A Few Drams on Raasay and a quick hello to Skye: Scotland Reflections Part 5

Onward west we ventured. A spectacular drive from the Glencoe region toward the Isle of Skye brought us to Eilean Donan Castle, which sits at a meeting point between three lochs. This restored castle was one of the most frequently found instagram tags when I began researching our itinerary. Generally, we find ourselves going in the opposite directions of the most trendy stops, however this spot has some well deserved clout.

While this castle stood in ruin for the better part of the last few centuries, it was purchased by Lt John McCrae in 1911 and lovingly restored based on surviving ground plans from it’s long history. The island of Donan, where the current structure sits, dates back to the 6th century where a chapel was believed to originally reside. In the 12th century (or so) the first castle was erected, by the late 13th century the castle held by the Mackenzies, and in the 14th century the MaCrae’s garrison on and off on behalf of the Mackenzie chiefs. In the 1700s, 300 spanish troups resided in the castle after landing in support of the Jacobites. This lead to the government of the time taking the castle down to ruins, which is how it sat until Lt John MaCrae and his subsequent decendants began the journey to restoration. Today it sits as a living museum to times past and has been used in numerous films. This was a well invested admittance fee!

After our break touring the castle and grounds, we continued west over to the Isle of Skye to await our first ferry of the trip.

Let me tell you how much I stressed about ferry trips. Once we landed in Scotland, and began feeling out the nature of some of the planned on trips on ferries, we actually rearranged a big chunk of our trip to avoid a few crossings due to local news and unpredictable seasonal weather. In the long run, I was so glad we did this. And, our first trip – just 25min from Skye to the Isle of Raasay (Island of the Red Deer)- was quite seamless, much anticipatory stress aside.

Because we arrived obnoxiously early for our ferry (see above anxiety), we had time for a mystical little hike in the Skeabost Bridge area of Isle of Skye. There is a rumour in the area that if you place your face in the icy cold waters of the stream here you will be granted timeless beauty. Neither of us felt the need to do this, but we did enjoy the fairy realm like scenery, rainbows and crisp fresh air nonetheless.

After our short ferry ride that evening we arrived on the Isle of Raasay. We had booked a stay at the Raasay Distillery, a new and modern whisky and gin distillery on a very small island. One of our higher investment stays of the trip, Raasay was well worth it. The distillery hosts a very small Inn onsite, all modern and well attended by excellent staff. We were greeted with a few drams, set up in our room upstairs (which came with a bottle of complimentary Whisky) and then left to watch the moon rise over the mountains visible across the way on Skye while enjoying a few more drams before dinner in the Distillery’s restaurant (as award winning as the Distillery itself). The whisky, food and company was wonderful and I remember sleeping very well that night!

The next morning we awoke to breakfast in the hotel while watching a whale surf through the bay and then a distillery tour. This is where we began to appreciate Scottish gin is often just as good as their whisky. We also were impressed to hear about how this Distillery is working to revive the island’s way of life within their growth. The Raasay Distillery employs about 30% of the island’s population, with priority placed on hiring those who have roots in the Island and either already reside there or were willing to move back. They source their water from a well on the island that is supplied by rain water, and source everything else they possibly can on the island or as immediately locally as possible. Beyond this, they also return their used bran back to local farmers to use for livestock feed at no cost to the farmer other than picking up.

After this enlightening tour, we were tasked with waiting for our ferry back to Skye. Slightly more relaxed this time, we visited a Pictish Stone that sits on the Isle of Raasay.

Once back on Skye we drove towards Portree (pronounced Port Rhyee) and decided (aka Garrett decided, I was a little too hungover to argue) to hike up to Old Man of Storr. It was a big of a push up on the steady incline to some well worth it views.

We lucked into dinner in Portree shortly after (as it turns out, Portree is definitely a town to make reservations in advance in.. even in the shoulder season, we had to do quite a bit of maneuvering and lean on some luck to find a place to take us for dinner) and then found our airbnb to settle in for the evening. We wound down watching the moon rise again over the rolling, dark hills in our part of Skye.

That night I dreamt I was a time traveller. I was looking at some pretty silver rings with celtic designed carved into them. As I put one onto my finger, there was a big flash of light and I woke up to our next day on Skye.

We took a back road, mountain pass across the island to Bog Myrtle Cafe – a delightful aesthetic of vintage books, art and furniture with strong espresso. After breakfast we continued up the coast line to the Fairy Glen for a walkabout (another well versed spot on the instagram tourist plugs). From here we continued onwards up to Duntulm Castle ruins that watch over the sea. The monument to this castle reads: “the world may end, but music and love endure”. What a message to stumble on at what feels like the edge of a world.

Continuing down the coast from this tip of Skye we wandered Brothers Point before finding our next dinner stop, “Old School Restaurant”, the name describes the venue. The dinner service was wonderful, with a big old wood stove to warm us up.

While I was glad we included Skye on our visit, having been there I’m not sure I would stress about going back. It is certainly one of THE destinations for most tourists in Scotland, and though we were there in shoulder season so likely dodged the bulk of congestion, the area to me felt fatigued. Mystical and wonderful, and yet somehow tired. I wrote lots about feeling tired, excessively so, while there. Was that a dram too many at the distillery that kicked off our stay in the area? Perhaps. Could it also have been an area well worn by tourists boots and the clicks of cameras?

This may not click with all who read this, but as someone who is becoming attuned to the whispers of land across many timelines, Skye was an interesting place to be received but almost in a despondent way. I’ve been to places that hold a tune of “thank goodness you came to visit” enthusiam, and with the grain of salt that may be a mild hangover after the chest cold that came with Edinburgh, Skye seemed to say “thanks for stopping by but I’m really a bit busy” with the door already half closed. This isn’t to say anything negative about the hospitality to be found on the island, more to speak to the energy of the landscapes we found ourself wandering through.

