So, we want to run a collective experiment to see what might happen if we intentionally prompt life together.

For 30 days, starting 11 Sept, we’re inviting people around the world into this small collective experiment here on Substack.

Each day, we will post a simple prompt. Small attention directing practices designed to bring us back into contact with our own aliveness.

Let's flirt with life! I suspect we'll realise it's been flirting with us all along!

Feel like joining us?

Prompting life is available to paid Triskel subscribers, but in the spirit of spreading the aliveness we’ve made the full series available to everyone as part of a 30 day free trial.

Use this link to claim you free trial and upgrade to paid (you’ll be asked to provide your card details, but can cancel any time). https://triskelfield.substack.com/promptinglife

What if instead of prompting AI, we started prompting Life? This is a question that’s been a bit of a guiding principle in Triskel field for the last few weeks.

Prompts rest on questions, so here are a few that are very alive for us.

• What might the biggest problem you currently face be the perfect solution for?

• What if you were finally seen?

• What if this were just the beginning?

• What if you really could trust in mystery?

• What if life is flirting with you?

• What if this world truly is made to be free in?

• What if you allow yourself to receive and be impacted by Life?

• What conversation do you wish people would stop avoiding with you?

• What changes if you don’t marry your plans, you just flirt with them?

What questions are alive for you now?

How dare you?

It’s an odd phrase.

Sometimes we shout it or gesture it before we can stop ourselves. Other times it barely makes its way past the back of your throat before your inner editor rushes in …

“That’s not polite.”

“Don’t be so emotional.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“Calm down.”

“Be nice.”

We’ve become incredibly good at talking ourselves out of our own reactions.

Especially when we see ourselves as thoughtful, reasonable or nuanced people.

But I think we are editing out something important.

It’s not that every judgement we make is true, or that every opinion deserves to be voiced.

We’ve forgotten that our reactions carry something essential.

Lifeforce.

Desire.

Movement.

The unmistakable feeling that something in us wants life to be different.

And wherever there is genuine wanting, life is already moving.

Conscious Ranting

A few years back, I was introduced to a practice called Conscious Ranting by Trish Blain.

It isn’t a practice to make ourselves angrier, reinforce our stories, or become complainers.

Quite the opposite.

It’s a way of noticing what has life.

The practice begins with a simple pact: Whatever comes out is just information.

It doesn’t have to be true. It doesn’t have to be fair. It doesn’t have to be something you’d ever say out loud to another person.

For a few minutes, just stop editing yourself.

Because underneath the complaint is a different energy: desire.

We’ve included the audio practice below if you’d like to try it. It’s still one of the simplest ways I know to hear yourself say what has life before the mind tidies it away.

Listen to the Conscious Ranting Audio here.

The unexpected thing is this.

Once you start paying attention, you realise this energy doesn’t only show up in frustration.

It shows up wherever something matters.

In the work you can’t stop thinking about.

The person whose path keeps crossing yours.

The organisation you secretly wish would call.

The conversation you keep rehearsing in your head.

Different situations. The same signal.

This energy has been very alive in Triskel.

Yesterday, Sonja and I ran our first free Open Doors masterclass.

We explored a simple but profound reframe: extraordinary opportunities rarely arrive because we waited long enough or planned well enough. More often, they emerge because we recognise conversations, relationships and threads that are already flowing and coalescing, and find a way to participate.

It struck me that conscious ranting and Open Doors are really looking at the same phenomenon from two different directions.

Conscious ranting helps us notice what has life within us.

Open Doors asks us to notice where life is already moving around us.

The invitation isn’t to force a door open. It’s to notice which one is already slightly ajar.

How do you know?

Most of us assume the answer lies in thinking harder. In more research, planning, or conversations.

That we need more certainty before we start.

But in my experience, extraordinary opportunities rarely announce themselves that way.

They flirt. They return.

Again.

And again.

You literally feel yourself lean forward.

You smile.

You roll your eyes.

You whisper,

“Yes...”

Or perhaps,

“How dare they...”

Those impulses are easy to dismiss.

They’re also incredibly useful.

They’re often the first sign that life is inviting you somewhere.

The Alive Ask.

That’s where an Alive Ask begins.

Not with the email or a cold pitch.

But with paying attention to what is already moving.

Instead of asking,

“How do I create an opportunity?”

Ask,

“What’s the smallest way I could join what’s already happening?”

That’s a very different question.

You’re no longer trying to make something happen. You’re responding to something that’s already happening.

Perhaps that’s what we’ve had backwards all along.

We spend so much time trying to manufacture opportunities.

Trying to build the perfect strategy or figure out the next move.

Meanwhile, life is already moving.

Already inviting us into her flow: gathering people, projects and conversations around things that have energy.

Maybe our work isn’t to create momentum. Maybe it’s to become better at recognising it. And brave enough to join it.

A Practice.

For the next three days, pay attention to what keeps returning.

Not your to-do list or obligations.

What keeps finding you. Those small synchronicities that are so easy to miss.

A person whose name keeps popping up in conversations or on your timeline.

An organisation you keep mentioning, or seeing on billboards.

A conversation you wish you’d been part of.

An idea that won’t leave you alone in the shower or at 2 am in the morning.

Each time you notice one, write it down.

Beside it, note just one thing: What happened in your body?

Did you lean forward?

Smile?

Roll your eyes?

Feel a little jolt of excitement?

A tightening in your chest?

Don’t interpret it. Just notice.

After three days, read your list.

Don’t choose the most sensible one. Choose the one that still feels alive.

Then ask yourself: What is the tiniest Alive Ask I could make here?

Not a proposal or a partnership. Small. But not necessarily careful.
The kind of small that still has your pulse in it.

Perhaps it’s leaving a thoughtful comment, or asking a genuinely curious question.

It could be sharing someone’s work, or facilitating an introduction.

Maybe it’s saying the thing you’d normally swallow: “I want in on this.”

Maybe it’s admitting the pull out loud, to the person you’ve kept rehearsing conversations with in your head.

Maybe it’s telling someone their work has moved you: “I keep circling back to what you made, and I wanted you to know.”

The next time you hear yourself whisper, or yell out loud,

“How dare they...”

Don’t rush to tidy it away.

Life is prompting you.

An Alive Ask is how you prompt back.

That sinking feeling.
Dreading Monday before the weekend had even ended.

That quiet “here we go again” in the body.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling that again lately.

And not just on Sundays.
There’s a strange collective heaviness right now.
And underneath it… a longing.

For rhythm. For aliveness. For something that brings us back into our bodies.

Rituals used to do that.
But somewhere along the way, they lost their charge.

Not because they stopped existing…
But because we stopped inhabiting them.

So we’re bringing one back.

Not as idea.
As something we actually do.

Every Monday:

→Live 15-minute dance ritual
→Access to a curated soundtrack
→A tiny flirt from the universe

A fuck-yeah, come-alive kind of moment at the start of the week.

Two initial time slots:

08:15 am CET / SAST

Join here

12:15 pm CET / SAST.

Join here

€7/month · Cancel anytime

Your membership helps sustain the music curation, hosting, and holding of this space.

Use promo code: TRISKEL → to get your first month free.

Tag the people in the comments ↓who refuse to let the weekend energy die on Monday.

PS: Paying Triskel members have automatically gotten free access to Dance Club for life.

PPS: We’ve already had DJ requests from people who want to share music into this space. If that’s you, comment “DJ” below and we’ll add you to the list.

