl!

The Woman put the new photograph of the child she once was against her heart.

She thought “I do not know how to be a retired woman. I have no idea what to do with the next decade of my life.” Her phone came to life and made a tinkling noise.

She dropped it, she was that surprised.

There, on the screen, were two words: “ASK THE ENCHANTRESS!”

This is when this new chapter of her life started.

So, if you also feel that you would like golden or pink or whatever coloured ballet shoes, if you would like to find out how to embellish the woman you are right now. Not change her necessarily, just make her life more colourful, add touches of magic to it, perhaps/

Well, join me as I start my new project.

THE QUEST FOR THE ENCHANTRESS.

Further news coming soon!

I have no idea of your age but, as I was cutting the tomatoes for today’s salad, I got to thinking about mine.

At every great stepping stones (I prefer to call them that than milestones), I have looked around and longed for some wise person, a bit older than me, perhaps, to give me some pointers.

Actually, they do not even have to be wise as long as they are truthful and do not announce that fifty is the new forty, etc. etc.

What I need to know is :

1. it is ok to only do yoga for 30 minutes at a time,

2. to take a nap in the afternoon (horrors)

3. or even to read a book for the remainder of the day because I feel like it or I am frankly too tired to do anything else.

Please, please, do not comment that I can do as I please and all of the above is fine.

I need to know, from a woman of around 70 or so, how her life, her body, her rhythms, have adapted to the aging.

I need to be given permission.

I know this possibly sounds weird but I am tired of forging ahead without my lights on.

My mother (long gone) used to tell me “Do not listen to yourself”. Dreadful advice?

I am tired of not listening to myself

I am tired of telling myself to pull myself together and get on.

I am tired to be frightened of stopping, of smelling the roses, of limping a bit or snoozing sometimes.

I often mentor women in their fifties and reassure them that what they are living through is fine, to flow with it and let it happen. I promise them that usually there is a kind of rebound around sixty, which is what I have experiences.

Could someone do it for me, please?

And tell me the truth?

I mean, I know women my age and they are doing their Phd, writing another book, climbing mountains… or so it sounds…

But are they really?

Today, I was planning to go to a ceremony, one hour’s drive away from my house, then onto a concert and then…. who knows…

I could not do it and chose to go to the concert.

Only.

An Cailleach, the Celtic old woman of winter, is not a tremendously good role model because after her summer reset (more about this next week), she comes back with a vengeance rearing to go and spread wind and ice about.

I cannot regenerate that fast anymore.

In fact, I cannot regenerate anymore.

No, I do not think I am sickening for something, I think I am getting old.

And I would love to know what that means.

Practically.

Let me know if you have any pointers.

Until we meet again.

Have you heard the latest…

The not so much latest actually since the saying has been repeated again and again for the past four weeks at least.

People, this is it!

We are all lost on our wagons in uncharted territory or is it territories or sometimes they say unchartered waters which leads me to wonder how one maps a body of water. What, with the ebb and flow of the waves and the tides, it must be quite difficult.

But, I digress (as is my custom).

My beloved reminded me that, during the Great Plague, they invoked ‘‘Unprecedented Times’.

Is that worse than being Uncharted?

What does Uncharted mean?

You know how much I love words and etymology so, lets ask Dr. Google.

Actually, she is now called Dr. Ecosia because she says she plants trees and right now we really need more trees although how a search engine plants trees remains a mystery to me… another one.

“An uncharted area has not had a map made of it and has not been described”

Ok, so is this not the history of our species? Or what life is all about?

I mean, bands of humans wondered around for centuries slowly making themselves familiar with the land around them, then investigated further afield, and further yet, until they met a body of water and then, well they walked further along its shores, curious, always curious, charting, discovering what was uncharted.

This is how Columbus accidentally discovered the Americas. He managed to buy a ship and sailed into uncharted seas till he found land and the rest is history.

People, this is the way history is made!

With uncharted territories!

In fact, America was just that. Unchartered territories that people curiously explored and settled in.

So telling us we are in uncharted territories is rather exciting, isn’t it?

Rather than vaguely frightening.

Humans like the uncharted. It makes our imagination soar, our nostrils shiver in anticipation of the adventure to come.

Who knows what we will discover round the next corner, the next forest, the next mountain range, what treasures, what exciting new thing?

In this regulated, regimented, boring world of ours, we need to feel uncharted.

Look, we need to trust our senses, our ideas and notions of what is possible.

