Kā Roimata-o-Hine Hukatere (the frozen tears of Hine Hukatere) or Franz Joseph Glacier

Kā Roimata-o-Hine Hukatere (the frozen tears of Hine Hukatere), The legend tells of Hine Hukatere, a skilled mountaineer, and her lover Wawe (or Tuawe), who was less experienced. During a climb, Wawe fell to his death, and Hine Hukatere's grief-stricken tears were frozen by the gods, forming the glacier. 

From its origins high in the Southern Alps, the Franz Josef Glacier (Kā Roimata-o-Hine Hukatere) descends into the lush native rainforest of Westland's National Park. This descent occurs from a height of 3,000m above sea level to 500m over a distance of 9km, making it one of the steepest glaciers in the country. It is also one of the fastest moving, sometimes up to 5 metres per day.

Before we climbed her, we stayed in a funny little townlet a bit like a ski resort. There were many glacier guides wandering around: young, fit, sporty, good looking. I felt lucky to stay with one of them, a friend of a friend: “Amazon Cat” as it said on her ice pick. And she was that, her name was Cat, and she was impressively Amazonian: tall, tanned, blond haired and broad shouldered, self assured, warrior like. My 25 year old self was rather daunted by her even though, or perhaps even more so because, she was only 20.

Little did I know when I first met her how much I would lean into these Amazonian qualities, how much I would need them over the next few days, and how much the experience she shared with us would stay with me forever.

I had written about glaciers in my A level geography and it had never occurred to me how incredibly beautiful and unique they are. What a shame that our education system does not think to incorporate such life affirming detail! The flat plains at the front of the glacier look like unfinished marble surfaces: rough and off white streaked with browns of all hues. Crevasses running down their length. The further up you go the more spectacular the marble creation becomes: sculpture upon sculpture of ice, round tunnels where rocks have been churned and turned around as this mighty mass of ice creeps forwards. Bridges, deep valleys, mountains, foothills, crags, turrets, pinnacles. And more colours of ice than I had ever previously imagined: clear ice you can see through to the bubbles suspended in time, swimming pool blue ice with pure white vertical waves, dirty ice laced with debris and grey slate shards. I have a photo of me, ice pick in hand, hat, gloves, boots, crampons, laughing in a chamber of clear blue ice. That blue is like no other on this earth: pure, clear, heavenly.

As I listened to the ring of Cat's ice pick wielded with such dexterity, sliding her hands down to the base with a downward stroke into the ice, sending armies of tiny ice cubes fleeing. An explosion who's aftermath sounds like a brief hailstorm. I learnt to trust in the 100 spikes on my crampons that felt so unsteady and untrustworthy at first. Especially knowing that ice can cut like glass, that a slight slip of the foot could cause severe injury or in some places death.

Cat's overwhelming confidence for her mere 20 years in the world seemed to shrink my own. But her perception and care surprised me and left me deeply grateful. Bleeding heavily and already tired from travelling and completely at sea in an absolutely otherworldly environment I was fragile.

On day 2 we climbed along incredibly beautiful twisty turny layered rocks, coloured green, browny gold, silver, struggling all the time for stable foot holds then up and over the glacier, down a crevasse on the other side, then up a steep hill helped by small trees and vegetation now to hold our tired feet. At the end of the day, nearing our hut for the night, my moon blood came and I was close to tears. I could not look Cat or my friend Josephine in the eye let alone find the strength to ask for help. In her patient way, with calm, enduring cheerfulness, Cat asked me about my favourite things. I loved her for that. I loved her for respecting me hiding my struggle and finding a way to help me that didn't expose me.

I loved her for that because she did not know me and she found a way to honour my feelings better than my own mother. That was poignant.

We spent that night in an old wooden hideaway of my childhood dreams. It began to rain and in the morning we waited for the rain to stop. It didn't, so we left around midday, only to be met by a raging torrent which had been a benign stream the day before.

We knew the drop down the steep waterfall below would most probably be fatal. I felt calm and trusting and at the same time more aware of possible imminent danger to my life than I ever had before. Cat decided it would be foolish to try and cross, at least with us two in tow. We returned up the steep hill back towards our haven. It seemed an endless journey battling against the rain, the wind driving cold wet in our faces. We arrived soaked through. I began to cry, ashamed and exhausted. They went out to look at the glacier from a different point of view. I sat and somehow found a thread of belonging to the wider web of life, to the rain. A glimpse of the golden thread of my life saving me in a moment of crisis.

It has taken me some 20 years since then to appreciate the drain my menstrual cycle can be. I bleed more heavily than most women and the consequent anaemia leaves me exhausted in a way few understand. I now offer my younger self some understanding she needed then.