#Monday #Ritual #Dance

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

As a kid I used to get what my parents called “Sunday crisis.”

That sinking feeling.
Dreading Monday before the weekend had even ended.
That quiet “here we go again” in the body.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling that again lately.
And not just on Sundays.

There’s a strange collective heaviness right now.
And underneath it… a longing.
For rhythm. For aliveness. For something that brings us back into our bodies.

Rituals used to do that.

But somewhere along the way, they lost their charge.
Not because they stopped existing…
But because we stopped inhabiting them.

So we’re bringing one back.

Not as idea.
As something we actually do.

Every Monday:

→Live 15-minute dance ritual
→Access to a curated soundtrack
→A tiny flirt from the universe

A fuck-yeah, come-alive kind of moment at the start of the week.

The Monday Club
A 15-minute weekly dance ritual to start your week alive, awake, and connected.
Two initial time slots:

08:15 am CET / SAST
Join here

12:15 pm CET / SAST.
Join here

€7/month · Cancel anytime
First month free with code: TRISKEL

*Yes, this started playing in my head as Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack.
It’s a little wink. A little backchannel reminder that something playful wants space to breathe. And apparently… it’s dancing.

PS: We’ve already had DJ requests from people who want to share music into this space. If that’s you, comment “DJ” below and we’ll add you to the list.


#MondayClub #Ritual #Dancing

Almost 30 people.
21 minutes.

No facilitation.
No agenda.
No outcome to chase.

Just an opening.

One instruction:
“Listen with your whole body.”

Then Cecilia sang (your Friday flirt ↓)

And something shifted - not in meaning, but in state.
We didn’t interpret the moment.
We entered it.

What emerged wasn’t reflection. It was experience:

Magic.
Frequency.
Calibration.
Poetic precision.
Dissonant beauty.
Effortless effort.
Grounded expansion.
Quiet awe.

Next flirt:
Thursday 16 April
10:58 – 11:21 am CET / SAST ⋅ 6:58 - 7:21 pm AEST.

Come flirt

PS: Since flirting is a fully hands-on immersive experience, we don’t record (or allow in meeting notes) and we open rooms 2 min early and close them at the hour.

We run these every 4–6 weeks, twice each round - same theme, two sittings - to meet the sun across different parts of the world. Your next date is simply the one on your calendar invite, based on where you are in the rhythm.

→ Come flirt

This is not a survey.
It is a listening.

Only answer what has energy for you.

Add your voice anonymously

When we triskel together we allow the field and serendipity to hold the space. We don’t facilitate. In each session we drew a random card and chose a song. And then we let the field speak through associations, metaphors, and feelings.

Two sessions. Different cards, different songs, different groups. But the field seems to be moving coherently across both.

Note: Anyone who was in these sessions who’d like to contribute their reflections, please use the comments section to do so. Triskel is about co-attunement and co-creation. Your perspective is valuable.

Week one: Water

The card was called The Giveaway — number 23. An angelic figure releasing upward, moon phases marking time alongside her. The song was Moon River — that aching, beautiful song about dreaming and drifting and a huckleberry friend you haven’t met yet. Full moon in the northern hemisphere.

What came through was mostly heart and release. But the field held contradictions, too.

Someone spoke of being overwhelmed by love for others in the session, people they had never met, sensing they were all standing at the same place. But not everyone arrived into the warmth. Some felt a disconnect, no eye contact and people not quite fully present. The world is noisy. It is hard to switch states. It took a long time to get immersed in the field.

For some, it meant not feeling present. For others, once there, love arrived unbidden, for strangers.

You cannot engineer presence. That too was part of what the field was saying. It raised a question about choices: which ones are we free to make, and which ones are made for us?

Someone noticed the blue sky behind a participant in the UK (not a frequent occurrence, apparently) — infinite possibilities even when things seem quite bleak.

The field that day had the quality of water. A river you could almost cup in your hands. Flow, warmth, a slow dissolving into presence.

And then Kevin offered something that felt like the field speaking for itself:

Giveaway your fear. Release it to the field.

Giveaway your ego. Your thinking.

Listen.

It is whispering. You are ready.

Hear!

Be still. Close your eyes.

Giveaway your thoughts.

Open your inner ears, your heart ears.

Your lung ears.

And say...

Thank you.

(By Kevin Liebenberg)

Something landed unresolved that day, too. Antoinette offered: the gift of our collective mistakes. Nobody quite knew what to make of it then.

It needed the second session to find its meaning.

Join Triskel

Week two: Wind

Card 55. Taming the Wind. A figure made of feathers and forest and deep time. Layered, complex, impossible to fully read, and not meant to be analysed. A bird in the corner that felt like a messenger to at least one person in the room.

The song: Lost My Cool by AskJell. Jolty, definitely not peaceful on the surface, but when in the right relationship with the song, peace comes.

The card title itself provoked something immediately. Why would you want to tame the wind? The number 55 in the triangle signified deep transformation.

This was not the gentle river of the week before. The field had intensified.

The wind brings life. The wind brings change. One person said: Accepting the wind is peace. Consider a tree - it doesn’t interpret what is happening, it just bends with the wind.

Another said: “You don’t tame the wind; you dance with it.” You stay with the intensity, with the fire, and when fire and wind come together, they create fire tornadoes. Intense, transformative energy.

There was belonging. Connection reveals parts of who we are that we can’t reach on our own. Mystical things exist in each of us; we need others, and the field, to draw them out.

One man shared a memory from childhood — a storm, a shop, his mother, and a pair of trousers with patterns and colours he loved. She said: But those are girls’ trousers. A defining moment when he realised for the first time there was a difference. A world narrowing in a single sentence. That memory, held in this field, on this day.

What came through in this session was layered differently. Mystery. Mess. The sense that some things can’t be intellectually approached, they can only be sat with and accepted. The card was described as a visual representation of something subconscious, not yet reachable. Worth staying with rather than seeking a resolution.

Different people met the field in different ways. Some found peace in it. Some did not. That’s not a problem in the field - it’s the field being honest about what it holds.

We were not all in the same place. Yet we were all in the same field. That ability to hold diversity and tension is part of what makes this field so powerful.

What moved across both

Water, then wind.

A river you could almost navigate. Then a force you cannot hold at all - you can only know it by what it moves.

This felt like an intensification. Mirjam and I have been sensing the need to grow our capacity to hold intensity. It feels like the field answered by turning up the volume, not toward crisis but toward something that asks more of us.

The question across both sessions is essentially the same, asked with more force the second time: can you be in right relationship with forces larger than you, without trying to manage them? The Giveaway asks it gently. Taming the Wind asks it with fire tornadoes.

And the gift of our collective mistakes, the statement that arrived unattached in week one, strange and unplaceable, found its meaning in week two. We know what cannot be controlled by the evidence of every time we tried to control it, and it blew up anyway. The cracks are not failures. They are where the wind gets in.

The world outside is not quiet right now. War. Noise. Systems under pressure. That is everywhere in the background of both sessions, felt without always being named. And Triskel keeps feeling like a necessary counterweight - a place where the weight can be felt without being crushed by it, not a place of escape. Where a man can remember a childhood storm and something shifts, in a field with strangers who aren’t strangers.

Where a normal Tuesday can be good.

The river doesn’t rush. The wind cannot be tamed. And something in both of those things keeps asking us to loosen our grip and trust what wants to move.