So, on this not-so-fine morning of this rather desperate unsummery summer here on my little island, let us hitch our oxens to our wagons and set off.

Those uncharted territories sound mighty attractive right now.

Onwards. As I have said sometime else, “we do not know where we are going but we are going anyway! “

At least, now there is somewhere to go

THE UNCHARTED!

Until we meet again…

'Tis a strange business, this writing weekly. You do it for weeks on end, and then you don’t.

Nothing to write about, or far too much to write about?

For me, it was too much of the same to write about.

As the world continues unraveling around us and the Irish summer, true to form, keeps us in pullovers and wellies, I had no idea where to start.

Then the dam broke, and here I am again.

I am glad I found that flag. I looked for a while on Unsplash, but they were all wrong, too triumphant.

This one has seen better days, it is topped by some dark bird and suits the current situation.

Did you know that tears of joy sound exactly like tears of sadness? I did not, and I learned that on Sunday night when I broke into uncontrollable sobs and people surrounded me as I stared at the blue screen of my phone.

They thought someone had died. Well, something kind of had—or at least I hope.

Let me tell you how it all came about. I was doing a storytelling gig with my friend and colleague, Sarah. I had been very brave all day, all week in fact, and possibly for the past three weeks since the French President had thrown his toys out of his pram and declared that he would bet on the country’s future on a whim.

I had voted online dutifully, an extraordinary experience—that couple of nervous moments typing into the system strings of numbers and letters sent by email and different ones sent by text. Another mysterious set of numbers to open the final gates and then… a click. You are done.

No wonderful ritual, no sonorous French official shouting “A voté” once you have put your envelope in the urn. Silence. Bizarre.

Anyway, as I said, I thought I felt fine. I had taken to referring to France as “my country of birth.” As it was teetering on the edge of fascism, I tried to detach myself. After all, I had left a lifetime ago. It had nothing to do with me.

I had not even looked at the projected results. I mean, I was working, so…

At the interval, I picked up my phone to make sure that the dog was okay.

I saw all the messages on WhatsApp. “Great News from Paris,” said one.

Shaking, I checked.

The Republic had been saved.

And I sobbed.

In the most unprofessional way, most surprisingly, I found out that yes, I cannot unfrench myself. I do care, at the bottom of my very being, about the Republic.

And so does the majority of French citizens.

The tears watered my writing drought, and here I am again.

With my ramblings.

Times are tough. It is hard not to lose heart.

Then, something happens, and the heart starts the upward climb again.

Being old is a funny thing. You think you have seen and experienced most things and then…

A completely new thing appears, ready to be experienced, and you discover that yes, you can.

Hope again, perhaps. Moderately.

Write again, perhaps. Passionately. Who knows.

Any new exciting experience in your neck of the woods?

Until we meet again,

Whenever that will be

Dear Reader,

The image above is so familiar isn’t it. A lovely summer holiday, camping with your friends in the sunshine. What fun!

Look again…

What do you see?

A lot of tents, crammed together near to a river. People standing about.

What if,

In fact,

These tents…

You see, the little island that has housed me for the past seven years has joined the rest of the world.

In many countries, people who have nowhere to live pitch up tents on the side of the road, or in parcs, wherever they can pitch a tent.

I presume you get used to this and walk on by.

We are not

Not yet anyway.

Also, these tents are not for homeless people, they are for arriving migrants.

As I said, this is a small island, it has a strange no frontier with another much bigger island intent on getting rid of their migrants by sending them somewhere in Africa, possibly.

So scared people are moving across the no frontier, I have no idea how this works but they are.

They arrive and

There is nowhere for them to be. No accommodation. Nothing. Everything is full.

So the Government, via the relief agencies, gives them a tent and a sleeping bag and some food.

But nowhere to pitch the tent.

So people pitch their tent wherever there is some earth. Other people join them. Soon there are a hundred tents.

Then the local residents protest. The government intervenes, the tents are taken away. Some of the migrants are taken to special tent cities where there is sanitation, etc. Others are told there is nothing for them, there is no room at the inn.

So they go to the next relief organisation, get a tent, a sleeping bag and…

you’ve guessed it…

EVERY DAY

This happens in the capital city.

And every day, new migrants arrive.

I do not know who has told them that this little island is paradise, welcoming, delightful.

It is becoming angry and unpleasant. There are fires being sets to future accommodation centres, demonstrations and fights with the police.

How do we solve this problem? As a migrant myself, but a rich one who has a job, money to buy a house and a family here, I get it. It is a lovely country.

