On the eve of Solstice Eve

I’ve been thinking of spiritual practice less as a calling and more as a craft. Less the gazing into the flame than it is the building of the fire. Something you learn with your hands as much as your heart, through repetition, mistakes, and a fair bit of sanding down rough edges. The places where I ‘practice this practice’ are mostly (not always) outdoors: a quiet walk, whispering to plants, dawn-watching in the garden, sitting under a tree. It’s the small, daily effort to remember I’m part of something that’s bigger, and exquisitely alive. Mostly it’s just showing up with interest, and a willingness to try again. To re-approach an idea, or an inspiration that woke me at three in the morning.

My years as an amateur field researcher in eco-spirituality have shaped me not in any way into an expert, but always a curious participant. I try things, I watch what happens, I keep notes, and I frequently forget something that doesn’t settle in my bones. Whatever happens, I want to write about it, because that’s part of the craft too: experimenting, sharing, and letting go of what doesn’t quite sing.

So I keep turning up to the tools, as it were. Some days practice feels flow-y, other days it’s all splinters and hammered thumbs. Quite often there’s simply no time. But that’s the nature of craft, isn’t it? You keep shaping, sanding, and learning the grain. What I make won’t be perfect, or ancient, or particularly fashionable, but it will eventually work. A piece of lived devotion, shaped by experience, and possessing beauty. Maybe that’s what we’re made to offer: our own small, handmade contribution to the ongoing work of being human in a living world.

Right now, my mood can be tetchy. I’ve just completed a multi-month taper off an anti-anxiety medication that I’d been taking for two years. Even doing it slowly, the side effects are real, both physically and emotionally. I’m feeling everything, everywhere, all at once. I’m deeply frustrated with the human world, including myself. This helps no one, so what do I do?

First, as someone once said, ”Never trust a bad feeling that hits when you’re indoors or sitting down.” It may be clunky but damn if it isn’t the actual truth. So I’ll start there - get outdoors and move.

My second step will be to get near natural water. I’m a couple of hours’ drive from the coast, but the stream below our garden will very much do the job. Right now, there are many local fields that look like small lakes, thanks to the heavy rain.

Third is to breathe. I’m a chronic shallow breather who always scoffed at the idea of breathwork until I tried it. Now I love it, but I forget all about it until my shoulders are up by my ears and my nerves are on fire. That would be now.

So that’s my work for this week. Incredibly simple, undoubtedly life-changing. If you’re feeling similarly twitchy, maybe there’s something in there for you too.

I promised myself that I’d publish a weekly post, for eight consecutive weeks, er…eight weeks ago, and here we are. On the solstice last year, I went with Charlie down to the hospital because he wasn’t feeling quite right (seven months after having a stent fitted). He stayed there and I came home. We cancelled Christmas and New Year because he spent them on a ward, and started 2025 with triple bypass surgery, not coming home until January 9th. This year, I’m/we’re feeling the emotional resonance of that more strongly than I expected (no doubt also contributing to my antsy mood), in a good way. A slightly wobbly good way. It feels like the right time to take a break, take stock, be grateful, happy and celebratory, then come back in the new year. I’ve got lots to talk about and I want to take a moment to organise it all in my head.

Yeah, I know. As if.

However you spend the next couple of weeks, I wish for you peace, presence and love. Be that up close, or at a comfortable distance. You choose.