I was glad to have been and ready to leave. From Skye we began our trip further up the west coast, to a land more rugged and almost alien in it’s scenery. Think purple skies, molten rocks, pink beaches, untamed orange grasses and rogue sheep. More on that next time.

Portals and Fairy Bridges: Scotland Reflections Part 4

Finally, we began to venture into the highlands. We drove out of the rainy weather of the lower east coast and headed west (ish) towards our next stay in Onich, a village in the Glencoe area. On the way there we took our first winding, captivating path through the Ciarngorms. We took a pitstop at the Glenlivet Estate Distillery (they have very nice bathrooms, highly recommend), and visited the Old Glenlivet Bridge.

We stopped for lunch in Aviemore, which was very resonant to Canadian Banff. A cute, touristy mountain town built around the popular tourist destinations throughout the Cairngorm mountains.

I took us to Loch An Eilein (after some disagreements on google map navigation). Loch an Eilein is the ruins of a 13th century castle located on an island. To find the castle, you take a mystical walk through the old pines in the forest of Rothiemurchus. As we wandered through the forest it was easy to feel like you were transported in time. Garrett hypothesized what it would be like to defend yourself if you were being pursued on foot through the forest paths. The vividness in his descriptions and scenarios were such that I could imagine that he was working off past life memories more than just hypothetical ideas.

Once again, we were blessed with having the forest largely to ourselves and a few other quiet visitors. This was one of the first stops where I felt less like a tourist and more like someone returning to a moment in time I’d perhaps seen before.

The ruins date back to the 1200s, though it’s not clear exactly who first erected a structure on the island. It is believed that in the 1200s the Bishop of Moray built a house and defensive wall. In the 1300s the Wolf of Badenoch, also known as Alexander Stewart – the younger son of King Robert of Scotland and grandson of Robert the Bruce, created a fortified hunting lodge on the site. At one point there would have been a causeway that connected the castle to the shore, though this is now submerged. The defeated Jacobites took over this castle in the late 1600s after the battle of Cromdale. Another note from history, in the 1700s, after the battle of Culloden, the widow of the 5th Laird of Gordon sheltered fugitives. In more recent history, the Grant lairds have protected the island for it’s known Osprey nesting grounds.

From here we continued on our winding path through the mountains to find our airbnb in Onich. Unfortuantely, our airbnb appeared to be not as described and a little human trafficky feeling, so we found an alternative accomodation at a nearby lakeside hotel.

As we settled in for the evening and took in our picture perfect surroundings I was struck by the timelessness of the scenery. It seemed simultaneously impossible to imagine but also completely embodied to remember what it would be like to look over the mountains from different points in known history.

The next morning after a wonderful buffet breakfast at our new hotel we took a drive to find the Fairy Bridge. This mystical foot bridge is tucked into the forest along a near forgotten foot path in the mountains. Thank you to some coordinates found somewhere on the internet, likely Atlas Obscura, we found an entrance point and wandered into the forest to see what might be there. To add to the blood pressure of those who aren’t used to my fuck around and find out travel methods, we also had no cell service.

A short uphill stumble through the forest led us relatively quickly to a bridge that very much appeared to be a portal to a fairy realm.

Yes, of course we crossed it. And, I think we made it back.

If you listen closely, you can hear the voices of history.

If you walk carefully, you may find yourself lost in moments between time.

There are portals all around us, waiting for us to remember.

Look softly and you may just see beyond what you think you know.

KH, 2023

From the fairy bridge we drove towards Lochleven and took a short hike to Grey Mare Falls, and then drove a bit the other direction to see the Glenfinnan Viaduct. Due to our nature of not wanting to pay an insane amount for a few minutes of parking at this popular Harry Potter destination, we didn’t actually end up seeing the Viaduct in protest. Instead we took a walk around the surrounding village, visited an old church overlooking the lake and then found a pub in Fort William for dinner.

Throughout our day, we had been hearing Elk or Red Deer calls over the hills. Even once seeing a Red Deer walking along a ridge from a distance. Over the day and days to follow, I was notable seeing “ghost” dear in the trees out the corners of my eyes. Never there when I looked directly. In folk legend, the red deer are believed to represent the “little people” in Celtic traditions. Perhaps we did venture into a fairy realm over that bridge.

Once back at our hotel for the second and final night in this area, we enjoyed a glass of whisky while editing photos and then played fooseball in the hotel lounge. A long stare at the stars over the lake took us to bed. Our next leg of the journey would take us further west towards our next stop on the Isle of Skye. Stay tuned for the next installment.

Peacock Herb, Findlater Castle and Cullen Skink: Scotland Reflections Part 3

Returning to this series after a busy week away teaching in western Saskatchewan. This part of our journey along the east coast and into the Highlands was pursued and directed by Storm Babet. Luckily, we only met the edges of this system on our routes, staying about a day ahead of it.

As Babet began to pick up speed and roll into the east coast, we took advantage of the morning to head from our cozy inland airbnb back to the coast to find the ruins of Findlater Castle. The wind coming off the North Sea was no joke. Google maps led us to a parking lot that seemed to be shared with a local cattle farmer’s yard just up the coast near Sandsend. From the barnside parking place, google told us to walk across a field towards the sea. Luckily I have my husband somewhat conditioned to wandering into the abyss based off atlas obscura coordinates at this point in our relationship (though, he doesn’t always adapt his footwear choices appropriately, but that’s for another post) so off into the nearing hurricane force wind we went.

After a brisk walk to the coast, we found what we were looking for. I was talked out of my intentions of hiking further towards the ruins on the cliffside, as a mist was beginning to join the wind and make the narrow, unofficial trails down to the remains for the 14th century stronghold a little sketchy.

