There was a sign at the entrance to the woods saying they close at four. I stood there for a moment, looking at it, thinking how strange that is. As if a woodland can close. As if anything in there changes at four o’clock. We went in anyway. Just walking. We found the bluebells. You could smell them before you saw them. It was everywhere once you noticed it. I had my camera with me and I wanted to get closer. But there was a fence. Wire pulled tight across, with a small sign:

My Ostara Walk with Wild Minds Nature Yesterday morning I stepped into the woods with a group of women I hadn’t met before, and by the time I left I felt calmer, quieter, and more like myself again in a way that is hard to force but easy to recognise when it happens. We met at Moira Furnace beside a carved wooden owl, which somehow felt like the right place to begin, as though it marked a transition without needing to be explained. From there we walked together into the trees

In the night a hare was leaping like the last white song of winter over darkened hills. It had a smile in its eyes, shining, brightly shining. It had the moon hanging from its long left ear, swinging, slowly swinging. And the moon was shadowed with hare memories of wild grass, warm earth. And the smile was a tale untold. And where the hare leapt, flowers grew - small heirlooms of the winter, given over to the new season. In a house in quiet darkness, a woman was watching the

Some projects don’t end. They simply wait. I began the Beekeeper’s Quilt once before, in another life, with another pair of hands. I was thirty then, full of optimism, convinced that devotion alone could carry a thing to completion. I spent hundreds on yarn — proper yarn, good yarn, 100% wool — and knitted hexapuffs whenever I could. Waiting rooms. Evenings. Quiet moments stitched together. I blogged about it. I believed in it. By the time life shifted — as it always does

Reflections on mindfulness, presence and the quiet details of everyday life. There is so much that goes unnoticed.Small moments, passing thoughts, the feeling of being here but not quite arriving. This is a space to slow down. To pay attention. To notice what’s already beneath us. Everywhere I go, I take a photograph of my feet. On woodland floors dark with leaf-mold and softened by years of decay and return.On old cobblestone, hollowed by weather, feet, hooves, prayers.On be

For my son, and for the women who helped me while I learned “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.”— Carl Jung There are places that do not simply host us — they recognise us. Glastonbury was one of those places. I did not go there to become someone else. I went there and discovered that I could stop editing who I already was. The land did the rest. Avalon does not demand belief; it invites attention. It allows the sacred to brush up against the ordi