BOOKS

NEW PUBLICATION

SACRED HOUSE Where Women Weave Words into the Earth
by Carolyn Hillyer

Weaving together profound stories, original source materials and lyrical texts, this extraordinary book travels a spiralling route around the hearth fire of a sacred ceremonial house, gathering up the words that are fed into the ancient flames. Drawing on over 30 years of being absorbed in women’s work (political, spiritual, creative and magical), and decades spent as a workshop creator, song writer, intuitive painter and inhabitant of hills and moors, Carolyn has written a book that describes a deep mythology for women in relation to earth, spirit mothers, mystical journeys, sisterhood and the unfolding landscape of our travelling souls, as well as a view through a personal window into life and wild land. Here are stories are of... Returning home, constant rivers & ancient paths... Feeding the soul & gathering the harvest of songs... Binding power & the work of wise hands... Womanhood & the mysteries of blood and moon... Lost clans, remembered ancestors & sacred lovers... Protection, deep magic & old knowledge... Darkening shadows, death totems & intuitive voices... Weaving the land, wild places & the turn of seasons... Deep winter, ice warriors & the web of mother lines... Primordial rhythms, prayer dances & drum rituals... Grieving hearts, unbound spirits & distant terrains... Sisterhood, strong circles & shared journeys... The dances of life & bright joy...   400 pages / 235mm x 160mm / with colour plates   £20 (plus £2 p&p UK: £5.50 Europe: £10 Rest of the World) Please ensure that you click the correct postage option Delivery Options - select UK, Europe or Rest of the World in the options below. UK £22.00 Europe £25.50 Rest of the World £30.00

REVIEW OF SACRED HOUSE

ISBN: 978 0 9547379 1 7

Reviewed by Faith Nolton
Sacred Hoop Magazine Autumn 2010

Carolyn Hillyer has been working with women’s awareness and sacred connection to the earth for over twenty years, weaving together her work as a singer, musician, poet, painter and inspirational guide into a vast and loving fabric of experience and knowledge. She has quietly woven away, gathering threads of women’s knowledge from all around the world, sitting in circles with many women and the ancient landscape, and celebrating and honouring women at all stages of life,
Much of this wisdom has been centred in her roundhouse beautifully pictured on the cover of the book, and this book grows from that ‘Sacred House’.

I would rate this book alongside the best of seminal writings for women over the past few decades as a guidebook, lifebelt and soul validation; it reconnects with an ancient strength and wisdom, at the meeting point of personal life experience and then energies of Mother Earth – an ever-new and ancient paradigm. And yet it remains completely relevant to the busy urbanised life of most women in Western culture.

You don’t have to have access to the wild lands, or an idyllic setting, or deep esoteric knowledge, to recognise the commonality of the sacred experiences she describes. Her storytelling call and re-calls the wild in all women, the power of circle, the earthy magic of being alive, wherever and however that may be. The book is in itself a powerful experience of circle and sacred reflection.
The style is poetic without being obtuse, and weaves stories around a loose theme of thirteen archetypal sisters that mark out the stages of a woman’s life from cradle to grave - much more realistic that the three of four usually referred to. As a reader I was drawn on through this large work effortlessly. As a woman there were constant ‘oh yes’ and ‘ah ha’ and ‘ not just me then…’ moments.

Although obviously relating to women I think this book would give men readers insight into partners, mothers, sisters – and help connect with the energy body of Mother Earth.

WELCOME...an introduction from Carolyn

This book is written as a spiral that spins in both directions. After a long time searching for the bones on which to hang these stories, the skeletal form finally emerged, a non-linear structure that could gather up all my dancing words and tie them together. A circular loom, in fact, on which I could weave fragments of texture and colour, and then stand back to see how the pattern of the threads was spreading out to feed the cloth. A sacred house, indeed, that was solid and magical and timeless enough to accommodate all the many women who were travelling into these tales, and friendly enough to encourage their voices to sing out across the flaming hearth.

With wild nature prowling so strongly at the centre and around the edges of these stories, I wanted to catch something of the raw dynamic of the land within these words. I approached each description (of woman, landscape, spirit trail) like a painting, slowly adding layers until the visual image inside the words could come into focus, sharp-edged and singing brightly. Some of these story cycles have emerged from workshop journeys that I have created for women over many years; to this river of women I say thank you, for our work together (on hill, in water, by fire, inside sacred house) has contributed to the maturing and deepening of these words and be assured, I have learned as much from you as you have gathered from travelling in our circles. Some stories are newly born and freshly grown; they have flown in over winter snows and scarcely left a trail, so lightly they have woven themselves into this book. Some are written around a rhythm that can best be experienced when they are spoken out loud; some will even take you out to dream and trance if you stay with them for a while. The songs that are threaded through the book can of course be read as lyrical text, although they will enjoy being sung, with your own tunes if you are not familiar with the original melody, harmonies or rhythm. The spiralling of this book is perhaps most obvious in the periodic reappearance of song fragments within different stories; a song in one mythical context will say something very different when it is placed inside another. And the spiral continues to intensify, deeper down, closer in and farther out.