Outside of Edinburgh Castle, this was our first castle stop on our journey. Also our first ruins. The current ruins are believed to be a 14th century rendition on top of 13th century foundations. The location and the set up of the castle offer a very game of throne-esque picture of what it may have looked like hundreds of years in the past. All that remains is lower levels of the castle built into the side of a cliff, facing the North Sea and resisting the relentless wind and waves washing down the east coast.

As with much of the coastal ruins of Scotland, the history of Findlater is believed to be rooted as far back as Viking raids and Pictish rulers. The history throughout Scotland but especially throughout the east coast seems to be rife with brutal take overs, familial betrayal and political jousting. It’s believed that the original 13th century structure was built to prepare for a Norwegian invasion, afterwhich the Norwegians held the castle for a short period. Sometime in the 14th century the Ogilvy family rebuilt, allegedly with the Laird’s intention to imprison his father in the cellar in order to continue an affair with his mother in law (says wikipedia anyway). The mother in this story eventually married a Gordon, who promptly took hold of the castle and imprisoned the mother. Mary Queen of Scots tried to get involved at one point to eject Gordon, during this 16th century drama, but it’s unclear as to if this was successful or not. The castle fell into disrepair in the 17th century as a new home was built for the earldom in nearby Cullen.

The history and the scenery very much spoke to energy of dissolution and bereavement that seem to be transmitted by these lonely ruins on the cliff. Standing in the wind and the mist, listening to the waves crash and feeling the dampness leach into my skeleton it isn’t hard to imagine tales of familial betrayal, violent seige and eventual abandonment. The dark edges of human nature seem to reside in this aesthetic, not necessarily in a way that feels haunting, simply in a starkness you cannot manufacture. It’s title, “Findlater”, translating from Norse roots “white cliff”, speaks also to that sense of being a little forgotten I seemed to feel as I looked over the ruins.

After finding Findlater we drove a little further up the coast to Bow Fiddle Rock. The wind was continuously picking up making for some pretty amazing demonstrations from mother nature around this natural rock formation in the sea.

After spending a little time marveling at the views, we headed back towards where we came from, driving along the coast through the historic town of Cullen, allegedly where the famous Cullen Skink soup is said to have originated. The town has roots back to the 12th century, likely even earlier. It is said that somewhere in the hills surrounding the town three kings are buried from a battle in 962. A Dane, a Scot and a Norwegian marked by three isolated rocks.

Robert the Bruce founded the church in the village in the 14th century and it’s rumoured that the organs of his wife were buried in the chapel. The town has an impressive viaduct built in the late 1800s for railway operations that still stands today.

We had a quick lunch and got out of the rain in a local cafe. This was the perfect place to sample Cullen Skink, which we seem to have gotten the last bowl of (much to a local late lunch goer’s annoyance). In the environment of a chilly, old, coastal fishing village, a soup like Cullen Skink, a smoked fish chowder, makes a lot of sense. I personally wasn’t sad I tried it, as it did the trick to warm the bones up on that day, nor was I disappointed at never needing to have it again afterwards. After grabbing some snacks we hurried back to our cozy airbnb and got the fire place roaring, as Storm Babet settled in for the afternoon. A perfect afternoon to be settled with some tea on the couch, listening to wind howl outside. I was getting over a pretty nasty chest infection (thanks Edinburgh) at this point, and was thankful for an easy afternoon of rest to make use of.

That night I dreamt of a flowering herb that appeared with vibrant blue/purple flowers in a narrow fan shape. The whole plant seemed to spread out like a peacock’s tail, and in the dream it was being called “the peacock herb”. When I woke up, I was thinking about blue vervain, a herb I was beginning to know more and more about in my herbalism explorations, and a herb certainly sacred to the land I was in. I’m not sure about it’s links to peacocks, though I have found some sources that link Vervain to being a home for the larvae of the peacock butterfly. Much of Blue Vervain’s lore has roots into druidic times. It was used as a temple herb in Greek, Celtic and Roman temples. This plant has very much pursued me as I work through my herbalism apprenticeship. It is one of the first herbs I remember being curious about, though not much information was found early on. As I’ve reached the end of my formal apprenticeship, it has become a herb I use quite often, and one that works with me in the dream space frequently- appearing with nudges for both myself and for clients.

Egyptians believed that Vervain was created from the tears of Isis. Christian lore links it as the plant used to dress the wounds of Jesus after his crucifixion, and by the 16th century in apothecaries across Europe it was used for ailment after ailment. My intention is to create more herb specific posts on here soon, so I’ll save the bulk of Vervain’s written history for that perhaps.

Waking from a dream with vervain top of mind just added to my desire to connect to the land of my ancestry while exploring my present day identity. Waking that morning the wind still howled and the rain was falling. We had a breakfast made by our host, packed up and headed west to the next leg of our journey: Glencoe.

More on that next week, I need to get at my herbalism thesis with rest of my morning!

Tidal Graves and the Eyes of Dunino Den: Scotland Reflections Part 2

After a few days in Edinburgh we were ready to move onwards. We picked up our rental car and headed North to Torryburn Beach. It took a while, but we eventually found what I was looking for: the grave of Lilias Adie.

Lilias Adie, a woman in her sixties, was accused of consorting with the devil in the early 1700s. She was imprisoned under the crime of witchcraft, tortured and interrogated until she eventually confessed. She passed away in prison before she could be executed for witchcraft. She is one of only women accused of witchcraft with a gravesite, as most were burned. The village feared she may rise from the dead, so they buried her in a wooden box between the low and high tide markers on Torryburn Beach. They covered her burial site with a massive stone slab. In 2019 her gravesite was relocated using original documents from the village church that led her persecution. Unfortunately, prior to this rediscovery, her remains had been stolen by grave robbers in the late 1800s. Her skull ended up in a private museum in 1875, then went to the University of St Andrews before going missing yet again. To this day, her skull remains missing.