In that moment, when the others came back, I did what I had learnt on my travels and at my school. I made do with very little. I had no sanitary towels and my sleeping bag was wet. Without the need for emotional conversation which was beyond us young uninitiated women at that point, we found all the dry things we could, we huddled together on a mattress on the floor and kept warm.

We found a crappy novel, a few trivial pursuits cards, some rice, some soup powder and some custard, we tried to radio through to the other huts and guides and see if we could get the code for the padlock on the store cupboard to no avail. Josephine fantasised about what was inside, about breaking the lock and finding a bottle of wine and some cigarettes. That kept us entertained for a while. Those young women were brilliant at keeping things light when I felt like sinking into the dark and damp of my own menstrual blood.

The next day we began to make it down the glacier amongst mist and drizzle. My feet were unsteady as if over 36 hours they had forgotten how to walk. The sun popped out for a moment and the sun sparkling on her incredible white skirt made up for everything. I offered the sacrifice of a day of my life and much menstrual blood as a thanks for such beauty.

We drank the delicious fresh glacial waters and laughed about our night in the hut. I spotted turrets of crystals sparkling within a huge rock. Looking closer we found a crack filled with them. Cat chipped away and managed to dislodge a few: some permanent blocks of ice for her windowsill at home, lines and edges and waves of crystals.

After that we still had a way to go. We only had a little chocolate left to eat. I was swaying weakly. I kept hearing avalanches in the distance and every step I took seemed to end in a slip. Weeping I summoned all my little remaining strength to go back over the glacier. A slip too close to an edge of no return Cat's strong arms grabbed my hand, “Don't do that to me now”, she said.

Finally ice steps down the other side. A view down river of the vast vertical cliffs and a raging muddy flow from the foot of the glacier. A backward glance to the sun shining on our little hut. I gave up using my legs, sat on my waterproof trousers and slid down.

Watching rich red blood on white white ice, feeling its hot stickyness run down my tired legs surrounded by the cool of the glacier is a striking sensual memory. It comes to me when I slip into the river in summer or touch the ice in winter. when I am bleeding heavily and hear the sound of quenching hot iron.

The Seed of Life Story Writing

Stories saved me time and again throughout my childhood and the challenges I faced. I then studied English literature at university, which was my way of immersing myself in more and more stories.

I think my fascination with personal stories of real people began as a young woman, on my long distance travels over large distances on buses and trains and in the cabs of lorry drivers.

I didn't have my own car until I was 28 years old but I travelled all over the British Isles, Southern Africa, New Zealand, Peru, Chile, and Spain. Mostly I was by myself and mostly travelling by bus, by bicycle, by train (and aeroplane for the longer distances).

And to remind any younger readers, I didn't have a phone either, of course. Because we didn't have them then.

I remember one poignant story from a trucker in the UK, his wife had lupus, and she was pregnant. I knew nothing about the illness then, in my early twenties and my heart went out to him and his young family as he described the awful symptoms of exhaustion pain, discomfort and the worry about their unborn child. What I remember too, is his helplessness and fear, his brave attempt to understand. He had been given very little information or support. I hope that might be different now, over 20 years on. I felt so deeply grateful for his kindness towards me and his openness that put me at ease. His sharing also made me wonder if my mode of 'free' travel also might serve a purpose for those 'helping' me.

I ended up in many similar situations where people shared their life stories with me. It planted the seed in me for understanding the idea of 'service' and mutual exchange. Without any written agreements or formalities, human nature led us to a mutual exchange. I often felt cared for and passed from one lorry driver to another, with a free cup of tea and a sandwich at a truck stop in between. My service to them....to ask a few questions and listen deeply to their stories.

I feel so privileged to have been witness to some stories which may never have been told to anyone else. The man I mention above had never been to therapy, he had never written his story down and would probably never consider it, but something about sitting next to a complete stranger in his own lorry cab for hours on end gave him permission to tell his story unashamedly and with little prompting.

On another occasion I began to tell a little of my story to a fellow passenger on a 24 hour bus journey from Cusco to Lima. I told her my age (21) and that I was travelling alone. I told her I was from England. She didn't know where it was, but she knew it was very far away. She was a mother of 5 children and she could not bear the thought of me travelling alone with no destination or home to go to. So she invited me to her house to spend the night. I was touched and I accepted.

She showed me into the house; a simple, mud brick structure, with just a couple of chairs, outdoor kitchen, outdoor toilet (hole in the ground), outdoor cold tap. I met her lovely children who were terribly excited to meet a real “gringa”. (a Spanish term for someone with a lighter complexion). We laughed and joked together and ate a simple meal of white rice and potatoes and went to bed.