We Triskel again on

• Thursday 9 April 3 pm CET / SAST 9 am EST and

• Thursday 16 April 11 am CET / SAST 7 pm AEDT

Join us! (Free to all Triskel members.)

Join Triskel

For two years, a passion fruit vine took over our garden.

It did not grow politely.

It reached.

It climbed.

It sent green tendrils along every surface it could find.

Flowers appeared almost year-round, intricate, almost alien in their beauty. Fruit dropped heavily from the vines. Bees moved through it in constant, humming devotion.

It never seemed to calculate.

It did not ration its flowering.

It did not appear to pace itself for potential dry seasons.

It gave.

And then, after two years, it was done.

No drama. No slow decline. It had given everything it was here to give. It returned to the soil.

I have not been able to forget it. It’s entire life and image of abundance, trust and reciprocity.

~

Share

Right now, as you read this, reciprocal life is flowing through you.

You inhale what forests and plankton have released.

You exhale what leaves are waiting for.

Breath is not metaphor. It is exchange.

Life is not sustained by hoarding or shrinking.

It is sustained by flow.

Somewhere along the way, we learned to tighten.

To earn.

To justify.

To measure our right to receive.

We began to speak of “earning a living” as though life were not already in us.

As though the sun should invoice you.

And so many of us learned to flower cautiously.

To underoffer.

To undercharge.

To over-explain and justify.

To shrink in the hope that smallness would keep us safe.

But smallness is not humility.

Withholding is not wisdom.

The vine did not protect itself by flowering less.

~

Reciprocity is not a transaction.

It is the membrane between you and the world.

It is the place where your particular way of seeing meets what is needed.

Where your wyrd - the pattern only you can weave - enters circulation.

It is not a guarantee of outcome.

It is participation in aliveness.

The vine did not wait for proof that the season would return.

It opened anyway.

Pollinators came.

Sunlight came.

Rain came.

In response, not as a reward.

~

This is the threshold.

The place between contraction and flow.

The moment you decide whether to hold back or to flower.

~

Abundance is not endlessness.

The vine did not live forever.

But it completed itself.

There is a difference between depletion and completion.

Between burning out and burning bright.

One is driven by fear.

The other by trust.

~

Everything that lives, flows.

Breath.

Sap.

Tides.

Mycelial threads beneath your feet.

When flow stops, something has closed.

So here is the Triskel’s invitation:

Where are you withholding? Not from discernment, from the belief that you have not yet earned the right to bloom? Or that your blooming is somehow undeserving?

What is the thing you offer that you habitually diminish?

What would it feel like to give it freely?

To trust that the sacred economy includes you?

~

The vine did not die holding back.

It died having flowered.

And perhaps that is enough.

Subscribe now

Something has been alive in the field lately.

More than an idea. A recognition - a remembering - surfacing in conversations, in writing, in the quiet moments between.

An ancient word keeps arriving.

Wyrd.

We’ve been sitting with it. Listening. Noticing what stirs.

What Is Wyrd?

Wyrd lives in our modern language as “weird” - an inheritance that has lost its power over time.

Today, weird gestures toward the strange, the other, the slightly off. Something kept at the edges. Something treated as a curiosity.

Wyrd carried a different weight.

It meant what is becoming.

The Norse understood that what is woven remains part of the weave. From this knowing, wyrd came to name fate: a living process shaped through sensing, choice, and response.

The ability to feel what is taking shape. The capacity to co-weave what comes next.

Every choice adds thread. We are always weaving. The difference is whether we are awake to it.

To be called wyrd is a recognition. It might be the highest compliment there is.

Wyrd Is Deeply Feminine

Wyrd is a feminine noun.

Urðr is the name of one of the Norns - the women who sat at the well beneath Yggdrasil, the world tree whose roots and branches hold all realms, and wove the fate of gods and mortals alike.

They didn’t observe fate. They didn’t predict it. They wove it.

They worked close to the source. Attentive to timing. Responsive to what was forming.

Reflecting on weavers brought to mind an old, familiar fear. An irrational phobia of spiders.

I’ve been afraid of them for as long as I can remember. Not because of any harm, but because my mother taught me to fear them. A small inheritance. Absorbed early. Never questioned.

Lately, as I’ve been exploring my own wyrd, I’ve been drawn to the deeper wisdom spiders carry. They are potent symbols of creation, weaving destiny and co-creating reality. Spider medicine speaks of patience, persistence, Kairos timing. And of feminine energy - the Divine Mother - strong, independent, creative.

So, I’ve been wondering what our inherited fears signify.

What we’re being called to release.

What we’re being called to remember.

So when a small spider descends from my ceiling on its thread, just as I’m reading about the Norns … I pay attention. And I smile.

Why This Matters Now

Eleanor Robbins wrote something recently that landed in me like a bell:

“After 500 years of shrunken consciousness, of ascendant rationalism, of colonialism, of violence and denial of spirit — it seems the tables might be turning. It seems we might have a chance to rewrite our tacit consciousness contract.”

She traces how the Reformation and Renaissance reshaped what counts as real. Dreams, intuition, and ritual slowly edged out of shared legitimacy.

Over time, this narrowing altered how people related to land, to others, to themselves.

When felt connection thins, domination finds space. Extraction gains coherence.

For centuries, value has clustered around what can be measured, proved, defended in the boardroom.

And many of us adapted.

We learned to partition ourselves. Metrics by day. Meaning by night. We learned to quiet the parts that sensed before evidence arrived. That noticed shifts before language caught up. That felt the floor shifting while everyone else nodded along.

We’ve been wyrd all along. We just learned to hide it.

The Invitation

Eleanor names what this moment asks of us:

“In order to honour this expansion of consciousness that’s playing out inside each of us, we have to indulge our deepest weirdness… And we have to advance with absolute intellectual rigour. We have to bring the intellect along with us.”

This is the wyrd path.

Weirdness and rigour, woven together. The bone-knowing and the clear mind. The pattern-sense and the capacity to act on it. The ancient inheritance and the present moment.

Wyrd is something you remember.

Underneath the adaptation. Underneath the professional polish. Underneath the story you’ve been telling to keep yourself safe — she’s still there.

The one who knows things she was never taught. The one who senses the turn before the data confirms it. The one who’s been weaving all along, whether she named it or not.

Wyrd is your inheritance.

You don’t have to earn it. You just have to reconnect with it.

The World Needs Us to Remember

Something is waking up.

Inside a chrysalis, the old form dissolves completely. And in that soup, scattered cells carrying new DNA begin to find each other. They don’t know what they’re becoming. They just recognise each other. And from that recognition, a new creature forms.

That’s what’s happening now.

The ones who’ve been holding more than they show. The ones who sense that what’s coming can’t be managed with the old tools. The ones who’ve kept their knowing quiet because the rooms they were in didn’t have space for it.

We’re the imaginal cells. And we’re starting to find each other.

We’re awake. And the world - this beautiful, buckling, magical world - needs us to stop weaving alone.

The Norns didn’t ask permission. They sat at the root of the tree, and they wove.

It’s time we remembered how.

Something wyrd is stirring. If you feel it too, you’re not alone.

A Call to the Wyrd Women

We’ve felt a stirring to create a container where the feminine can rediscover their wyrd.

At this moment, the field is calling the feminine weavers. The feminine dimension isn’t something we’re adding to wyrd. It’s where wyrd comes from.

Find out more about Wyrd Woman here.