I’m not sure even in reflection I have the words for the sensations I was aware of while looking out over the tide. I think I was already becoming aware of a dissonance between wanting to seek out the past; to know more about my ancestry, the history of women, the history of a land my gene pool came from.. juxtaposed with the realization of how much gets lost to history. Lilias Adie’s story is known from the words written about her during her imprisonment and trial, by her accusers and persecutors. Likewise for many of the women who were tried and burned at the stake. Likewise for much of my ancestors. The reasons why they left where they were blending in with historical reasoning but not much personal record. The past remains a mystery, and perhaps that is as it should be.

Yet, standing looking out over the murky grave of Lilias, there is no choice but to remember even that which cannot be known. The fear she may rise from the dead has long passed, and now there is a hope that she will to share her story.

Garrett eventually dragged me away from staring into the abyss as the tides rose, and after grabbing some lunch in a nearby village we headed East to Dunino Den.

Tucked behind a 17th century church and graveyard and down a short path into the woods, the entrance to Dunino Den is guarded by the remains of a sacred well. The well appears to me as a watchful eye. Just to the left of the earthly observer and sacred waters is a staircase etched into the steps of the stone embankment, leading down into the den.

I’m not sure I had ever experienced such a palpable shift in energy as what we experienced descending into the ancient sacred site. The gentle forest sounds that existed as we stood at the well disappeared as we descended. Suspended silence took over. It truly and vividly was an experience of stepping to a place outside of time itself.

We were lucky enough to be the only human visitors present at the time, though it certainly did not feel like we were alone. The stone banks were full of various carvings, some very very old and some new. Faces, symbols, words, hand prints and offerings of coins, cloth and trinkets are scattered everywhere. Dunino Den has been dated back as a site in use as far back as Pictish times, and likely earlier than that. Standing looking around the “den” on the bank of a gently flowing creek I felt all at once welcomed back to a place I’d known in some lifetime and bombarded by watchful eyes of beings beyond what is known. Nothing malevolent, but observant nonetheless.

Dunino Den is believed to have been used as a ceremonial site for as far back as it can be dated. The nearby “modern” church and graveyard contains a large, neolithic age standing stone. This is a rare place where modern day religion existed without destroying more ancient spiritual grounds.

We stood in the Den as long as we were permitted to. There was a very clear moment where we were nudged to continue on. The sacred silence we were suspended in as we took in the grove was lifted and with thanks we headed back up the narrow stone steps, past the sacred pool and back towards our current timeline.

“In a direct and obvious sense, the past never leaves us, it is embedded in the present, is veined through our beliefs, our diet, our traditions, our way of moving through the landscape and much else.”

Alistair Moffat, The Hidden Ways

As we walked back through whatever veil seems to gently guard this sacred place, I was reminded that though many things are lost to written history, there is always opportunities to remember when we sit into non-linear ways of receiving information. As has happened to me more than a few times now visiting the “old world”, places other than my place of birth, our feet sometimes fall on paths we’ve walked in other lifetimes.

From here we drove upwards on the East coast to our home base for a few days near Turiff. The woodstove was lit for us when we arrived, and as Storm Babet was starting to howl on the horizon and so we made our place for the night.

More to come soon.

On the backs of dragons: Scotland Reflections 1, Edinburgh

As spring arrives I am in some ways still steeping in the intensity of last year: one of my busiest professional years yet, getting married in September and then spending a month overseas in Scotland on our honeymoon.

I’ve always found that travel is best processed in hindsight. All the experiences over the year, culminating in our travel in the fall, very much seem to have neatly encapsulated a transition point in my life. Perhaps a writing exercise for another time, or over this series of reflections, is my own ongoing embodiment of that transition. I haven’t quite found my language for it yet. I remember when I first tried on my wedding dress, there was a surprising feeling of not recognizing myself. Seeing instead who I was becoming, and what embodiment I was just stepping into.

That feeling continued as I moved through the year leading up to our wedding. In some ways I linked it to an initiation of sorts. To what, I’m not sure. There’s a level of maiden in many ways I stepped out of, but I don’t quite identify with the traditional “mother” phase heading towards crone in common spiritual language. What replaces mother in modern day life when “mothering” isn’t the calling?

Even now, as I work on my herbalism thesis (which I should be working on now, but when creativity calls, it calls), which focuses on integrative herbalism in the treatment of modern day cyclical health (women’s health); I am faced with that same question. For those of us who are consciously choosing to not have children, existing within a healthcare and wellness care system that hinge fertility as the deciding factor around health, much of the time, how do we support vitality while linking a woman’s value to more than just their ability to bear life into the world?

Around this same time, in the midst of wedding planning and facing all the micro transitions along the way to our wedding, we began to figure out where we wanted to travel to afterwards. Both G and I have always been interested in Scotland, and it was in with a few other options for our honeymoon. For me, Scotland has many ancestral ties. I knew whenever I did get there, there would be many explorations in real time as well as otherwise that would occur. In hindsight, it seems more and more appropriate that the energetic “homing beacon” began to chime in as this being where we headed to on our first trip as a married couple.

Our first stop on our trip was Edinburgh. It was a relatively short flight across the pond from Toronto, and after a brisk jog through the Toronto airport due to a delayed incoming flight – we settled into the overseas flight. As I tried to sleep, I was washed over with memories of my maternal grandparents. Specifically, the home of theirs that I spent lots of time at. Memories of summers spent in the back yard, with cousins, running through the garden. The feeling of running through the corn in the garden. Picking peas and carrots. The smell of their garage. I wondered if my grandparents had ever explored some of the territory I was about to explore. I had the sense they were along for the ride with me. Likewise with my paternal grandparents. What ancestral memories would I find, and what questions would I answer? I also had the sense that this was firmly my journey. I remember thinking, I am creating my own memories on the foundations of the past. Perhaps it was the half asleep and already sleep deprived vision taking hold, but as we approached EDI in the very early hours of the morning, it appeared to me that there were black dragons flying alongside our plane. Some guides for the journey ahead, perhaps.