But it is tiny. The population is very small comparatively as it never recovered from a long ago famine that emptied it.

Tiny population and large influx of strangers do not mix well.

Also, there is this problem that the little island has always prided itself on its welcoming policies. You do not need a passport to be accepted in the migrant support program here, they let you through customs.

Then they give you a tent.

Then they take away the tent.

Then they give you another tent.

The only happy people right now are the tent manufacturers.

This piece of writing feels all disjointed, I know. That reflects how bewildered I feel.

This is all happening so fast and in front of my eyes, this little island is changing. People are beginning to call for the non-frontier to be closed, for the strangers to go home, to be sent home.

All across Europe, many people are calling for the frontiers to be closed, and the whole concept of Freedom of Movement is being put into question again.

But as the Global Climate catastrophe advances and our governments create or support meaningless wars, people come to take refuge.

Refugees, migrants, international protection seekers? They have many names but they will come somehow.

Some will die in the attempt.

They will come because here we do not have floods or raging wildfires (yet) or we do not shoot at each other (yet), we still have a functioning(ish) vaguely benevolent government.

This problem is not going away. It is getting worse.

I have an idea! What if we stopped the wars and used the money to sort out the mess we have created?

What about we sit down and work out how to help the countries that are being flooded, or destroyed by rising sea levels or droughts?

I know… such a lovely idea… but what would the tent manufacturers say?

They would be cross, they would lose their profits and we cannot have that

Can we?

Until we meet again.

As you might know, I have written a novel. Well, I have written three novels. Over the years, I have written three novels.

All first drafts.

So this time, I promised myself that I would go the revision route and write a second draft.

But how?

Ha ha, I will teach you how to do this, Little Girl, said Doctor Google in his most honeyed voice.

Search… Little Girl…. SEARCH…

Suddenly, my Feed (and it is called a feed. I have just realised why. Because it feeds me only of course it does not. It feeds off me rather. It feeds off my time, my energy, my home. GASP).

My Page, let us call it my Page, is suddenly full of lovely people who, for a very modest amount of money - say around $5000, will kindly edit and publish my novel.

Hurrah!

Only, I do not have $5000 lying around.

So what next?

Will I

a) read my novel again and make it even better so I can publish it here as I have promised myself.

or

b) buy a book that will teach me how to do it PROPERLY. Or listen to a podcast/sign up to a membership program/anything at all.

Because, THEY know how to do IT. Don’t they?

Of course, I chose b).

Why?

Because the answer is always outside of me. Even at my age.

The answer is always outside of me.

Whatever the question is.

And my Feed tells me that…

all

the

time

How it knows what I am worrying about is a mystery to me. Why it is even interested in the life of an elderly woman in the wilds of Ireland, I cannot fathom.

But my Feed knows. It knows that I am worried about the novel, it knows that I have high cholesterol, it knows that I would love to have more energy. It also thinks it knows that I am menopausal (insert evil cackles there) and that I want to buy more shoes (two pairs is plenty, thank you). So it does not know everything but it thinks

It does.

Now, my novel feels mangled beyond repair. I have no idea what I am supposed to do with it (apart from steal the $5000 and give them to the nice lady who said she could publish the book for me, I guess). I have wasted a month.

Trying to Save the Cat and Killing my novel instead.

Fool.

Until we meet again.

Dear Reader,

So many ghastly things are happening right now that I am at a loss for where to focus this week’s musings.

I am exhausted with it all!

Thankfully, you have been talking amongst yourselves!

Commenting and then commenting on each other’s comments. How wonderful is that!

This has given me an idea for this week.

You spoke about time. The lack of time, how to reclaim time, how to give yourself time to be.

It made me think of the French word “Flâner”.

It means…

Well then, that is the tricky bit, there are no equivalent words in English.

People have tried.

This is from the National Gallery of Ireland “The flâneur, a poet in the streets, sees the world through a kaleidoscope, finds solitude in a crowd, and delights in anonymity.”

Synonyms are meandering, strolling, hanging around.

These definitions imply purposelessness.

and un Flâneur or une Flâneuse are certainly not lacking purpose.

Let me try to explain.

Charles Baudelaire in the 1860’s wrote: “(Flâner is) To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world.”

The word has often been used as a synonym for lazy but a Flâneur is never lazy.

Imagine yourself, one morning, deciding that today you will let yourself go where your fancy takes you. You are going to DO nothing. There is no agenda, no plan, no list, just the desire to explore.

