Wild and Free in Loule

Recently I spent 6 days at a Wild and Free Retreat run by my dear friend Sarah Shannon outside of Loule on farmland in Portugal. On the first evening of the retreat I shared that I was looking forward to connecting inwards to the many women that live inside me because that’s what it feels like. It feels like there’s a wild and free woman, a mother, a wife, a curious child, a writer, a wise old woman, a performer and a fool all taking up the rooms in my “Guest House” as the poet Rumi called it.

Our beautiful workshop set up for cacao ceremony and meditation

For six days I bounced to the beat of my own drum enjoying silent mornings, slow yoga and meditation practices; eating leisurely, enjoying the beautiful farmland surrounding us and getting to know the other women that were also there.
Most of the other women were Irish so there was a great sense of home about the place. One evening we stayed up singing traditional songs, we danced familiar, and a one two three steps, my accent softened and the odd sentence in Irish rung out like a song from my childhood, “Oíche mhaith” and “Go n-éirí an t-ádh leat” were used without jest or irony but in all their ancient authenticity. I have practiced yoga for years and Sarah is one of the best teachers I have had a class with. Her retreats are run with huge acceptance, an open mind, a light heart and a good measure of humour.
One evening after a cacao ceremony we released ourselves in ecstatic dance together and I fully landed into my wild and free woman, I was the woman I follow into my heart during meditation, the woman that laughs and dances barefoot with butterflies in her hair.

This wild woman was taking over, I don’t think she realised that she was a guest in my guest house. I don’t think she realised she would be checking out soon.

With Sarah Shannon after cacao and ecstatic dance

As I flew back into Stockholm from Faro, a strange sense of disconnect came over me. I had just been practicing connecting for the entire retreat, I should feel connected.

And yet.

It’s a strange feeling coming home to a country you don’t call home from another foreign country. Looking out the window of the aeroplane as we descended into Stockholm I marvelled at the beauty of it but a sense of an emotional relationship to it did not overwhelm me. When I fly home to Dublin or into Faro or London, I can feel so much that I start to tear up.
So there I am dry eyed and underwhelmed, appreciating the nature below from up in the clouds after a 6 day retreat of connecting, feeling disconnected, reserved. I take in the vast, flat, untouched landscape. Sweden is a dark, soothing, Christmas tree green, crowds of them stand gathered together like witches in pointed hats providing hideaways for the animals and wooden cabins buried within their covens. Cut out swirls of glass like lakes appear amongst the bushy forest land. From the sky they all seem frozen, even in the summer. Flat farmland interrupts the forests and glass puddle lakes with burnt red wooden farmhouses settled here and there but otherwise land, so much land.

It made me feel lonely and then it made me feel peaceful.

View from the plane as it landed north of Stockholm

I reflect on this. Places seem to connect with those different women that are taking up all of my guest rooms. The wild and free woman is not under a spotlight in Sweden, the mother, the writer and the gardener are given time. Perhaps they are more in control of their emotions, perhaps they can hold it together more, stay somewhat removed from the gushing of getting swept up in romantic ideas of home.

When I became pregnant in London the mother in me longed to go home to Dublin to start our family. Flying into Dublin bay, the Wicklow mountains seem to shield and protect her, comfort her and make her feel small, manageable, safe after the hectic west end. The stage lights that shone a spotlight on the perfomer in me, that gave me a platform were suddenly too bright, too exposing. The River Thames that used to feel like the rushing blood flow of London’s vascular system started to feel like a hot, nauseated snake, winding its way sluggishly through too much concrete, too much musty underground air that was rising up to linger about the ankles of the commuter.  
I longed to stand at Poolbeg lighthouse with open sea ahead, mountains to my back and feel protected, give my baby protection and so we moved home. The baby was born and a whisper within started nagging.

Is this all you are now? Mother?

I hushed the stirrings with a lullaby as I walked up and down the strand willing the baby to sleep, singing through a slightly clenched jaw. My husband and I had our three babies in Dublin and it held us in its bay while we transitioned into parenthood

So, as I flew over the vast landscape, taking it all in feeling lonely and peaceful, an uncomfortable knowing rose up. The time for the wild woman to step back was coming.

The transition hit me hard. While I delighted in seeing my family running towards me in joy at my return, I also had this urge to run away, to flee. To tear out pages of parent teacher meetings and appointments from my diary, to pull apart throw pillows and smash vases. I took myself up to my bedroom and cried for a bit. The wild woman was not happy to be diminished.

It's okay, I told her, you can be here too, you are welcome, I mean you’re over reacting a little but I get it, you can stay, we can dance again.

Wild and free and full of heart

I suppose the challenge is to find a way of letting all of the women staying at my Guest House have their moment. Some of them take centre stage every day while others have been waiting in the wings, unhappily it would seem.

While the wild woman could be set free on the farm barefoot and dancing in Loule, she doesn’t get so much time in Stockholm which gives time in abundance to the mother and the wife. The long, cosy, winter months allow the writer time to work and dream.

Stay Optimistic, always good to be reminded

Philip and I often wonder where the best place would be for us to live, which country would be perfect for us to raise our family. I am beginning to realise that there is no perfect country. Not only because perfection is impossible but because we are not so straightforward (well Philip is fairly straightforward, thank goodness for men sometimes because this woman is complex).

If I can find a way to attend to all the women in my Guest House, be a warm and kind hostess, I think I can really be happy anywhere.

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