We landed at 6:30am on Oct 17th. Our first orders of business were cappuccinos in an airport cafe while setting up our SIM in my phone and getting a handle on the bus system that we’d be using while in Edinburgh for a couple days. We took our first double decker bus from the airport to our BNB, which was just outside of the downtown area of EDI. Our hosts were gracious enough to let us move in that morning, the day of our check in, and even insisted on cooking us breakfast. Much appreciated way to start our first day. In a brave attempt to mitigate the worst of the time change, we had a strong intention to use the day to explore the city and stay awake. Which, we did indeed. Another bus, and 17,000 steps later we had seen much of Old Town on our first day. As we stepped off our bus into the city centre on Princes Street, facing the gardens with Edinburgh Castle looking down at us from the top of the city, it was one of a handful of experiences I’ve had of my breath being taken away completely.

Edinburgh is a very aesthetically pleasing city. Old town has been essentially the same for a few centuries now, and runs from the coast up the molten rock hill to peak with the castle at the highest point. New town has been essentially the same for the last couple centuries, and sits below Old Town. Remove the cars and street lights, and you could very easily be standing in the 1700 or 1800s. Though, a thought I had many times while we were in the city, the air quality may have been significantly worse back then. At one point, Edinburgh was considered Europe’s most population dense city. Multiple-story buildings were common in the 16th century and by the 18th century, buildings on High Street were often six to ten stories tall and could reach up to 14 stories towards the back where the land sloped down. The city was supplied with water via street level wells from the 16th century to the early 19th century, when slowly more modern plumbing became possible. Those living on higher floors (usually the wealthy), had to hire water caddies to trek water up the stairs until late 19th century. In 1797, the “Nastiness” Act was passed, which prohibited the tossing of waste out windows during daytime hours. Sanitation was a major issue in Old Town, along the Royal mile, until the late 19th century at least. Edinburgh would have been breathtaking for different reasons until very recent history.

We took in much of the Royal Mile on our first day, breaking in our travel legs well. We visited Greyfriar’s Kirk Graveyard (featuring many Harry Potter film graves, and much history) where G was shadowed by what seemed like a spirit dog. Perhap Greyfriar’s Bobby himself. We wandered up Victoria Street, the inspiration for Diagon Alley, popped into Napier’s, a herbal store that has been around since 1860, and then trekked back up the Royal Mile to the castle.

Along the way I found The Witch’s Fountain, tucked around the corner from the busy thoroughfare at the entrance to Edinburgh Castle. You have to know where to look to find this somewhat controversial monument, luckily I had done some research prior to our trip so I did know how to find it.

The Witch’s Fountain was created to remember the many women who were accused, tortured and convicted (commonly without fair trial), and publicaly executed for “witchcraft” – a label of convenience as we now know. The controversy behind this memorial is in the wording. The language on the plaque implies that the women being remembered were guilty, which as modern history shows, was never proven. The assumption that the women accused and forced to bear a horrible end to their lives, and the long history of persecution in other ways since, risks perpetuating harmful rhetoric. The debate, I suppose, is if remembering is still more valuable than forgetting.

By the end of our explorations on this first day, we were both nearly delirious from sleep deprivation. We somehow managed to find some fish and chips on our way back to our bnb, before hitting our bed pretty hard for a good night’s sleep.

On our second day, we woke up to a lovely view from our bedroom window of the mist rising up over Arthur’s Seat after a 12hr sleep. With our coherency restored, and a little in need of a break from the congestion of city central, we took the bus out to the coast and found Portobello Beach. We grabbed a couple flat whites at a beachside cafe, and walked the beach in low tide. I spent most of that time finding stones and shells in the sand. The whole vibe reminded me of a book from childhood, Kate’s Castle. Here I was creating a realtime adventure in a land full of history and adventure, little imagination needed. With some time to spare, we continued walking along the beach, before finding a bus to catch over to a nearby neighbourhood that housed the Royal Yacht Britannia. After finding it behind a paywall, we decided to carry on back to Old Town where we had a tour of the underground vaults to take in.

Edinburgh didn’t only grow upwards, it also expanded underground. Largely due to lack of real estate, underground bridges and vaults were created. At first for businesses such as taverns, cobblers and storage centres. This relatively quickly devolved into low-no income living situation and illegal business. The vaults are as you’d imagine, dark, cave like carve outs in the rock foundations of the city. We toured the South Bridge Vaults, completed in 1788. Rumours suggest that during the illegal use era you could find rebel distilleries, bodysnatchers storing their latest digs (steeling bodies from graves to sell to researchers was a common, and lucrative, practice in the 18th-19th centuries as medical research grew but religious institutions outlawed studies on cadavers), and many unfortunate families making home in small caverns. Ventilation would have been non-existent and air quality just as bad if not worse as above ground. By the 1860s the vaults were believed to be emptied, though they were not discovered until the 1980s during excavation for building updates above ground. Now they are largely tourist attractions.

To cap off our final day in EDI, we found a bite to eat in Old Town before making our way back to our BNB and preparing to leave the city the next morning.

As awestruck as I was at first in EDI, I left feeling ready to leave. I was struck by what would have frankly been a horrible place to live historically, as magical as it seems today. Perhaps that lived experience was a past life experience I’ve had, as I couldn’t seem to separate the past from the present. As I began to steep myself in the history of my bloodlines, the idea of being faced with leaving rural settlements as the elite cleared space for sheep and given the option of city centres like EDI or getting on a ship, it was an interesting reflection as to what would be more appealing. Edinburgh is full of history, a centre of amazing scientific and medical progress, the inspiration for much creative works and novel thinking – and yet, I sensed so much turmoil, congestion and heaviness in the air still. I’m glad we went, and I was glad to turn our gaze towards route out.

