Speak to me of wild things

Monthly Newsletter | Bali, November 2024

The monthly newsletters are an amalgamation of musings and two poems (one by another poet and one by me, as per a practice introduced to my master’s cohort by poet Alice Oswald).

Please scroll down for upcoming online courses and event announcements.

In my writing hut

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For the past few weeks, I have been staying in a traditional Balinese house (known as a compound) nestled between rice fields, jungle and the hustle and bustle of the artistic district of Ubud. I was claimed by a thatched roof gazebo overlooking the rice fields. Lugged an antique desk into it that I found at the back of the compound. And converted it into my sanctum sanctorum.

Every day I sit here. It is diligence and it is devotion. And when no good words come - especially then - I force every bone in my body to stay. To be still.

As I write to you today, there is a woman harvesting rice some fifty metres in front of me. She wears the traditional cone-shaped straw hat. And covers every bit of her skin from the sun but her leathered face. I’m ashamed to say I had no idea how rice was harvested, until now. Such is the consequence, I suppose, of being a product of the modern western world.

From my prow, I watch her every day. Unbeknownst to her, she has been my writing companion. A source of inspiration and calm, her routine settling my nervous system instantly. Having born witness to the entire proceedings of rice harvesting now, I feel I am now privy to the kind of precious knowledge that only comes from soil and time.

She has given me a great gift. All, unbeknownst.

Through a gap in the the bamboo fence by my desk, I see a woman’s hands every morning place the daily offerings on her family altar, the smoke from her incense reaching over to my desk and I meet it with hope that it might share some of its blessings with me. Soon after, a turtle dove comes to feast on the rice and biscuits intended for the gods. I’ve always thought birds are gods, and I’m enchanted at this daily morning ritual that, again, unbeknownst to both woman and dove, I have become privy to.

Since I arrived to Bali some three and a half weeks ago now, I have been starting my days with dawn walks through the rice fields, breakfast and Mary Oliver’s essays in cafes I alternate. I then go to yoga before tucking back into my writing hut and spending the rest of the day working on my book. I only eat twice a day here, and in the late afternoon go to a local warung (small family-owned Indonesian restaurants) for a simple dinner of grilled fish or pork chops. Sometimes I’ll treat myself to some body work beforehand. My ankles have never been so swollen from sitting! At nights I read a bit, or chat to friends, and I’m in bed by 9pm.

In between the routine, I have been able to interview a number of traditional healers to write about their customs here. And sometimes meet locals who I also learn a great deal from. The other day a woman taught me how to make Balinese offerings. They have been so generous with knowledge.

I feel the kind of electric pulse that orbits around us when we are exposed to knowledge, new knowledge, and it’s in the alchemical process of permeation, gently but persistently pressing into every cell, like bees devolving pollen to flowers.

Whilst working on my manuscript, I’ve also been writing a lot about my impressions of Balinese religion, and I look forward to sharing some of them this month as part of my series for paid subscribers on Ritual.

In case you missed it, I’m currently offering a 20% discount to my full archive for all upgraded subscriptions. It is a token of gratitude to mark the two-year anniversary of this publication! A thank you for being here.

Here is the link to the discount.

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Now, without further ado, onto the monthly poems.

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Poetry Offering

I have selected this month’s poem from the mighty Irish poet and philosopher David Whyte, and his soul-invigorating collection Everything Is Waiting For You.

SOMETIMES

Sometimes
if you move carefully
through the forest

breathing
like the ones
in the old stories

who could cross
a shimmering bed of dry leaves
without a sound,

you come
to a place
whose only task

is to trouble you
with tiny
but frightening requests

conceived out of nowhere
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.

Requests to stop what
you are doing right now,
and

to stop what you
are becoming
while you do it,

questions
that can make
or unmake
a life,

questions
that have patiently
waited for you,

questions
that have no right
to go away.

I wrote this next poem late on Tuesday night. There was an electricity in the air that foretold the arrival of a great storm. And I lay in bed completely wired. I thought of Leonard Cohen. And how he said if he knew where songs came from, he would go there more often. Then all of a sudden, I was there. And I plucked this poem pretty much fully formed from that mysterious and terrifying place.

SPEAK TO ME OF WILD THINGS

Speak to me of wild things
of pirates and swans in the night, tell me of the wolves 
who suckle lost children and the women who turn into bees.

I want to know of the cherry trees you climbed,
and the thorns that keep you up, the still, slow 
hymn of sea on sand and the secrets of morning and dust. 

Speak to me of wild things
until the gasp in my chest is the same as the wind in willow trees 
and my feet are stained with wine,
until honey is made of all this violence,
and we hear again the angels at the tavern
raucous and content. 

I have no time for certitudes, they are far too quick for me / their finality arrives long before I do, before I can; I move slow, like bark and tortoise shells, 

I love slow, like deserts and stars
orbiting the tower where language is of ash, and lightning, and whale song.

Speak to me of wild things
of altars of flowers and fire, 
tell me of the fervour and diligence of the hare until the dawn presses 
her lips to mine and I can hear again that first song, 
the spheres in your eyes bright and summoning, dizzy with God.

Speak to me of wild things
until I forget whether I am a wave or a fox; 
a pot or the potter’s hand.

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Announcements

As I mentioned in my last newsletter, while I focus on finishing up my manuscript, I will be taking a hiatus from teaching. This includes the monthly ceremonies. Thank you to those of you who have been joining regularly or have just discovered my work. I will send out my events calendar for 2025 towards the end of the year.

The discount on my full archive is available until November 30th. If you are currently a free subscriber, this will give you 20% discount when you upgrade to a paid subscription.

And as usual, I’d be really grateful if you helped me spread the word about my Substack! You can either share the link to my publication below, or highlight a quote you like from any of my pieces and Substack will automatically convert it into a snazzy shareable instagram story. Thanks again for being here!