Blackie - If women rose rooted: the journey to authenicity and belonging

Sharon Blackie is a writer, mythologist and psychologist. Her work is focused on exploring and deepening our relationship with the land and with place through the transforming power of myth and story. Originally trained as a psychologist and neuroscientist, Sharon has also practiced as a therapist specialising in narrative, storytelling, creative imagination and clinical hypnotherapeutic techniques. She is the author of The Long Delirious Burning Blue, a novel which the Independent on Sunday called hugely potent. A tribute to the art of storytelling that is itself an affecting and inspiring story. She is the founder and editor of EarthLines magazine, and runs creative courses and retreats for women. For many years Sharon was a crofter, both in the far north-west Highlands of Scotland and in the Outer Hebrides, sandwiched between mountains and sea in one of the wildest and most remote places in the country. She now lives in the hills of Donegal, in a small stone riverside cottage by a waterfall in a wood.

www.sharonblackie.net

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First published in 2016 by September Publishing
This new edition published 2016

Copyright Sharon Blackie 2016

The right of Sharon Blackie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The title of the book comes from a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke:

If we surrendered/to earths intelligence/we could rise up rooted, like trees.,

from Rilkes Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, trans. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder

Typeset in Bembo by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire

Printed in Denmark on paper from responsibly managed, sustainable sources by Norhaven

eISBN 978-1-910463-27-7
Kindle ISBN: 978-1-910463-26-0

September Publishing

www.septemberpublishing.org

For my mother.
For all the mothers.

4. Deep Caves and Bottomless Lakes:
The Cauldron of Transformation

And the Russian women in blue towns

are speaking.

The flower-dressed women of India,

women in orange tents,

dark women

of the Americas

who sit beside fires,

have studied the palms of their hands

and walk toward one another.

Its time

to bless this ground.

Their hair is on fire

from the sun

and they walk narrow roads

toward one another.

Their pulses beat

against the necks thin skin.

They grow closer.

...

Daughters, the women are speaking.

They arrive

Over the wise distances

On perfect feet.

Daughters, I love you.

from The Women Speaking by Linda Hogan

The ford at dawn, Donegal, Ireland

Oh what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made a personal, merely personal feeling, taken away from the rising and setting of the sun, and cut off from the magic connection of the solstice and equinox. This is what is the matter with us. We are bleeding at the roots, because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars, and love is a grinning mockery, because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the tree of Life, and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilised vase on the table.

D.H. Lawrence

I ts not quite dawn in this green, fertile valley; theres just the faintest glimmer of pink in the sky to the east. The moon is waxing, gibbous, its light silvering the river which winds through the land, soft like the curves of a womans body as she stretches out to dip her toes in the sea. A grey heron breaks the silence, shrieking from the banks as I make my way across the narrow bridge, walk slowly up the rising lane. At the crossroads, three hares are sitting quite still in the middle of the road; they scatter when they become aware of me, tails flashing white in the moonlight then vanishing into the dark.

Up I go along the stony, uneven track to the high bog, face to the Seven Sister mountains, silhouetted now against a gradually lightening sky. I wind back along a tiny path to cut home across the fields, but first I have to navigate the ford: a shallow pool in a sheltered hollow through which a deep and fast-flowing stream can be crossed. The ford froths blood-red at the edges with iron precipitates, and I creep down to it carefully, half expecting to catch a glimpse of the bean nighe, the Washer at the Ford the old woman of legend who scrubs clean the bloody clothes of slain warriors. After all, this morning is Samhain, the old seasonal Gaelic festival which marks the beginning of winter. And on this night, my ancestors believed, the passage between this world and the Otherworld is open.

Behind the ford is a single, clearly defined hill, a green breast rising from the soft contours of the land. It is crowned with the people of the mounds. Once upon a time, inside a hill like this, Celtic women were transformed into the wisest creatures in the land.

In the Otherworld, wisdom is largely possessed by women, since they are the ones who hold the Cup. The Queen of the Aos S decided one day to bestow that gift on human women too, and so she sent out an invitation to all the women of the land, asking them to come to her great hall beneath the hill on a certain date, and at a certain time. The news was carried on the winds and the waves, by the birds and the fish; even the leaves of the trees whispered of it. Soon, women from all over the country began to set out on their journey. Some travelled alone, some came together; and when the appointed day dawned, the doors to the Otherworld opened.

The women streamed inside the hill and gasped to find themselves in a beautiful hall which was draped with bright cloths woven from nettles and dyed with the blood of shellfish and the sap of plants. Soft animal skins covered the floors and seats, and a feast was laid out on tables of wood and stone, set on plates of pearly shell. A soft green light pervaded the vast hall. When everyone was inside and the watchers saw no more coracles on the water, no more women climbing up the slope of the hill, the doors to the outside world were closed.

Into the hall then came the Queen, bearing herself with kindly dignity, her face shining with a strange but lovely light. She carried a large golden Cup in her hand, bright with unusual marks and carvings; eight fairy women followed behind, each carrying a golden flagon of sparkling liquid which they used to continually fill the Cup. The Queen passed through the hall, offering a drink from the Cup to each of the women who was present. The Cup held the distilled wisdom of the world through all the ages past, and as each woman drank she suddenly grew wise, and understood

Here in Ireland, the Otherworld is as real as any other. This is a landscape steeped in stories, and those stories stalk us still. They have seeped into the bones of this land, and the land offers them back to us; it breathes them into the wind and bleeds them out into streams and rivers. They will not be refused.