More to come.

Lost remembering

Today in my weekly riding lesson I was told to keep my right hip over my right foot while riding down a line of jumps off the right.

The profound thing was.. I actually managed to do that by the end of the lesson.

Ten years ago I fractured my right leg and sustained nerve damage. While I was back riding and competing later that year, I had a few years of not having full sensation in that leg and likely developed many of my adult compensations in my riding position during that time. On many levels, that injury began a strange spiral of events and lingering things that I can only summarize as what became the novel of my twenties.

Entirely not unconnected, a few weeks ago in a therapy session I faced the realization that the events of, and that followed, that injury were a hinge point for me becoming defensively averse to certain aspects of myself. Aspects that I learned to fear or avoid, because of fear of further ouchies on some level.

It’s strange how trauma of any kind can do this to our bodies and minds. We survive in many ways by our awareness shifting.

Back to riding. The sensation of a motor pattern I haven’t been able to fully or consciously commit since before that injury was “all of a sudden” intact. Heavy air quotes around “all of a sudden” to signify the intense and seemingly endless work I’ve done that likely compounded to that small, albeit profound moment.

Amidst all this it’s also not shocking to me that since that therapy session a few weeks ago where I was all but smacked in the face with the realization of a form of fearing myself, in sessions since my right side has been waking up. Including what feels like intriguing sensations I can only link to what I remember nerve healing feeling like way back when the injury was originally healing.

It’s not logical to say that ten years later my leg and all connections upwards throughout the body are beginning a new stage of healing.. but, it isn’t complete nonsense either.

All I know is that for the first time in many years I was able to adjust my right hip on top of my right foot and stay relatively straight and balanced through a line of jumps. I didn’t expect it, and I didn’t know all the dots were linking, and here we are striding onwards.

The Acceptance of Life as Chronic

Having been faced with the diagnosis of a chronic illness recently, and as a therapist who frequently works with chronic conditions of all sorts, I’ve been faced with the paradox of the chronic reality of human existence.

On one hand, it’s human nature to pursue solution. We are orientated to survive by recognizing threat and resolving threat, neurologically. Yet, our conundrum persists.

To be human is to encounter one thing after the next. To be human is to exist through experiences, many of which are threatening, overwhelming and traumatizing.

There is no cure for our diagnosis’ as humans.

We may experience all forms of acute and chronic discomforts, diseases, traumas and mishaps. And we are designed to be irrevocably changed by them as we live through them.

That is surviving, as well as thriving.

The recognition that we can not solve our chronic human conditions is both a relief and torture.

Acceptance is perhaps one of the reasons, if you are one who needs a reason, why we experience a human existence.

This recognition isn’t to minimize the nature of chronic disease, or any of the chronic complexities we experience. If anything, it amplifies their significance.

If I’ve recognized anything in those I’ve worked with professionally in support of their chronic concerns, it’s that they are more sensitive, more aware and more burdened. They have often been caught by the worst of life’s experiences and perhaps are in the midst of sorting their way through the processing of that. As they navigate their relationship to themselves, they are forced to meet pain, grief, trauma and the ebbs and flows of biological sensations time and time again.

As I begin to consciously navigate this for myself, within myself, I am recognizing that I’ve had some nature of chronic complaint most of my life. Be it post traumatic syndromes, or mystery health complaints. The current diagnosis I have received is both unique and synonymous in nature to many ones I’ve received in the past.

I am facing a reckoning within myself; biologically, spiritually, energetically, mentally and emotionally.

The question I am facing from my intuitive parts is this: Is this reckoning simply an embodiment of evolution? Is my breakdown just another breakthrough? Is breakthrough just another way of framing yet another turn of the wheel of life?

Momentary magic

The most meaningful magic is found in the simplest, smallest moments.

As I walked this path today, through the gardens full of seasonal death and mystery, I was reminded yet again of the spaces between what was, what is and what might be.

This image is a still of a blink of the day. By the time I walked forwards on this path what was then behind me was completely changed. Like walking into a different world. This happened again when I returned on the path a few moments later.

When we wander intentionally (do those two words work together?) we just might happen upon a moment of magic, wonder, stunning light and perhaps a reminder of some wisdom we forgot in our usual rush or act of doing.

I went on this stroll intending to hold onto some of the wonder and awe I found through this whole week. A week spent with good friends new and old, deep learnings, losses and gains. A week full of beginnings and ends, and lots of in betweens. I was reminded that I need to hold nothing, and instead I just need to allow it in and through.

A remembering

Time has continued to unfold exactly as it should. When I reflect back on my intended schedule for this summer, and the one that actually played out- it is comical to think about what my intended plan might have felt like.

Very nearly nothing actually went exactly to plan over the past few months, and almost every single thing that happened in hindsight was exactly perfect. Isn’t that so often the way, though?

As I write this I am sitting in a coffee shop (after “abandoning” our pup at the groomers, or so his eyes would imply) that carried me through many times of chaos in my University years and early business years. Cafe Postal on Provencher in Winnipeg is a small (though they’ve recently expanded I noticed today for more indoors space), boutique cafe. I wrote my final thesis here (and many other papers), I put together my first business plan here, and it’s safe to say that as I sit in the same spot I always sit in that who I thought I was going to be then is not altogether inaccurate, just a little different than expected.

It’s never what we expect it to be, is it?

I didn’t imagine then how my business life would evolve. I didn’t imagine then how my voice and my impact would take shape. I don’t even know if I knew what kinds of seeds I was planting, then, other than I was planting madly.