You set off, on foot. You have to be on foot or perhaps (at a pinch) on a bus, never in a car. Cars are far too fast.

You do not know where you are going. It is absolutely essential.

You start your day in the spirit of mild curiosity. You wonder, in a nonchalant way, where your steps would lead you if, for example, you turned right here. You let your feet choose.

As you walk, you notice things, like the other day, I was flâning (is there such a word?) down a country lane with my dog and I saw a Hawk, perched on a tree just ahead of me. I had not been looking for them, they were looking for mice but we shared a gaze.

I hope you get the idea.

At the start of the movement, to be a Flâneur implied you lived in Paris where they could be found.

At the time, it was considered an anti-capitalist pursuit. You cannot accumulate capital if you flâne.

You do not have to live in Paris, be French or indeed live in a city to become a Flâneur.

There is also a belief that to be a flâneur, you must be rich. This is not true. Anyone can do it. It does not cost any money, just time.

Just time…

Back to the beginning of these musings.

So, will you take the time to set out today, or perhaps tomorrow, with no purpose other than to flâne?

Curious to see the world, feel as if you belong with it?

Invisible and yet seen?

I would love to know.

Until we meet again,

Dear Reader,

I realise this post reflects only the West's affluent capitalist inhabitants, perhaps.

Or does it?

I was talking to a friend, this week and they said something like “When did I start wanting more money? Being worried that I did not have enough? Working so hard to get more money and not enjoying life anymore? I do not even know what joy is nowadays!”

As I listened to them, I felt rather smug. I do not have that problem, I thought. I do not wish for more money. I have enough and that is great.

Look at me, I do not want more money! I am not greedy.

No, not at all greedy.

I just want more seedlings in my greenhouse, more trees upon my land, more kimonos in my wardrobe (?!!), that is ok, isn’t it?

I was in my writing room. My desk was piled with projects, scripts, and books.

Look at me. I am so clever, I have it all worked out.

Then, that annoying little voice in my head said

“You still want MORE.”

You know that voice, don’t you?

“No, no, no, I do not want more money” I replied, primly. “I do not need more money, I have my state pension now.”

“You still want MORE, more experiences, more adventures, more projects, more things to do, things to get lost in, anything that will stop you from enjoying life.”

My little bubble of superiority burst there and then.

I am just like my friend. It is just that my MORE is different.

Then, I pondered,

What is this MORE about?

I remembered this strange experiment some person did years ago. They only ate hamburgers for months. They found themselves hungry all the time and they became quite ill. They wanted more and more of the crappy food because…

Because the food they were eating was not real food. It was full of calories, but depleted in nutrients and vitamins which meant that their body, desperate to be really fed, kept eating more and more.

Are my kimonos, seedlings, etc. the equivalent of the hamburgers? Do I want more and more because I do not feel nourished?

O, I feel plenty nourished. I live in the middle of the countryside, with a great community around me. I have enough.

And I have had enough.

Enough of wanting more.

What?

My problem is that I cannot accept that my life is nourishing as it is.

But what about striving to be better, bigger, more successful, more clever… have you noticed how the word has crept in again?

It's Capitalism’s fault, I tell you.

Do you remember, during the Pandemic, how we learnt to live with so much less? Less freedom, less people, less stuff?

How was it for you?

Some strived on this. Say they became what they had always wanted to be. Some say that not being allowed to see anyone was wonderful. Others, that not being able to work liberated their inner artist.

And when it stopped (or rather when we were told it had stopped), the Pandemic that is.

What did we do?

We went back to wanting more. We stopped painting, making, doing nothing, reading all day, living in our pyjamas, whatever it was we did then.

Just like that.

Because the system we live under, that old crumbling fading system, believes that as long as we want more, it is assured of carrying on, making a tiny minority even richer and the majority ever poorer.

Do we need a Revolution then?

What would that look like?

More chaos, more wars, more violence?

What if we started thinking that our life is nourishing enough and

If it is not,

Then do something to make it nourishing, get the right foods in, start painting again, not because it is going to make you more money, more freedom, more joy.

No, because it nourishes you.

The way writing nourishes me.

Try it. At the end of a day, sit down and ask yourself

“What nourished me today?”

And keep doing it, whatever it is.

Not MORE of it, like I decided that Yoga nourished me and gave myself an injury or the day someone told me that Broccoli (yes, Broccoli) is great for all sorts of things and I ended up eating so much of it that my stomach became not acidic enough (true).

No, keep doing it, just enough of it.

