I am but a humble herder and weaver of wool and stories, living in service to my caprine queens and benevolent sheep and the land that holds me.
I write stories about life and death on the land. I once trained as a community herbalist, then a women’s health coach, but the hustle of the wellness sphere wasn’t the life for me. My place is in the fields and fens, the woods, wide open hills and wild places, barefoot and breathing hircine sweat and bathing in the rain. I lived for two years spanning two wild winters and two soaring summers in a power-less, plumbing-less shepherd’s hut on a rugged, exposed hill in the wild, wet, southwest of Ireland, learning to let land and herd lead, learning to trust in the turning of the seasons, re-learning what it is to be human in this great dance of Life.
I weave wool and tan animal skins with the bark of willow and oak, the same willows and oaks that feed and shelter the animals in life. These are the cycles I am fully enmeshed in. My animals are the soul and sustenance of my farm, and what keep me living with my heart wide open to all the joys and sorrows of living, and the inescapable necessity of death in the order of Life. I write on all of it, raw and real.
And mostly this is just a little farm blog about life on a small, sufficiency farmstead in the wild, southwestern hills of Ireland, raising sheep and goats for meat and milk, growing food and wool and medicine, and learning to live in right relationship with land and community.
My words are my art and always human—I never use AI in my writing beyond a basic spell check.
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