There were many things I didn’t even have in my imagination then. Meeting and partnering with a horse like Odys was perhaps the farthest thing from my imagination the last time I sat in this coffee shop. The human relationship, house and life I am building in partnership wouldn’t have crossed my mind, that’s for sure. The tattoos on my body were not on the horizon, and the depth of connection, inwards and outwards, I am beginning to feel would not have been fathomable. We know what we know, as we know it, and we don’t know what we don’t know.

In reflection, the end of August is always an interesting time. A shift of seasons, schedules and often awareness. Twelve years ago it would have meant moving into residence (from small town to deep downtown Winnipeg) at University and starting a degree that I would switch around a couple years later. A year later end of August was packing for my first solo international trip to New Zealand. Five years later I would have been finishing the actual degree, painstakingly waiting for convocation to mark that ending, probably sitting in this coffee shop writing final papers. A year after that, frantically packing and getting on a plane for an impromptu trip to Nepal with a University friend to trek to Everest (10/10 do not recommend this as a spontaneous trip, 10/10 do recommend this if you need to get to know yourself in a hurry). Three years later I would be re-writing my business plans, closing my first business and letting go contractors to re-focus on myself.

Today, I sit in integration of all those chaotic, progressive, intense end of August moments and all the moments that brought me to this place of integration. After a season of willingly (mostly) going with the flow, plans be damned, I am sitting the most with the intention I set three years ago as I closed one business and rebranded the evolved version.

I made a commitment with that decision and rebrand of professional me to place more trust in my intuition and express more authentically in my work.

I think now I am at the ledge of trusting my voice, using it more freely, and also embodying more whole heartedly what it means to express who I am authentically.

Authentic: of undisputed origin, genuine.

Some of my work the past year has been to recognize a part of myself I have (most of the time) affectionately named “The Curator”. The Curator is really good and outward perception. Of my expression, of other people’s experience of my expression and identity. They have a really great purpose and have served me in a lot of valuable ways. However, as much as editing and creating an outward story or experience is super helpful in many situations, it hasn’t always been truthful or authentic to my inward experience. The Curator’s abilities began to fall short, or burn out, sometime last year when all of a sudden I began experiencing panic attacks, dysregulation in my nervous system and began questioning if I had undiagnosed ADHD, PTSD, both or was in a whole new level of burn out.

I first recognized The Curator when a mentor, therapist and friend called me out for referring to my own body as “a body” in my language with her. Over a number of experiences I began to notice what I was really feeling, or wanting to express, would be curated even to those I trust the most. I would say something and it would be a half truth or sometimes not at all accurate to what I was really feeling. I couldn’t even recognize me as me on a physical level at times, and unconsciously my language reflected that experience creation. I became very familiar with the idea of dissociation after that. Something I can recognize easily in my clients, and had been experiencing frequently in myself without being aware of it. Being in my body, really in my body, was even being curated. We know what we know, and we don’t know what we don’t know.

Through the recognition and identification of The Curator and all the work they have done for me, there were other identities that came up as well. The mediator, the executive, the accommodator, femme fatale.. archetypes that represent both progressive and protective ways of being. None of them overtly negative, some of them still being discovered and unlayered. They helped me survive some really tough experiences and carried me through times where perhaps it wasn’t really safe to be in my body or aware of certain things. The body really is a brilliant thing. Stepping back into the body and at the risk of sounding cliche, beginning to see it as a temple and a home, has been perhaps the most transformational act I’ve taken through the past little while. It’s one thing to see the body as a necessary thing to take care of, and a completely other thing to experience it as a sacred experience.

From where I stand currently, closing out a summer of experiences and about to turn over a new decade of experiences, I feel like I am steeping in a slightly strange concoction of ingredients. Each one, each experience has built exactly who I am today and yet so much of that building is beginning to feel like remembering. A recognition of myself unfolding to become myself yet again.

Perhaps that is what going through a lifetime is about. Remembering the experiences infused into our body, our beings and our genetics. All of us a breathing entity of everything and everyone that has come before us. Authentic expression by nature is always going to be variable. A commitment to that, today, means keeping the tether to my body well. Remembering to find ways back to my sacred nature, to lean on all the experiences that have put me together and torn me apart. That scar tissue is meant to weave things together, that vulnerability therefore implies strength. To walk on my path and trust the parallels and connections that join along the way for the time they are meant to.

I’ll leave you for now with a poem that has stuck with me over the past month or so:

“Long Years apart- can make no

Breath a second cannot fill –

The absence of the Witch does

not

Invalidate the spell –

The embers of a Thousand

Years

Uncovered by the Hand

That fondled them when they

were Fire

Will stir and understand –

1383 by Emily Dickinson

One day at a time

I’ve been on a bit of a rabbit hole with my own personal development and awareness the past year or so. For those of you who follow astrological trends, I am in my Saturn return. A period of time often linked with reconciling one’s early adulthood and forming a new version of self. Usually around the transition from one’s twenties to thirties.

It has been one of those chunks of time where I think things have spiraled and I’m learning and reflecting, and then I find another depth to the rabbit hole to negotiate.

It’s not surprising to me at this point to feel my urge to write about my reflections returning again after a couple years off. It feels to me like the past couple years, as I’m sure it feels to many, were a stark pause in a lot of ways. I feel like I am slowly emerging from a fog to remember myself, and also meet myself again. With that emergence comes a revitalization in my ability to share, to write and to connect to my spiritual side. That part didn’t leave me the past couple years, but it did feel off to the side. I feel, though, the experiences I had without it were a necessary stepping stone to getting those parts of me back. Just as much as some of the experiences, perspectives and choices I am reconciling lately were necessary experiences along the human journey.

Today felt like a further step out of the fog (that has been THICK the past few weeks).

After a number of days feeling a little stuck in my own shit, I made a wise decision to take a few days away from the routine. The universe helped me out a bit by leaving the latter part of this week a bit lighter workwise. Today I started with a delightful, creative session with Lady Lorelie, a local artist who does henna/jagua and handpoke tattoos. I visited her to have a design put on my forearm. The theme?