There are some words that I know appear abundantly within this text; weaving, sister, ancient, bone, drum, land, earth are but a few. But treat them as ritual words; they can handle the repetition and through their constant presence contribute to the rhythm of this book. There are some words, so often relied on to describe the shape of a traveller’s path, that I have consciously used sparingly or not at all; such words would perhaps seek to catch and define the context of these stories, and I like to dance on my toes between them, although they can occasionally be glimpsed between the lines. May you feel welcome to also dance freely through these stories and take from them what you wish and how you will.

At its core, this book simply describes one woman’s steps along one dusty, rocky, muddy, icy road; each story is wrapped around seeds of truth and the words follow trails across a landscape I have known. They travel where my own feet have been walking so cannot, perhaps, speak of women whose lands I have not touched or whose songs I have not heard. But from a wider viewpoint, this book contains elements of the spirit journeys of all of us, for are we not each nurtured, inspired, made wise and given strength by our earth? And are we not each ultimately connected through the flowing of our blood, by the singing of our souls and across the vast web of our ancient mother lines? These pages are hopefully flexible enough to accommodate the creative imagination of any traveller who comes by this way.

This book is written with women’s voices and laid into the laps of women, but men are welcome to share any aspects of this journey that feel relevant or inspiring to their own experience. There are some honoured men walking within the text; forest flute player, turquoise drum teacher, crane-carrying man, mythical wordsmith, buzzard and stag, and the ghosts of old ancestral fathers who still sit by cairns upon the open moors. But there are also appearances made by the spiritual charlatan, the brutal red coats, the destroyers of land, the killers of witches and the cold men of war; it is the responsibility of all of us to speak out, learn defiance, gather integrity and act with courage.

The sacred house exists; it was built some years ago on the wild land where I live, a ceremonial roundhouse like those used by the ancestors who walked these hills five thousand years ago. Its roots and soul are far, far older. Time inevitably shifts from lines to circles within its walls, and layers of ancient faces flicker across those of the women sat within. I welcome you through its door and invite you to travel with these stories as they are woven by us onto this loom.

Over the next few months changing excerpts from Sacred House will appear on this page - here are three stories taken from Section 2 EARTH & HEARTH, Section 3 FIRST WEAVER and Section 9 ANCIENT ICE...

TWO DRUMBEATS

Long time ago an old sister sitting by a fire leaned forward with some words to share. She was tucked deep inside her blanket, which was turquoise and woven bright with amber beads that softly clattered at the hem. She was speaking slowly as she poured a little dry powder from a small pouch out into her hand and sprinkled it, just a few grains at a time, onto the floor. These were her words:

Once I had a dream that has never left the hidden cave behind my eyes. It came to me long years ago but seems as fresh to my mind as conversations I have shared today. I wonder that it has chosen to travel so far beside me. It came when I was young but in the dream I walked within the body of the much older woman that I have now become. My dream was both small and vast, the belly and the world, the secret song inside one woman and the clamour of a great tribe of many women, all intent on being heard. I was travelling high within an eastern mountain range but the dream carried me far across the planet to another, different, mountain place where the slopes were younger and more softly carved. And there my sisters came, first one and then thousands, and we sat together on that high place until we each knew that change was coming and we could see its shape.

I watched my memory unfold within the dream, and when I woke, the tears upon my cheeks were hot. I caught them in a tiny bowl where some days later they had hardened into a smooth, grey, waxy pebble, which I drilled and wore for years around my neck. When gently scraped this stone would give a little powder, which could be dripped with water into the eyes, a remedy as old as mountains and as powerful as dreams. I give this dust now to this place, that we may each wear new eyes and see the changes coming and recognise their shape. I give my song now to this place, that a hundred thousand women might be enough to change the world.

SHRINE OF THE NAMELESS DRUM

Some travelling women came to a gate that hung on broken hinges and was held together by moss. The path beyond the rotting gate was disappointing to look at and did not seem that it would be any less disappointing to follow. As they hesitated, reluctant to commit to such an unlikely route, an elderly woman approached and stood by watching, smoking a pipe and leaning on the mossy gate. She did not speak, for being wise she would not offer what was not asked. Being old she was not in a hurry and was therefore happy to spend her time leaning on the gate. The travelling women coughed a little for her smoke was rather acrid, then they asked if she knew what might be the name and nature of the route beyond the gate and if it was worth the effort. The elderly woman lowered her pipe and pondered for a moment before speaking, for she liked to give her words some space to grow:

There are many sacred paths into lands of your mothers. No one might say which route is more truthful, more direct or more wondrous than another. Some paths are broad and exquisitely illuminated, filled with colour and warmth, lovingly tended and flanked by gracious celebrants. Some paths are narrow and uninviting, marked by nettle, thorn and briar, chilled by winds and dark and damp. Do not question the authenticity of another woman’s path but fiercely defend the authenticity of your own.