I love your comments, so I am looking forward to some of your clever words.

Until we meet again.

Dear Reader,

Before you read the rest of this post, I must warn you that you might encounter here some spoilers relating to the film “Civil War”. So if you have not seen it yet and are planning to do so, please stop reading now.

It is also what some people will call a ‘political’ post. A post of the city. A post that refers to events happening in our world and my opinion about them.

I feel a bit shy about this post since it contains more of my raw soul and sharing it feels somewhat daring.

Oh, and I wanted to thank my wonderful followers for your comments, I feel honoured to have you in my world. You gave me the courage to write something deeper.

Ok.

Here goes.

Last night, I went to see “Civil War”.

I saw it advertised as “A dystopic movie”.

If only…

Four war journalists journey from New York to Washington during their country’s war of attrition.

We never find out anything really about that “Civil War”. We are never told when it started. We only see that war in the Third Act. That is when, we encounter armies. That is a weird relief. Organised murder, after witnessing all the chaos, feels somehow more bearable.

We have no idea what the soldiers are fighting for or against. The time for “sides” seems to be long gone.

This film is not about “an imaginary society in the future”.

It is about the world we live in already.

What we witness is what happens when a society implodes. And some of it is already happening or has already happened.

Not imaginary, not in the future, but right now.

Not in some faraway place that we have never heard about but in our snug Western world.

As I watched, glued to my seat, it felt as if I was watching the nine o’clock news. Only, this time it was all happening in the USA.

Some of what I saw was not the future. It was now.

This week, hundreds of students have been arrested on American Campuses for having opinions (and I do not care what their opinions are for or against, that is beside the point). For daring to express their dissatisfaction with a system that spends their student loans in a way that disgusts them.

That is not the future. It is now.

At some point during the film, the main protagonists drive through a wild forest fire. That happened to friends of mine in Canada, last summer.

That is not the future. It is now.

There were images of shells of blown-up buildings that I am sure I only saw yesterday in the news, only it was in Gaza, not New York. Well, not yet anyway.

That is not the future. It is now.

At the start of the film, one of the war photographers says something like ‘For years, I filed images so that the people at home learnt what they must avoid at all costs. Look at them now.”

Indeed, look at us now.

I live in Europe, on a little island that fancied itself quite remote from the turbulence of polarisation, international terrorism, issues around immigration, etc. etc. Our politicians felt free to walk around without any bodyguards.

Yesterday, five people were arrested for violence against the police during a demonstration turned riot at a potential asylum seekers centre.

This is not the future, this is now.

“Civil War” does not end. There is no resolution. Some people die, others photograph them dying.

Period.

Of course, this has always happened. That is what war correspondents do, isn’t it?

Only, this time, it is their own war they are reporting on, photographing their own country self-destructing. Their compatriots making use of all those guns they felt entitled to own.

We never find out why, or how this has happened.

There is no how, no why.

Just a slow descent into hell.

You know, many of us have spent years and years in therapy, trying to fathom why and how stuff happened to us. Or why we do what we do. How to stop ourselves from doing it.

I wonder if it really matters anymore. The why and the how.

I just want it to stop. I want everyone to stop right now and look around.

What the fuck are we doing?

Or

Are we just going to carry on taking photos, watching the photos that people take of things that are going on.

Without doing anything, saying anything?

Is it already too late?

Are we the dystopia?

They smoke a lot during that film, they drink a lot too, those journalists.

Is it time to light up?

Until we meet again…

I hope…

Dear Readers,

How are you all doing? I know very little about you, those who follow me, click the little green button, and those who like me, send me little red hearts or yellow thumbs up.

I am thinking about you today, all one hundred and seventy-seven of you, and wonder.

Why do you follow me? I imagine this long line of people holding onto my train (because, of course, I am a Queen, I have followers after all).

What do you look like? Are you funny, clever and witty? You must be because you Follow me and I am all of the above. Aren’t I?

All the words jumbled in my head, and I smiled.

Look, Mummy, I have Followers!

Who is Mummy? I mean, I used to have one once upon a time but she is long gone. Why do I still invoke her? Because I am a good girl, spreading my message to my Followers.

Aren’t I clever!

And you like me too! On other platforms, you send me little hearts, yellow bubbly things that mean you are hugging me, little thumbs up waving me on.

The other day, I put out a Beltane event that I am running with a friend and there was a veritable forest of little hearts! It was marvellous, we felt so validated, so cheered, so seen.