Pansies, which started as a remembrance of my late grandmother and spiraled into a remembrance of giving myself a little grace.

Pansy, from the French “pensee”: to think, to ponder.

Historically symbolizing love, compassion, thoughtfulness, free thinking and remembrance.

For me, today, and for as long as the jagua stains last, a beautiful reminder for self compassion, inner softness and turning my empathy towards myself once in a while.

It’s also a reminder of the wonderful supports I have around me, and that softness can be a strength if I let it.

From there, I stopped briefly at one of my old haunt coffee shops for a quick tea, journal and selfie taking session to share the new design. I wrote briefly about so much of the last little while beginning to feel like a sort of initiation process. A journey in all aspects of myself with no clear destination, but one that felt uniquely timely and necessary. It was a nice little reminder of the power of changing our scenery once in a while. Sitting, reflecting, writing, whatever in coffee shops used to be a few times a week occurrence for me, before the pandemic and before we migrated out of the city limits.

Next, I made my way to Hollow Reed School of Healing Arts, my lovely neighbors at the St Norbert Arts Centre for a meditation with my herbalism teacher, Chad. The portion of my herbalism apprenticeship I am in has begun integrating some non-linear ways of learning and seeking guidance. Today’s session focused on a visualization into plant and animal guides, and the insights I got were quite pertinent.

When invited to open my mind to a potential animal spirit guide I was surprised to find a large, black female panther jumping out of the tree at me. So surprised at first I attempted to brush the visual off, so sure that there was no way such a powerful guide would be coming at me. After reminding myself to just experience instead of logic, the panther stuck around and guided me through the next stages of the visualization.

We headed through a forest, into a pond and into the ground to another realm. The panther by my side and clear visuals around me. As we walked through a tall grass field we ended up at a large fire, surrounded by various beings. I was invited to recognize the elder around the circle and approach. The elder had a human, robed, body and a large, light furred bison head. I was invited to hear them speak my name. I heard “Siya” (s-eye-ah). I offered a gift of thanks to the elder, and received a clear, oval crystal pendant in return. Around the rest of the circle I saw various other guides, which I think will require a future visit to this realm to get to know.

As I departed the circle and moved with the panther back to the world where I started the journey, I was invited to notice any plants that stood out to me or called to me. Two very clearly came into view for my attention:

Tiger Lily, and then Yarrow.

The Tiger Lily seemed emphasized in its colouring, with oranges, freckled brown and greens standing out. It also seemed emphasized it its tall, long even elegant shape. I got a drying sense through my chest and centre line, and a sense of wanting to stand up tall.

Yarrow, completely in contrast, appeared as a human form. Dressed in a flowing, white dress and robe with a flower crown. She was dancing, and right away I felt like I was at a music festival in the woods. Her feet were covered in dirt, her face embodying the knowing of self. There was a sense of buoyancy, a joy, and a balance that she imparted. A reminder that you can be creative, barefoot and dancing while also being integrated with your whole being, balanced and grounded.

As I closed out the meditation and came back to the real world to debrief my experience with Chad, I was struck by many themes relating to what I’ve been negotiating in myself lately.

The panther, an embodiment of feminine power and prowess. Symbolically linked in so many ways to the spiritual journey, working with and alchemizing one’s shadows and stepping into an empowered version of self.

Tiger Lily, this one I had to do some research on as it’s a plant I haven’t come across much in my learnings yet.

My favorite description so far of Tiger Lily:

https://www.rawberta.com/tiger-lily/. I specifically love the semantics of “integration of feminine values”. This has been a bit of a theme for me lately in a few different ways.

Another source spoke to tiger lily embodying the “assertive” or “belligerent” feminine nature. Haha.

This was an interesting read that linked Tiger Lily specifically to the second chakra. https://www.the-numinous.com/2016/07/27/lily-healing/

Yarrow: https://www.rawberta.com/yarrow/. “An energetic sieve”

Both have integrating capacity with Tiger Lily being a bit more of that “big cat” energy and Yarrow being a bit more balancing.

The theme that kept coming up as I google’d yarrow in the realm of energetics was “healing and love” which with the image I received of a dancing hippy is pretty accurate. There’s also a number of references linking yarrow to the wounded healer Chiron myth. To me, this resonates quite a bit with what I’ve been reading about the panther.. shadow work and alchemizing things towards the whole. This was a lovely deep dive into Yarrow’s history: https://www.rowanandsage.com/blog/2019/12/6/plant-profile-yarrow

I can’t find anything official about their use together however its super interesting to see how they could align. Integration, balance, full expression of self and wounds as openers to greater healing.

Something I’ve sat with, time and time again, the past few months is a fear. Resistance, often unconscious, to experiencing and expressing all of it. I know I’m not alone in this. The resistance to certain feelings or expressions. That is a human trait if one ever existed. It’s a lesson I keep returning to. Feeling the fear, the resistance and then softening into the feelings that they are protecting me from. It’s always in different contexts. Sometimes it’s related to emotions or expressions of parts of myself I’ve curated for a long time. Other times in relationship to others, vulnerability. The messages of those plants, and especially the message of the panther speak strongly to the intent I’ve even carrying through much of this.. standing tall as I embody more and more of myself.

A teacher of mine often uses the saying “scared and sacred are spelled with the same letters”. I’m often saying to clients, fear is protective but it doesn’t have to be inhibitory. It is prep work, if we can see and feel it that way. As I walk this uncharted path in myself, day by day I am relearning what it means to see myself as a sacred being.

What I know today is that taking a step away from my routine was a good choice. It allowed me to see a different perspective and let some alternative information in. And to top it all off I got to bask in the almost August sunshine, embodying a bit that panther energy as I sunned myself in the gardens at SNAC.