Naomi Brosnan

Photograph by Artist

The trembling of the leaves seems more personal as I stand here open to the connection that calls from my trees. This Beech was only a dozen leaves old when she called to me to enter the circle…It is a staggered affair now, but as I really look it is still a place which contains some natural magic. The darkness at my heels questions the possibility…

It is always a birth after such a void of dark thoughts, a dance that I must dance to seal the birthing again to life. A dance of bestial intent with a raw desire for passionate movement…In the forest amongst the spirits of the grove, feeling their rhythm and peace being lost in the soft earth and moss, that quenches my thirst to be filled. Filled with wonder of an innocence that remains a constant presence in the wild places, places formed with the wind. I seek the wild places that have been formed in me.

Memory reminds me once more to walk upon the path of my people. I find it in music no question, in notes that resonate with such extreme beauty…There is nothing quite like making music even if it is only for a long moment. It seems that the moment is the thing that stays far beyond it’s experiencing. Past informing the future becoming eternal. Many moments have gathered like leaves in the wind, I make a bed with them on which to lie. Dreaming of so many possibilities without a commitment to live any one with real vigor…I suppose it is in my nature that is water, always changing depth and perspective…probably need to build a few dams at least long enough to finish the manifest thought! Instead a trail of thoughts gather in my tail, dragging on the forest floor of my imagination.

The long days are here again, there is a bite to the air and my senses are cleansed by the crisp morning. The mist that hangs low over the fields caught by the rising sun is truly a magnificent sight. One cannot help but think of our myths and legends of the Sidhe in the mist, on the ground and in the sky. Ireland is so familiar to me, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the land under foot. I have known people who carry a handful of earth with them as they travel, but we are a whole planet and the natural spirits that are so familiar to us travel on the wind. Their familiar places unrecognized seem so exotic, though they are surely prehistoric.

There is a sameness that has prevailed in nature on my travels, those who walk and scurry upon her may differ but the rhythm remains in tune, familiar like a heart beat. Though my travels have been limited I have been amazed at how at home I have felt and how familiar these new places are…Maybe it is some kind of genetic memory that dwells in the soul…And oh my how is sings when in the presence of mist and mountain.

When I saw this photograph my conscious mind illuminated flashes of travel…The obsidian I bought from the old trading station just outside Yosemite National park. It is incredible how the climate changes as you drive up and in, this place that smells of red wood trees and sleeping bears.  This ‘ half dome above clouds, Yosemite ‘ had me nestling in the cracks just above the clouds. It holds magnificent detail, I can almost see my own tiny form amongst the trees. The original photo holds a superb amount of detail, it is hand printed on silver gelatin, 2010. To view a better image go to the source…www.rafal.net

Bealtaine is upon us, her passion on the wind and in the sunshine that illuminates all these thorns in my hands. Digging away at the memories of this life, a cycle returning to spill the essence of desire on the stones again. Each thing quivering with a desire to be more of itself. Truth buried like the thorns in my hands, present yet covered. I can feel a journey beginning to whisper with more urgency, somehow closer to a truth that I must uncover.

The hope of resolution and growth is more than I have dared to think about in a while. A way to break back into the flow, through my own barricades. With so much positive force present in the cycle it is simply a matter of doing. To enter the great hall once again for the tango of the soul…pure instinct is the only way with which to dance this dance.

A windy night with the fences banging their weight against the concrete…I like the sound, a natural composition making itself heard here in suburbia. The elemental force behind it trembles  my soul, reacting in delight at Her presence…The Smith, The Poet, The warrior. In older memory still she is known as The Shining One with the blood of the Faye running through Her. She is, in our beautiful celtic way scattered throughout the land and the spirit , a part of who we are without thinking.

Her night, a marker in the dark haze of an uncovering winter, a seed of light for the spirit to see, an idea for the mind to hold. And for the imagination of the future that will be. Bridget holds us this night ( those who would be held ) and kisses our prayers with the dew. She creates a space where it is easier to trust the light that you feel, this is ancient knowledge settled into the night. A womb to grow those fragile hopes in a tangible way, where the bright gentle ideas have tenure. Innocence makes a gallant return to the stage where her bed is waiting. She is full of that pure desire to live and dream.

Remembering the nights that have gone before, some in silence and some in splendor, these accrue to an inherent  sense of responsibility  gathering in my blood, gathering in my years. I am touching upon a place of peace. Releasing old barriers from their posts, creating space along the way.

As I approach this idea in my head like an animal who has dreamed a dream. Waking in a foreign place full of intangible conflicting notions that belong to some other race. Devoid of trust and belonging one is easily pulled into the quagmire of lies and deceit, the concept of truth drowned out by false need. Manufactured desire and fear that is packaged, promoted and mass produced. Real need buried beneath  the multitude of lies and twisted truth. There is always some seed of truth in the foundation, rather like the many churches built on top of old old sacred sites. Sites that are connected to the very core of our planet, places where the human spirit can look upon itself and really see. This mirror remains untarnished by any  force that may wish to conceal it. The power remains in the stillness that must be achieved in order to see with any real depth. Like bird watching for the soul, you must be in one place long enough to really have your boots sunk in.

The stillness within is key, as we move at incredible speeds through the solar system. All is in motion, constant changing and exchanging of energy. This stillness is not governed by physical science, it lies on another very different plane altogether, closer to the secrets of chaos and creation. In the realm of the heart is where the spirit shines at it’s very brightest. And here in the darkest part of the year that light shines long and bright. The tipping point of the year, a vision of the luminous souls in flight. Lanterns lit and released into the air, small groups of people huddled outside to bring in the roman new year. The cold and beautiful night alive with floating prayers of hope and spirit strong. They all journey towards the south-east to gather together. The bright flames becoming embers in the sky, shining like the stars, they make new constellations in the sky. Never more than seven converge on this night, their constellations made by human hands appear bright and true amongst the older residents. A torrent of hope and wonder washed through me, the sense of belonging in me deeply felt. I gleefully belong here x

Forming Trust