No one has booked.

The stats also tell me that only about 40% of you even open my Stacks. How many read them?

There are four or five of you who actually comment. You matter a lot to me. I imagine you more as friends, you have substance and opinions.

You are “you” not “them”.

So why follow? Why like?

The more followers, I have read somewhere, the more will follow you back. What does that mean? That I will become famous? A great world thinker with an army of silent people behind me?

Do you even exist?

I only follow a few on this platform, people whose writing I love, people I personally know like Caitlin Matthews and Charles Eisenstein.

In this illusionary world, it is difficult not to be caught up in the delusion of being loved by hundreds of people. Not to greedily count the new Followers as if they were banknotes.

I could get trapped here, you know, waiting for you to click on that button. Checking my emails endlessly.

These musings have made me look at my own liking and following practices. I now make sure that I comment on my likes as in “I love this post of yours, it made me think of…” or “This is a great photo, where do you live?” or “I like your stuff, could we talk?”

Could we talk? Now then, would it not be wonderful if we could talk? I long to talk to you all, find out more about you, and get to know you so that you can get to know me.

I hope this post does not sound ungrateful or upset any of you, because, of course, I do not want to lose you. A Queen without followers is surely no longer a Queen. Is that why I write then, so I can gather more of you?

I guess it is. I write because I want to be read.

You will know that I am writing a novel if you read my stuff. I have finished the first draft and have started the revision process. I read somewhere that we write the first draft for ourselves and the revision is for our readers. I found that profound.

As I write these words on this miraculously sunny morning, thinking about what to plant in the kitchen garden, I ask you, my lovely likers and followers.

Why did you click on that Follow button? What does it mean for you?

When you Like do you mean you are coming? Or that you want to come, and participate in my work?

Or, perhaps, what are you planting in your kitchen garden?

Until we meet again,

Dear Reader,

I talked to my brother last night, in Marseille, where I come from. We started chatting about the weather, as you do. I follow the forecast for over there, it cheers me up. I said, “You are having such lovely temperatures, aren’t you”.

“Yes” He replied “But the rain is yellow and fishes and molluscs are dying on the beaches. It smells awful.”

“No matter” he added “The Olympic Games are coming soon.”

Me, I was busy imagining yellow rain and smelly beaches. I blinked “The what?”

“The Olympic Games, you know, this summer.”

Why does it feel so deeply dystopic to me that a country is still busily organising a multi-billion Euros event like the Olympic Games when yellow rain is falling from the sky, farmers cannot plant anything because the fields are too saturated or entire parts of Africa have declared a state of emergency due to lack of water?

Do you ever feel that nowhere is safe from the current dissonance? That our world is mid-jump from the edge of the cliff and no one, but no one is trying to find mattresses to soften the landing?

I am full of questions, today, as another storm beats up our little island. I do object to the trend of giving them names. My neighbour is really upset. They have called this one after her. That is unfair, she is a lovely lady and not at all tempestuous.

But I digress.

As I usually do.

When I am upset.

When I heard about the farmers not planting the fields, I was puzzled. I put my potatoes in last week, late to be sure, but on the one sunny and dry day of the month, I was able to do it quite easily. And I put my peas and broad beans in too.

No, you idiot, the farmers cannot plant in the fields because the machines sink in the mud. Last Autumn, they had to leave a third of the potatoes harvest in the ground because they could not get the machines in to pick them.

It is about the machines! So no wheat, no potatoes, no barley (no beer! What, I hear you exclaim) for this year? What are we going to do? If the machines cannot plough, plant, harvest for us… what are we going to do?

I know, let us organise the Olympic Games! That would work. It will not feed us of course, but I am quite sure we can get food from somewhere else.

What do you mean, there is no somewhere else…

surely, with enough money…

And no, do not be silly, there will not be a truce during the games (Eckecheria), no that was the stupid Greeks, all these millennia ago, we do not do it like this anymore. No, we will carry on with the wars, they sell arms and we need the money.

The money for what? Building more machines to harvest the fields?

Have you not heard?

Perhaps, we need to have conversations, in our small communities, about how we are going to manage without the machines. Perhaps, if we got together we could plant a field by hand?

I know we cannot, we do not have the physical strength and we do not know how not anymore. Who remembers how to plough a field by hand, besides we have got rid of all the horses by now.

But could we not just start thinking about it? Talking about it?

Declare an Ekecheiria on the news, the bad weather, hopelessness and powerlessness.

What do you think?

Until we meet again.

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