We’re hosting a 33-min live taster session on 23 Feb at 7:27 pm CET.

It’s free for all the women who subscribe to the Triskel field.

And to the men, if you know a Wyrd Woman, consider this a sign to pass the invitation along to her.

Wyrd Woman Taster: free sign up for Triskel Subscribers.

Subscribe now

Yesterday, this emerged: “You are the one you have been waiting for.”

Read more

Last week, I participated in a collective sensing and attunement practice. A group of us, beautifully hosted by Simon van der Els, sensing with our bodies, feeling into what’s present in the field. It’s not dramatic work. Mostly it’s quiet. Mostly, you notice subtle things: tension in the chest, an image that drifts up, a colour, a pull in a direction you can’t name.

The image of a snake shedding skin came up. Not unusual, given we’re in a snake year. But something felt different about it. I stayed with the sensation, and what I noticed was that this didn’t feel like the familiar shedding - the kind where you grow and release and grow again, each time a slightly larger version of what you were.

This felt more like dissolution.

Then, unbidden, Quetzalcoatl. The feathered serpent. I wasn’t thinking about Mesoamerican mythology. I wasn’t reaching for it. It just arrived - this image of a snake with feathers, a creature that shouldn’t exist according to the usual categories.

And almost immediately after: imaginal cells. The words just appeared, out of context, alongside the feathered serpent. I know about imaginal cells-the ones that build the butterfly inside the chrysalis- but I wasn’t thinking about them. They showed up the way Quetzalcoatl did. As if they belonged together.

With these images came a felt sense, not fully formed, more like a question my body was asking: What if this shedding is different? What if what’s being shed isn’t a skin but the snake itself?

Share

Metamorphic vs iterative transformation

I’ve been sitting with this ever since. Are we confusing a moment of metamorphic transformation for one of iterative transformation? A distinction that the pairing of feathered serpent and imaginal cells seems to point toward. I don’t have clean language for it yet, but it’s feels important.

Iterative transformation is what snakes do. They grow, the skin gets tight, they shed, they continue. Each shedding is a renewal, but the pattern holds. You’re still a snake. Just larger. Just fresher. The template remains.

Metamorphic transformation is different. It’s what happens in the chrysalis—what the imaginal cells are part of. The caterpillar doesn’t just shed. It dissolves. The structure breaks down into something unrecognisable. And what emerges isn’t a better caterpillar. It’s a creature that operates by completely different rules.

Evolutionary biologist Elisabet Sahtouris points to something remarkable: The butterfly has its own unique genome, carried by the caterpillar but not part of it. The new form isn’t invented during metamorphosis. It’s already encoded, but dormant. Sleeping until the moment of activation.

The part that fascinates me: the caterpillar’s immune system attacks the imaginal cells. It treats them as a threat, as foreign, as wrong - precisely because they carry a different genome. They’re genuinely alien to the existing system.

The imaginal cells persist anyway. They multply. They find each other and cluster together, resonating at the same frequency until they reach a tipping point, at which the old structure can no longer hold.

I don’t know if this is what’s actually happening in the collective field right now. But it would explain something. It would explain why so many of us can’t see past this moment. Why the usual question - “what’s next?” - keeps hitting a wall. Why the future feels not just uncertain but somehow unavailable to our current way of sensing.

The caterpillar literally cannot imagine the butterfly. Its perceptual apparatus isn’t built for that reality.

Impossible integration – beyond our categories.

Quetzalcoatl is a creature of categorical confusion. Serpent that flies. Earth-bound animal with sky-feathers. In the mythic imagination, he embodies what happens when you don’t just grow but become something that shouldn’t exist according to the old rules.

The feathered serpent appears across Mesoamerican traditions (Aztec, Maya, Toltec), and he’s always associated with this same impossible integration. The divine and the earthly in one body.

Not transcendence away from matter but transcendence through it.

I keep reaching for language like “impossible integration” or “categorical confusion made sacred”, but that’s not quite it either.

The feathered serpent isn’t a transitional form. He’s not a snake becoming a bird. He’s what exists after the old categories have broken down - a new kind of creature that holds what couldn’t be held together before.

Maybe that’s why he showed up in the practice. Not as an answer but as an image of what metamorphosis might look like on the other side.

A broader pattern?

After the session, I started wondering: Is anyone else sensing this? Is this just my own threshold speaking, or is something trying to be understood more broadly?

So I went looking.

What I found was interesting. The mainstream “year of the snake” content is almost universally using iterative language. Shed what no longer serves. Release old patterns. Prepare yourself, the fire horse is coming. There’s something almost reassuring about this framing: things will be uncomfortable for a while, then they’ll be better, then there’ll be momentum and action. The cycle continues.

But parallel to this, scattered and not yet woven together, there’s another conversation happening. People talking about imaginal cells and collective metamorphosis. Astrologers calling 2025 “a threshold year when everything seems to change.” Complexity thinkers pointing to system-level phase transitions that don’t follow the old patterns.

The imaginal cell people are talking about metamorphosis. The Quetzalcoatl people are talking about impossible integration. The year-of-the-snake people are mostly still in iterative language. These conversations aren’t connected to each other. They’re happening in different rooms.

But I wonder if they belong together.

I wonder if the collective field is holding this knowing in fragments, waiting for the pattern to be recognised.

What if this shedding feels so hard - what if we feel so unable to see beyond it - because it’s not iterative? What if what emerges won’t be another snake-skin but something with feathers?

The invitation

This brought to mind something I witnessed in March, right at the threshold of snake year.

I was driving and came across two puff adders in the road. One was dead. The other was alive, curling and writhing over the body.

I stopped and watched for a long time. I was struck by its futility. This beautiful creature, moving in the patterns of relationship over something that couldn’t respond. And on the road, a dangerous liminal space, running the risk of being killed itself.

At first, I wondered if what I was seeing was a sad, futile attempt to revive a mate. But puff adders don’t pair-bond. They’re solitary creatures. They spend their lives alone, relying on camouflage and stillness.

So I don’t know what the living snake was doing. What drove it to writhe over something already gone. Maybe it was caught in the body-memory of connection: the motions of mating enacted over a form that could no longer meet it.

I keep thinking about the road. The threshold space. The crossing-place where you’re most exposed, most at risk. And this solitary creature, whose entire survival strategy is stillness and waiting, abandoning that strategy to curl around something that has already ended.

If I take this as field intelligence, not just an incident, it asks a hard question.

What are we trying to animate or relate to that has already died?

New questions

I don’t have a conclusion. I’m not sure this is the kind of thing that concludes.

But I keep sitting with these questions:

What if the old form of transformation is what’s dying - not just our skins but the shed-and-grow pattern itself? What if organisations keep failing to “transform” because they’re using snake-shedding methods in a chrysalis moment?

What if people keep shedding layers expecting to find their true self underneath, when maybe the self-that-sheds is what’s dissolving?

What if the disorientation so many of us feel isn’t a phase to push through but the goo? The necessary dissolution before something genuinely new can emerge.

The iterative story is reassuring because it promises continuity. You’ll still be you, just renewed. The metamorphic story doesn’t promise that. It says the caterpillar ends. It says you can’t take your current sensing apparatus into the next form. It says there’s a period of complete structural breakdown that, from the inside, looks like death.

I don’t know how to be in that. I don’t think anyone does.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the not-knowing is the goo. Maybe the felt sense of “I can’t see what’s next” isn’t a failure of vision but an accurate reading of where we actually are.

