My granny observes me from the table, Her uncanny sea-green irises Timelessly sharp with retrocognition. I approach, white Belleek teapot in hand, Wafting steam from chipped porcelain spout Heavily fogging the air between us, Portal to a different time and place ... I stand in a small cottage kitchen Sharply fragrant with juniper needles, Where steady rain-percussion against thatch Lulls me into a lucid trance-dance With some spiraling lavender turf smoke. I communicate with the Otherworld, Realms of the enigmatic Old Ones Blessing my footfalls home to selkie soul. My basket brimming with plants and fungi, I traverse many meridians, Leylines warded by bramble and sapling. My hazel eyes acute with prophecy, I mix herbal infusions and salves, Weaving them with octopus, wolf, and owl. The ancient seasonal oscillations Beat in my blood, its time signature Three-four Éire, New England, and Orkneyjar, An excruciating misty womb-waltz ... The bean feasa rooted between worlds Fully mirrored in my granny's wise eyes.
Journal Prompt: What are your most potent experiences in thin places — where boundaries cease to exist, where all worlds converge at one hearth?
Photography
When not behind the camera, I collaborate with amazing photographers who honor the relationship between humanity and nature. We are not outside of the natural world; rather, we are a part of it. Post pictures © Peter Paradise Michaels.
Notes
Bean feasa is Irish-Gaelic for “wisewoman” or “woman-of-knowledge.”
Beautiful and evocative. Great writing, lovely poetry x
Alicia, I often imagine myself there, where my ancestors were so long ago. This poem brought me here to visit with my old ones.