This chilly path that you describe as disappointing is not wide. You cannot carry much with you; in fact, if you choose to walk this route, you will need to leave behind most of those bags. If you prefer to hold on to all the things that have so far defined you and all that stuff you wear around you, then move on past and seek another brighter shimmering road. If you are women who thrive on rebellion and wide anarchic freedoms, then this raw and risky route may offer a surprise or two!
We old women do not care about shape or form or structure. We bite our thumbs at definitions that seek to trap and bind. We follow no set text or rulebook and scoff at hierarchies of power. We will tolerate cults or covens or religious institutions only where they are kind and freethinking, and offer maps and a decent cup of tea.

The elderly woman was now in full flow. Being wise she recognised a captive audience when she saw one, for these travellers were far too polite to interrupt the bounty of her wisdom. Being old she did not care that they might be keen to move along. She sucked at her pipe and then continued:

Definitions are only aspects of the journey; they can never be the final destination. So how would it be, you may be thinking, to travel without being limited or defined by the names you give yourselves or that others use to define you? How would it be, in fact, to un-name yourself, un-name your path, un-name the essence of what sparks and energises and inspires and awakes your souls? Is it raw nature or the ancient land that call you? Do you experience your inspiration as one awesome mother god or a crowd of ancestral grandmothers? Perhaps you know it as a raw heathen sensibility or describe it as pagan poetry of the wildest kind. Perhaps you have a thousand names for what it is that rocks your soul and causes your blood to sing. Maybe it is called witchery, jiggery and pokery and you dance about in summer frocks with parsley in your hair. Maybe it dwells in temples and chapels and you go gracefully to meet it in robes and veils. Maybe it lives in deep forests and you embrace it by leaping naked into cold rivers. But you know, it matters not a fig how you experience or name or respond to that wondrous stirring inside you. What matters is that you have the gifts of time and freedom and friendship and love and pain and life and death and flame and rain and soil and sky and everything you need to find and know inspiration in your soul.

The elderly woman paused and nodded at the travelling women so they began to thank her with much warmth for the wisdom she had shared with them while leaning on the broken gate. But she quickly raised her pipe to stop them, for being wise she still had the most important part to say, although it would be short because, being old her words were starting to taste dry as biscuits and she needed to go in search of liquid sustenance:

Not many people who come by this way see this old gate for what it is. Indeed, I expect that you are wondering why I have detained you here for so long. It is true that this is an odd place and not much to write home about, but what you have here is a shrine. I note your surprise. This indefinable shrine by this inscrutable gate is home to a nameless drum. This is possibly an enigma. I would not know and certainly would not worry about it. Leave your bags and bright things in my office; I’ll issue you a ticket for their safe return. Just put them there, next to all those others; most of them unclaimed although I know their owners did come back this way. Have a look around, go where you will, there is no rush; this gate is never locked.

WOMEN WHO WEAR ANTLERS ON THEIR BROWS

Of all antlered creatures, only reindeer females grow antlers in the same manner as the males. Which may possibly explain the prevalence of women in northern climes who walk around forests, down rural lanes and even into towns, wearing antlers on their brows. Sometime you can see them grouped together outside stores or near the places where they work, their antlers taking up half the path and generally obstructing anyone who is passing by. The younger ones have only short tender stumps sticking up through stylish haircuts, and these may have been dabbed with a touch of glitter or decorated with small silk flowers. More mature women will be modelling a full set of antlers, all hung about with scraps of velvet trim. In reality, these women can be a public nuisance for they wander at will, rubbing their antlers on bus stops and road signs and on the railings outside schools. If anyone asks them to stop, they become impatient and rude; they start to shout and wave their arms. The best antlers are to be seen on the very oldest women. Considering that some of them are coping with fragile bones and difficult knees, they certainly wear their magnificent headgear with some panache. And they will not back down for anyone. Should you encounter them as they come from the library or potter through the market, they will stand their ground and wobble their antlers all about until you are compelled to dodge and scuttle out of the way. Towards the end of every year, the women seem to tire of wearing antlers, and for a while they walk around in normal hats instead. But come the spring, the hats are off and once again there are women walking through the towns and down the lanes wearing huge great antlers on their brows.

A note to readers from Carolyn: we do not advertise commercially or distribute our work through mainstream channels so we rely a great deal on word-of-mouth between those of you who enjoy our music and other projects. This book is no exception so please let your friends know if you enjoy this publication - there is now a Facebook page for networking this project. Many thanks for your help!

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