The feathered serpent doesn’t appear at the beginning or the middle of the transformation. He appears at the end - or rather, he is the end. The impossible creature that shouldn’t exist but does.

Are we still on the metaphorical road? Still curled around something that’s already gone.

What would it mean to let go without understanding why we’re holding on? What does it look like to step out of the expectation of shedding and re-emerging lighter and optimised – and embrace the chrysalis instead?

I don’t know. But I think the question is the right place to be.

Subscribe now

January doesn’t arrive quietly.
It pushes.

“Fresh start.”
“New year, new you.”
Move. Decide. Act.

In South Africa, we call it JanuWorry - empty pockets, full expectations, and the pressure to do before we’re ready.

But if you pause, just slightly, you’ll notice something else.

Not momentum.
Not clarity.
A threshold.

That strange, suspended moment where nothing is finished, and nothing has properly begun. Where the old no longer fits, and the new hasn’t learned its name yet.

Our ancestors knew this. Attuned to the natural cycles, they knew that January doesn’t carry “start energy”. It’s a time to linger on the threshold.

This is not a moment for goals.

Goals assume you already know where you’re going.
Thresholds don’t work like that.

Thresholds ask a different question:

Where are you standing? Really.

Not where you should be.
Not where the calendar says you are.
Not where you’re trying to get to.

Just: here.

January doesn’t ask us to act or set goals.
It asks us to declare.

This transmission is simple

It doesn’t ask you to improve yourself.
It doesn’t ask you to decide your future.

It asks you to do three things - in order:

• Sense where you are and Attune to aliveness.

• Declare what is alive.

• Amplify it by letting it be witnessed.

No optimisation.
No performance.
No premature clarity.

A doorway moment

I’ve been listening to Gelido Ogni Vena by Cecelia Bartoli. On a loop. Long enough to lose track of time, to arrive somewhere different.

There’s a moment, from 11:00 to 11:10, that I want you to hear:

-Listen here-

Something shifts. You can see it in Cecelia.
She holds.
Suspends.
She doesn’t rush.

Then something releases.

Because the moment was right, not because of a decision.

That’s January.

Not a launchpad.
A held breath.

Sense and attune first.
Declare second.

Sense where you stand

Before you speak, you orient.

Ask plainly, without softening reality:

Where am I standing right now?

We’ve created a short, free resource to help you do exactly this.
Not to analyse, but to locate yourself.

It helps you notice:

• What you’re carrying.

• What feels finished.

• What has charge.

• What is already loosening.

No visioning.
No future-mapping.

Just orientation.

Download the free resource here →
(A few minutes to find your footing before you speak. Free for everyone.)

Declaration over goals

Once you know where you stand, something becomes possible.

Not planning. Not pressure to act.
Voice.

Standing at a threshold changes how we speak.

Here, goals feel premature.
Optimisation feels beside the point.
Even clarity can wait.

What’s needed is simpler, but also riskier:

Declaration.

Not a strategy.
Not a promise.
A statement of fact.

This is what is alive.
This is what has my attention.
This is what I am no longer pretending not to know.

A declaration doesn’t explain itself.
It doesn’t ask for permission.
It doesn’t need consensus.

It names what is already true.

That’s what a manifesto is for.

Not ideology or branding.
But a live act of speaking out:

This is where I stand.
This is what wants to move through me.
Even if I don’t yet know how.

Thresholds don’t respond to goals.
They respond to truth.

Manifesto

A manifesto is not a list of intentions.
It’s not a vision board.
It’s not something you “figure out.”

It’s something you allow to speak through you.

Sometimes it arrives as a sentence you didn’t plan to write.
Sometimes as a poem.
Sometimes as a rant.
Sometimes as a song, a movement, a drawing, a refusal, a vow.

A manifesto is desire made audible.

Not the polite version.
Not the socially acceptable version.
The one that makes you feel a little nervous.
The one that leans forward.
The one that has heat.

When people share manifestos together, something else happens:
They stop explaining themselves and start recognising each other.

That’s why manifestos have always mattered in threshold moments.
Like tuning forks that invite resonance, they are how new realities announce themselves.
Before they are safe,
Before they are legible,
Before they are approved.

Declare

If this moment feels charged, don’t step away. Speak.

Create a manifesto or declaration.
Any form.
Any length.
No polishing required.

It could be:

• a rally cry

• a list of “I want” statements

• a stream-of-consciousness declaration

• a poem

• a spoken word piece

• a song

• a drawing or image

• a movement or dance

• a sentence you can’t stop repeating

Let desire lead.
Not outcome.
Not feasibility or practicality.
Not how it will be received.

If you want help accessing that desire, you might play with questions like:

• What world do I want to co-create?

• What is my dream for myself, the people I love and my other-than-human kin?

• What do I want - really - if I stop managing myself?

• What makes me nervous and excited at the same time?

• What keeps returning no matter how often I set it aside?

• What brings aliveness into my body when I imagine it?

• What am I afraid to admit I want?

• If this desire could speak, what would it say right now?

There is no right way to do this.
There is only honesty.

Examples

Here are a few manifestos we return to often:

• Apple Here’s to the Crazy ones

• John Lennon Imagine

• Martin Luther King Jr, I have a dream speech

• The NonOrdinary Manifesto

None of these began with certainty. They began with a refusal to stay silent at the threshold.

(You can also explore thousands of others here:
https://1000manifestos.com/list/)

Amplify what’s alive. Be witnessed.

January trains us to perform.
To fix.
To move fast so we don’t fall behind.

That’s JanuWorry.
False momentum.
Noise dressed up as progress.

But thresholds don’t move on command.
And declarations don’t happen alone.

They need space.
Witness.
Resonance.

They need others who can hold the moment until what’s true can be spoken.

Join the Manifesto Ignition: A 45-minute live session with collective prompts, visualisation, and invocation energy to spark and shape your manifesto in real time.

When: Thursday 29 January 2 pm CET / 3 pm SAST / 8 am EST
Duration: 45 minutes
Cost: €50 (Free for Field alchemists)

Join here →

PS: When you upgrade and become a Field Alchemist, you’ll gain full access to the Field:

• 4x quarterly co-attunement sessions.

• Intimate peer circles.

• The ability to add your sensing directly to the Field, and a living library of transmissions, practices, and tools to support you.

• Plus FREE access to the Manifesto Ignition on Thursday 29 February at 2 pm CET.
  
  

Manifesto Credit: Trish Blain.

I had an epiphany last week: I’ve been trying to do myself into a new way of being. It’s not working.

There is a familiar impatience in me, a desire to cut the cord cleanly, shout a decisive “fuck it,” and step into whatever is next with cinematic clarity. Instead, something subtler is happening:

A rising longing that refuses to resolve into clarity about what I actually want. It’s not dramatic or painful in the ways old transformations were. It feels more like pressure without a clear direction, a kind of molten waiting.

And in our recent Triskel co-attunements, I realised I’m not the only one living inside this.

A Pattern in the Field

Across two very different sessions - one pulsing with frustration beneath the surface, the other steeped in saudade, that Portuguese ache for something beloved yet out of reach - the same tone kept sounding.

Longing.

A deeper, older longing that appears when the old shapes have melted and the new form is not yet ready to hold weight.