In the morning I heard chattering nearby. I pulled back the blanket that served as a curtain and heard the family behind another blanket that was hanging a couple of feet in front of me. There she was, with her 5 children together in a double bed. They had slept there, tightly packed, all night, and given me the only other bed they had.

I felt so ashamed for assuming they had a 'spare' bed to offer me. And I felt moved to tears by their hospitality given so willingly and with such good grace.

That was part of their story I was permitted entrance to for a brief moment. I was lucky enough to have many wonderful experiences in my travels around the world. There are many tales to be told another day.

All of these led me to be guided to work with people's own personal stories. Through my studies I have learnt to celebrate my own life journey. We all have fascinating stories. The creative practises of Biographical Counselling and Coaching can help us to find our own true path again when we may have wandered off, they can support us to find our confidence if we have mislaid it after a crisis or change of direction.

I very much look forward to hearing some of your stories and feeling the richness and nourishment that comes from true human connection in today's busy world.

Contact me for a free conversation about what might suit you best: one to one sessions or group work. Either online or in our beautiful Herefordshire woodland.

THE SMELL OF AUTUMN and RICH SURVIVAL

I stepped outside as the sun was setting tonight, setting the world aglow.

Like the light in Africa, what I remember of my time in Southern Africa, the light filled my soul there as it does here, now. This light is one of the golden threads of my story, weaving strands that support me on this journey of life.

And tonight, the smell.....the wonderful sweet smell of Autumn: apples beginning to ferment slightly, a freshness in the air, cool, slight dampness but tinged with sunlit warmth still.

The smell took me to other times, to other threads of my story. I remember it, the smell, the feeling, from school and running. I went to boarding school. Yes, I am a boarding school survivor. 11 years. From 7 to 18 years old. In my first school I climbed trees, they became my family, my support, my safe haven. In the second school I was told that “young ladies don't climb trees”. I didn't want to be a young lady. But I wanted to be left alone in my havens, not bullied into coming down by controlling matrons.

So I took up running because then I could legitimately escape out of the grounds, which were beautiful, but still a confine and not wild enough for me. That is when I smelt the Autumn, the Winter, the Spring and the Summer, out on my runs, alone and free. All one with the natural world which understood me as I understood her. Away from all the conventions and rules I was meant to understand. I suffered because I did not, seemingly could not, understand these rules of society.

For many people the recovery from Boarding school can overtake their whole lives. I am deeply grateful for those working to uncover the traumas of it. And I am deeply grateful that my survival brings with it so much love for the natural world. I am grateful too to my mother for leaving me out in the garden in my pram. Maybe that was the beginning of me really connecting with Nature as my Mother, or maybe it was before that, maybe I brought it with me. Who knows?

I am grateful too that my recovery began early. Working in Peruvian orphanages at the age of 18 gave me a chance to understand something of the trauma I had experienced, It gave me a chance to give what I needed: love and understanding for those emotionally abandoned. Later, and still now, I learnt and am learning to give it to myself.

Then there was Waldorf Education that guided me to rescue my own soul and spirit. And the children, of course, the ones I taught. The seven year olds who couldn't tie their own shoelaces at an age when I was packing my own bags to go away from home for months at a time.

And the final piece of this rich survival tapestry for me was my training in Biographical Counsellling and Coaching. Where I understood the challenges of being human that we all have. That my challenges are not smaller or larger than other peoples and that does not diminish them. It celebrates my life. Alongside others. A party of humans creating a work of art....the art of being human.

I welcome you to share your story, in my one to one sessions or groups. Contact me for a free conversation to find out what would best support you and your story at this time.

Craft and Community

In 2006 I took on a class of 6 year olds at the Hereford Waldorf School. I was 28 years old. Towards the end of that first year I was asked by a colleague if I would be interested in teaching on a Craft Camp. I protested that I wasn't qualified to do so and I was instantly excited by the idea.

Nineteen years later I have missed a few but been there nearly every year since holding space for some of the younger members of the camp. I was there teaching my workshop whilst breastfeeding my three month old twins. The camp had become such an important part of my life that I could not bear the thought of losing my place within it just when I had given birth to my own children who might benefit from it.

I came late to motherhood and I had spent many years wistfully watching parents, naively not noticing their exhaustion and wondering if one day, I too would be able to bring my own children.

It was that first year when I met my future sister-in-law who was to later introduce me to my future husband and father of my children. Himself a leather worker.