In one room, it surfaced as friction. Someone noticed they’d been “swallowing words, editing myself - not tapping into the deeper well.” Another discovered that “even going to the therapist is an action I expect of myself - I need to perform.” The exhausting recursion of monitoring our own healing: Am I doing transformation right? When words ran dry, people reached for drums, rattles, movement. “I spend 99% of my time in my brain - embodiment is key.”

In another room, the texture was different - more ache than friction. There was the dissonance of frantic end-of-year energy pulling against the season’s invitation to go inward. The image of digging up invasive roots to liberate trees to be themselves. The recognition that “expectation is resentment waiting to happen” - but expectancy is like pregnancy: sensing something unfold that is beyond your control.

Here, the longing wasn’t for escape or resolution. It was for oneness - for the beautiful ebb and flow that nature knows, and we keep forgetting. Someone spoke of leaves that release their chlorophyll back into the tree, finally showing their true colours before they fall. “When leaves fall, it’s not a disaster - they land gently and nourish new life. We see falling as a disaster. But if it is the right time, it is beautiful.”

Another offered: “The longing is unknown. It’s not for a destination, it’s for a deepening.”

The room held grief, fear, tenderness. And underneath it, something one person could only call sacred: “a unique expression of life that never has been and never will be again.”

Underneath both sessions, the same discoveries kept surfacing: the tension between anger and gratitude, both real, both insufficient. The sense of two layers - noise above, a quieter path running below.

Different expressions. One shared weather system.

What landed most clearly for me was this: longing isn’t a call to action. It’s an invitation to surrender our expectations.

Hope, Expectation, and the Longing We Don’t Name

Philip Cave writes about how often we mistake expectation for hope.

Expectation says, “I need reality to look a certain way for me to be okay.”

Hope says, “Something good is possible, and I can stay open without demanding it.”

I think of this as expectancy: a way of living that removes the pressure of “should” and creates space for possibility without insisting on how it must unfold.

Much of what we call hope is expectation wearing the mask of optimism. We feel crushed not because hope failed, but because we formed expectations around a contract the other person or system never agreed to.

Underneath that sits an old human ache—for a different past, for someone to become who they’ve never been, for a story that matches the tenderness we carry.

Hope didn’t fail. It was holding a weight it was never designed for.

Expectation is resentment waiting to happen.

Longing remains honest. Expectation contracts.

Expectancy is a form of longing that stays receptive, willing to meet new possibilities even when they look unfamiliar.

The many words trying to capture our human ache

Humans have always lived with longing, and every culture has tried to name it. The Portuguese speak of saudade, the ache for something beloved yet just out of reach. In Welsh, there is hiraeth, a yearning for a home we’ve never fully touched. German offers Sehnsucht, the pull toward an undefined elsewhere, while in Japanese, yūgen captures the awareness of beauty sensed but unseen. There is werifesteria, the urge to wander into the forest seeking what cannot be named, and the Greek nostos, the longing for homecoming. Different languages, one truth: longing is one of our oldest companions. It is not pathology or lack but a signal that we are melting toward a future whose shape we cannot yet hold.

Lava, Melting, and Becoming

Triskel field has held fire in many forms. This season seems to hold the energy of lava: slow, unstoppable, dissolving what can no longer remain solid.

Many of us feel as if we are living inside that molten phase: pressurised, unformed, moving in ways that do not yet make sense. It can seem like nothing is happening while something essential is rearranging itself underneath.

We’re in a moment that feels collectively transitional, as if one cycle is dissolving while another gathers heat beneath the surface. The world around us feels between skins, between tempos. Longing tends to surface during these in-between seasons, when the old form no longer holds, and the new one has not yet taken shape.

Longing belongs to this borderland. Longing isn’t absence, it is emergence, announcing itself early.

If You’re Feeling This Too

If your transformation feels slow rather than decisive, molten rather than clear, full of pressure without direction, restless or tender or unsatisfied, if it feels like longing without an object, you’re not failing.

You’re in the lava phase.

The invitation is not to force your next shape. It’s to let the longing melt what needs to melt, so you can become the material from which the next form will emerge. To remember that the intense heat of molten rock creates new earth and the conditions for new life as it cools.

Lava cannot be hurried. Its heat does the work.

The Sea Lion Who Stopped Longing

There is a story about a sea lion stranded in a desert. He remembered the ocean only through dreams, which eventually hurt too much to revisit. So he settled beside a shrinking puddle, practised gratitude, called endurance “maturity,” and convinced himself that longing was unreasonable.

An old tortoise befriended him and said, “Perhaps this is the sea. Perhaps you should learn to be happy here.” Slowly, the sea lion’s memory of the ocean faded. Then a windstorm dried the last of his water.

That night he dreamed of the sea again: vivid, shimmering, alive.

He woke with tears in his fur.

Without hesitation, he began walking east.

“Where are you going?” asked the tortoise.

“To find the sea,” he said.

PS: The co-attunement sessions where these patterns emerged from are part of the Field Alchemist annual plan.

When you upgrade, you gain full access to the Field in 2026: 4x quarterly co-attunement sessions, intimate peer circles, the ability to add your sensing directly to the Field, and a living library of transmissions, practices, and tools to support you.

Listen to this while it sinks in → ​Ordinary Miracle​.

The Triskel Field is strong, 116 people moving in rhythm, yet it feels subtle, integrated into the ordinary. Beneath the surface, however, something is moving.
Like lava deep underground: slow, steady, unstoppable. Solid yet fluid. Intense in its heat. Unlike water, it cannot be doused or diverted. Whatever it touches, it transforms into flames.

This is the rhythm we attune to in the Triskel Field right now: a season of quiet, underground stirring warmth.

We find ourselves trying to hurry it, to force form or outcomes:

• Surrendering fixed views only to cling to old attachments.

• Judging what creation “should” look like.

• Trying to see progress before it’s ready.

The invitation is simple, practical, and somatic:

• Detach from ideas, mental models, or expectations about form.

• Sense the flow of what is actually happening beneath the surface.

• Connect to the energy of this season - slow, steady, warming, alive.

In our upcoming co-attunement sessions, we’ll explore how this is showing up for you as we…

• Attune to this “lava flow” and its steady heat in the body.

• Shift from expectation → expectancy, letting what’s forming quietly emerge.

• Stretch perspective to attune to the subtle and unseen, and notice the ordinary miracles.

Dates & Times:
Tuesday 2 Dec 9 am CET • 10 am SAST • 7 pm AEDT
Wednesday 3 Dec 3 pm CET • 4 pm SAST • 9 am EST
75 minutes
​Zoom link

Share

​Note: The Zoom room will close 3 minutes after the session starts, so we can move fully into the Field together.

This is not the usual end-of-year ritual. This is a practice in trusting the invisible, sensing the unstoppable warmth, and moving with what is quietly becoming.

Love,

Sonja, Antoinette, Mirjam

PS: These co-attunement sessions are part of the Field Alchemist annual plan. You’re welcome to join these as a free taste of the deeper work.

When you upgrade, you gain full access to the Field in 2026: 4x quarterly co-attunement sessions, intimate peer circles, adding your sensing directly to the Field, and a living library of transmissions, practices, and tools to support you.

We spend our days moving, sensing, thinking, trying to catch what’s emerging in the world. Yet often, the real intelligence moves in the quiet of the night, in the liminal space where the mind softens, the body rests, and the Field speaks in symbols, images, and textures.

Dreams are not merely personal. They are portals: to ourselves, to each other, and to a collective pulse that is already moving. They are threads in the weave of the Triskel Field: carrying impulses, truths, and possibilities that have not yet found form.

Across cultures and traditions, humans have long recognised the power of dreams.

Dreams in Western Thought

Sigmund Freud saw dreams as expressions of the unconscious, often a symbolic release of desires or unresolved tension. Carl Jung expanded this, describing dreams as messages from the collective unconscious: archetypal images and motifs that guide individuation and wholeness.

In modern psychology, dreams are increasingly understood as a form of problem-solving, helping integrate experiences, regulate emotions, and process information outside of conscious awareness. Lucid dreaming allows the dreamer to consciously interact with these nighttime narratives, exploring both inner and outer landscapes.

Eastern Perspectives on Dreams

In Taoist and Buddhist traditions, dreams are windows into the subtle energies of the mind and body. They are invitations to cultivate awareness, to perceive beyond ordinary reality, and to harmonise with natural rhythms.

For example:

• Tibetan dream yoga trains practitioners to recognise the dream state as a continuation of waking awareness, providing a tool for insight, liberation, and attunement to subtle realities.

• In Taoist thought, dreams may reveal energetic imbalances or suggest courses of action aligned with the Tao, the natural flow of life.

African and Indigenous Wisdom

Many African and Indigenous cultures treat dreams as communal intelligence. They are not only messages for the dreamer, but for the village, the land, or the ancestors.

• Dreams may forewarn of challenges, carry guidance for healing, or reveal relationships between people, animals, and the environment.

• Symbols and recurring motifs are interpreted collectively, often by elders or dream-keepers, to inform actions or rituals.

• In some traditions, the dreamer may enter trance or ceremonial states to navigate the dream intentionally, bringing insights back to the waking community.

Shamanic and Mystical Approaches

Shamanic practices see dreams as thresholds. They are initiatory experiences, portals to other realms, and spaces where healing, creativity, and guidance emerge.

• Dreams may carry visions of what is coming, instructions for ritual or action, or the expression of ancestral or spiritual presence.

• In this view, the dream body is as real as the waking body, and just as capable of contributing to the Field.

• The oscillation between night and day, stillness and motion, mirrors the spirals of the Triskel: remembering, unfolding, expressing.

Dreams and the Triskel Field

In the Field, we’ve noticed something remarkable: our dreams often mirror the collective pulse.

• Some of us dream of descent, rest, release - the slow turning of endings.

• Others of the stirrings of new energy, creative impulses, or unexpected clarity.

• Dreams act as subtle scaffolding for ready-ing - preparing us to move with what is emerging, without rushing, without forcing coherence.

Think of dreams as threads in the Field’s tapestry. They may be fleeting, fragmented, or vivid and commanding. Each dream you notice, log, and reflect upon adds to the collective intelligence of the Field.

To begin listening more intentionally, we’ve created practices to help you engage with your dreams, not just as stories to interpret, but as living signals from the Field.

This next section, available to paid subscribers, offers simple, grounded ways to listen, move, and reflect through your dream, and to share them through the Dream Sensing Form.

Practical Ways to Listen and Engage with Dreams

1. Journal immediately upon waking - even a few words, an image, or a feeling is enough.

2. Ask curious questions, don’t immediately analyse or seek answers:

   • What wants to be noticed here?

   • What in me or the world is this dream reflecting?

   • What is calling me forward?

3. Embodied reflection: move gently as you think on the dream - stretch, walk, place your hands on your body. Feel the symbols, the rhythms, the energy.

4. Share with the Field (anonymously): even fragments add to the collective weave → Share your dream in this dream sensing form.

5. Ritual listening: light a candle, play music, or sit with the dream in quiet presence. Allow yourself to sense, rather than interpret.

Listening Through Music

A sonic bridge to dreaming awake

Some dreams are so big, so raw, so impossible, they can’t be contained in the waking mind. Sometimes they need a bridge.

Jenie Lena’s rendition of the famous song The Impossible Dream - from the 1965 Broadway musical Man of La Mancha - can be such a bridge, a sonic guide into dreaming awake. In the musical, Don Quixote sings this as he stands vigil over his armour, declaring his commitment to a quest that seems beyond reach, guided only by courage, conviction, and vision. The song carries the tension between doubt and daring, the yearning to pursue what seems impossible, and the resilience required to follow one’s calling.

Listen here

In the Triskel Field, your dreams are like Quixote’s quest: vivid, urgent, and sometimes overwhelming. They carry impulses, questions, and possibilities that have not yet found form, both personal and collective. Listening to this song with your body, not just your mind, can help you step into that pulse. Feel the rhythms, the longing, the persistence of life insisting on itself. Let it stir imagination, awaken curiosity, and deepen your attunement to what wants to emerge.

Play the song. Notice what rises in you - images, sensations, insights. Let it guide you into reflection, journaling, or movement. Each flicker of your awareness adds to the collective intelligence of the Field. Let the impossible dream not just inspire, but become part of the unfolding Field through you.

A Call to the Dreaming Field

This week, we invite you to:

• Pay attention to and record your dreams.

• Notice what is stirring - personally and collectively.

• Share your pulse with the Field → we believe, like the ancients, that dreams belong to the individual and the collective. Share your dream in this dream sensing form.

Every fragment, every flicker of aliveness, becomes part of the Triskel Field’s rhythm. The Field listens. It moves. It reorganises. And it invites us all to step deeper into what wants to be born.

Dreams are not escape. They are emergence.
They remind us that even the impossible is already dreaming itself awake.

→ Share your dream in this dream sensing form.

Share

The past week reminded me that birthing the new rarely feels beautiful.
It feels messy. Gut-deep. Sometimes, quite literally.

What began as a small stomach ache turned into a full-blown bacterial infection.
Five days of moving between toilet and bed, stripped of any illusion of control.
No energy for thought.
Just the rawness of being a body.

Somewhere between the fever and the stillness, old memories surfaced.

The birth of my daughter, Ayla, ten years ago.
That birth was complicated: late in pregnancy, my liver began to fail.
An emergency C-section.
A threshold I crossed half-conscious, between worlds.

I’ve been thinking about that threshold again this week.
How my body has always been the place where newness insists on arriving,
ready or not.

The body as portal

There’s a strange kind of prayer that happens when you can’t move.
When the body is the only temple left.
When the mind, stripped of its cleverness, must kneel to what’s real.

A strange intimacy in being forced to stop.

Disorientation becomes its own ceremony.
The fevered trembling, a chant.
The stillness, a vow.

And then, slowly, something else emerges, a remembering that the body isn’t betraying us.
It’s orienting.
It’s reorganising toward wholeness.
Even in pain, it’s listening to the deeper pulse.

Creation doesn’t only happen in the mind or the ether.
It happens in the gut, in the blood, in the places that smell of earth and surrender.
This too is sacred ground.

Share

The field is physical

In the past two weeks, I’ve heard so many stories from others in the Triskel Field:
bodies flaring up, unexpected illnesses, deep fatigue, or strange aches.

It feels like the collective is in a kind of bodily initiation.

If the Triskel is a rhythm of remembering, unfolding, and expressing,
perhaps this is part of the remembering:

The body calling us back to its intelligence.

Reminding us that creation is not separate from matter.

The Dance of Polarity

Creation rarely moves in one direction.
There’s a rhythm: Expansion and contraction, movement and stillness.
A continual oscillation that keeps the Field alive.