This year I went with my six year old boys. With two other boys at the camp we formed our little tribe. Held by the bigger tribe. The circle of around 150 people and around 15 different workshops housed in tents and yurts and tarpaulins around a field and woodland.

After a challenging first night and day when my introverted self wanted to bolt to the peace and calm of the woodland. I settled into one of my several homes on this planet.

I felt seen and held. Myself and the children in my care were welcomed wherever we went. We made our base in the woods which became a cool haven in the heat of the midday sun. And in our canvas bell tent with a little darker den inside. And from these cosy spaces we wandered out into the wider camp, sometimes together, sometimes separately and always safe and welcomed.

Every tutor, every adult on the camp had something valuable to share with the children. I felt so privileged to be walking around with them, the cherished next generation.

For years I have felt inferior to the crafts people because I never chose a craft or a craft never chose me. I dabbled in different crafts. And so I teach the children a bit about the craft of wood, of willow and rush, of leather, of wool, of metal, of clay. Plant, animal, mineral. I have learnt something, over the years, about the craft of holding the space for children to learn and explore and watch and listen.

The value of working with our hands and the gentle connection and bonding that comes through that is invaluable. As is the sharing of food and fireside chats and stories told. The natural world, the natural materials holding us all as ancestors, as teachers.

The challenges that arise throughout the week are many and varied and they too are our teachers, of course. This year my son cut himself whilst whittling with a sharp knife (a risky and very important skill). I realised my limits. I have capably bound many cuts of my own an other children in my life. When it came to my own son I felt shaky. I called for help. Immediately there was a man, I hardly knew and immediately trusted, holding my son's hand above his head whilst another young man I had known when he was a child, finding the necessary first aid bandages etc. Whilst I did what I most wanted and needed to do, I held my son and stroked his hair, soothing him.

The camp is entering new phase, the elders are stepping into their eldership, the young people are taking on responsibilities for what they know is important, and those of us in between and settling still deeper into a sense of belonging to a tribe.

LIGHTING FIRES, in our Soul and on the Earth

I gathered a few small twigs told her they needed to be matchstick thin and not off the ground but from up in the branches. We found some dried sticky weed which made a perfect nest. A pile of straw like sticks kindly brought downstream by the river water. Poplar fluff caught on branches. Cotton wool. Charcloth. Thistledown. A fire striker, dragon's sneezes.....

All these things I have taught again and again, when I was setting up and running 'Firelight' Forest School (@firelighteducation) and now with adults as part of HEARTHLIGHT, each of whom has a different way of learning.....

Such a joy. Such a joy to light a spark in a soul who is sad and a little lost.....To see her laugh and smile with delight when the spark catches the tinder. And again when her breath encourages that tender spark, that tender fire bird in her little nest, to burst into flame.I have lit fires throughout the winter months every day for the past 20 odd years and I am still learning from him, from brother fire.....always there to teach me humility and to light my inner spark when my own light dims a little. To entertain me on cold nights and to invite the salamanders, those delightful fire sprites to fill me with inspiration.

Fires, lit on the Earth, with the Air of our breath and the river Water running by.....there is more healing in this simple ritual than I can write about.

The mystery is strong and deep.

I am offering some FREE one to one sessions this Autumn. Message me if you would like to find out more

Loss and Renewal In The Woods

As Autumn arrives and the leaves begin to turn, I look forward to the colour of the dying leaves. Beech trees have been one of my life long loves. As a small child I was lucky enough to have a teacher who would walk with us from our small village school room up into the beech woodland behind. We would sit amongst the trees and draw the bluebells in the Spring time, nestled at the foot of the South Downs in Sussex.

 Some 30 years later I was living in Spain. We lived in La Garrotxa, Catalonia, a beautiful location of volcanic rock and evergreen oak. I wanted to run Nature Connection workshops and I was struggling to connect deeply enough with the land and the trees. I made a pilgrimage to Fageda d'en Jorda, a wonderful forest of beech trees. I breathed in the scent; I wandered and marvelled and played. I felt at home.

So it is with great sadness that I noticed one of the grandmother beech trees in our woodland looking sick. Her leaves and branches were dying at the top, where she towered above the other trees. Our friendly tree surgeon confirmed my fears, her trunk was rotten and she would need to be felled. She towers above the road and could be dangerous if she fell in her own time. 

It will cost us £2000 and many tears to fell her. We will sing and dance and give thanks for her life. Hopefully we can carve something small from one of her branches.
The joy in being co guardian of the woodland is to see the young yew and her younger sister, another fine Beech, and the Birch and the Oak and the Hazel, all jostling for more space and more light, striving towards life even with the thought of her passing.