At times, one of us is pulled inward, slowed, emptied, dissolving, while another is lifted outward, energised, creating, expressing.
The current moves through us in different ways, yet it’s the same intelligence, exploring itself through contrast.

Take Sonja and me, for example.

While my body was in complete shutdown, fevered, emptied, forced into stillness, she was in full creative flow, alive with ideas and expression.
A few weeks earlier, it was reversed.
She felt stuck, unable to move, and I was the one moving, translating, holding.

We’ve come to see this not as coincidence, but as current, a living polarity moving through the Field.
It’s not about balance or opposition, but about the relationship between states.
How stillness and motion, descent and ascent, can happen simultaneously, informing and feeding each other.

This is what the Triskel Field keeps teaching us:

That life moves in spirals, not lines, and that the real intelligence often lives in the space between.

Staying with the Body (Without Turning It Into a To-Do)

So now what?
How do we stay attuned to the wisdom beneath the ache without turning it into effort?

Try this rhythm:

• Check in with the basics. Am I cold? Add warmth. Thirsty? Drink. Hungry? Feed.

• Ask for what you need. A hug. A pause. A moment outside.

• Let rest be relational. Rest isn’t absence, it’s another form of connection.
  Connection to yourself, to others, to the wider field(s).

• Flirt with small synchronicities. Notice what the body notices: a bird, a scent, a word that lands. Follow the thread.

This isn’t doing from effort.
It’s doing as prayer.
Tiny rituals that remind the spirit it still has a home in matter.

Because birthing the new isn’t a lofty act.
It’s a holy, embodied one.
Sometimes it starts with the gut, and ends with remembering that even the mess is sacred.

For Those Weaving the Field

As a paid subscriber, we’d love to hear how this is moving through you.
What is your body teaching you right now?
What thresholds or reorganisations are alive in your own system?

Your reflections, intuitions, and embodied sensing become part of the collective weave, shaping what wants to emerge next through the Triskel Field.

→ Add your sensing here

In the Celtic calendar, we are now in the time of Samhain: the descent, the turning of the wheel toward darkness.

It’s not the commercial rush of Halloween, but an ancient threshold between worlds: the end of the harvest, the beginning of the inward spiral. A time when veils thin, ancestors draw close, and nature prepares to rest.

Most of us live in cultures disconnected from natural cycles and ancient wisdom. As nature prepares to rest, we feel the push to perform: to finish strong, to host perfect parties, to keep producing.

For those in the Northern Hemisphere, where autumn leaves are falling and days grow short and dark, Triskel reminds us that there is medicine in the fallow, in the emptiness between breaths. We are not meant to bloom forever.

For those of us in the Southern Hemisphere, the wheel turns differently. Here, this time carries the energetic fire of Beltane: a festival of renewal, desire, and blooming. Days lengthen, light returns, aliveness stirs, and the promise of a new harvest begins to unfold.

The Triskel teaches that these are not opposites. Where one side exhales, the other inhales. One spiral curls inward; another unfurls. Both belong to the same living rhythm.

So whether you find yourself letting go or coming alive, this turning asks something similar of us all: to be present to the pulse beneath the season, and to trust that what is releasing or rising is part of a deeper cycle of becoming.

To remember that life’s wisdom lives in motion, not in choosing one spiral over another.

The invitation:

Allow your body to reconnect to these natural cycles.

Make time to be in nature over the next few days.

Become fully present to the changes and rhythms.

Notice how nature prepares for rest: the falling leaves, the dimming light, animals retreating into hibernation. Allow yourself to feel the release and the grieving of endings.

Or, how she prepares for renewal: new green shoots, blossoms, birds returning on longer days. Allow yourself to feel the aliveness, the joy of new beginnings.

Let your own rhythm find its place in this great turning.

Max Andreas Stehle, who has been part of the Field from the beginning, recently shared this image on LinkedIn:

“I had worked on this painting for some weeks; it already had 2 layers, but what was missing was coherence; it was just an assembly of signals and signs. Then I realised that the Triskel symbol could bring the diverse into sync, could bring it together. And it did!”

The Field has been showing up in tangles. As moments of urgency, confusion, contraction, and collapse.

One moment we’re fluid, attuned, alive with possibility.
The next, we’re tangled in the noise, grasping for the next insight, rushing to name what’s barely arrived, trying to transmit before something has had time to root.

We think of these as circuit breakers:
Tiny jolts that pull us out of connection, flipping us in and out of coherence.
Sometimes, they’re protective: the body’s way of saying too much, too fast.

Many of us are moving through saturation, even subtle survival.
In that state, adding more - more ideas, more inputs, more “transformation” - only creates more static.
What’s being asked of us now isn’t more.
It’s to “ready”.

Ready-ing

To ready is not to prepare or plan.
It’s to soften into uncertainty.
To hold what is tender without tightening.
And to let the collective Field dream through us.

It’s an act of surrender and attunement.
A willingness to stay with the not-yet-formed long enough for coherence to find us.

Ready-ing doesn’t rush.
It listens.
It lets the nervous system settle enough for life to move again.

From here, holding becomes possible.
Holding ourselves, each other, and what is emerging with gentleness and attention.

And from that holding, dreaming returns.
Not as escape, but as reorientation.
Dreaming ourselves awake into what wants to be born.

The full transmission below guides you into how ready-ing comes alive: through attunement, subtle scaffolding, and practices that awaken your body, mind, and intuition.

It includes embodied exercises and simple rituals you can weave into your daily rhythm, ways to:

• Orient yourself when tangles pull you off-course

• Contain what feels tender or overwhelming without tightening

• Sense and move with what’s quietly asking to be born

Subscribe now

Practical Companion Practices

Scaffolding Ready-ing and Attunement

When life feels chaotic or your attention keeps flipping in and out, small intentional gestures to create containment and scaffolding can help.

It can be as simple as lighting a candle or having a mindful cup of morning tea or coffee barefoot on the earth.

We’ve collated a few of our favourite practices for you to …

• Help with nervous system regulation and circuit-breakers

• Ready-ing

→ Download our favourites here [PDF]

Awakening Through Dreams

Dreams are another way the Field communicates, a subtle container for what the waking mind cannot yet integrate.
Rather than decode, ask:

• How might this dream be contributing to my ready-ing?

• Where is the Field asking me to notice, feel, or respond?

Evening practices or intentional pauses help you carry this attunement into the day-to-day rhythm.

→ Dream yourself awake [PDF]

Closing Thought

Ready-ing is not a step, a method, or a goal.
It’s a spiral: attuning, softening, sensing, and moving again.
The Field hums: ready, pause, respond, begin again.

Credit: Ready-ing is a concept from Nora Batson. Read her paper on ready-ing here.

Share The Triskel Field

It felt like a flirt from the Field, so I thought I’d share it with all of you.

Dragonflies carry deep symbolism. Different wisdom traditions interpret their appearance differently, but they are often associated with the wisdom of change, adaptability, and transformation.

How to work with flirts: if a flirt resonates, see it as an invitation to attune to the Field and sense into the unique meaning or message it holds for you, and why it might be appearing at this time.

Here’s an extract from the message associated with the card:

“Just as a dragonfly catches your eye with its reflective wings and body, Dragonfly Spirit appears to tell you to pay attention to the truth beyond the illusion and recognise the insights that come seemingly out of nowhere, peeking through from behind the veil.”

PS - share with us in the comments if this flirt held a special message for you.