Back of the Winter Choir with Karine Polwart and Celtic Connections

A Holy Place

An intentional reconnect, learning to feel the depth
of the soul’s richness through communal practice—
an extraordinary outpouring of joyous connection.

To be touched by simple pleasures,
a surprise gift of shining cells and embedded insight,
able to access pure spirit, I am a privilege of animation—
foolish and broken, soul-pierced with love’s invitation.

Unlocking emotions, touching beyond the surface,
my emotional breath, belly and numinous heart,
I experience a vulnerable and holy place beyond performance.

This year, I celebrated Imbolc in a highly unique way. 

The festival known as Bride’s Day here in Scotland marks the midway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox and is often quoted as the first day of Spring.

It is true, the graceful snowdrop delights us with its presence and if we take time to notice, each few minutes of additional daylight sees our working day complete itself before dark during this month of February, light-bringer and harbinger of promise.

But Spring proper is still elusive. Instead, we recognise Imbolc as a sign that “the back of the winter is broken.”

These words are indelibly inked in my heart and soul, for I spent Imbolc 2025 as part of the Back of the Winter Choir—a 300-strong community singing project organised by one of Scotland’s most talented singer-songwriters, Karine Polwart.

There we were, facing a sell-out audience of thousands in the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, hearts and voices full. Personally, I was battling a wee bit of unexpected vertigo in the choir stalls, as our Choir Master, Stephen Deazley, orchestrated us to stand and sit for each of the songs of the second set.

Our performance was the culmination of the finest workshop I’ve had the privilege to attend.

It was also part of the biggest event that Celtic Connections (Europe’s biggest Winter festival) has organised.

Karine Polwart’s work is magical and spellbinding, with a voice to match. Notable for her collaborative projects and community participation, lyrically Karine’s viewpoint has been fixed outward over the twenty-five years of her career, inspired by current affairs and her early career in women’s crisis support as well as the folklore and landscape of her homeland with much else in between.

The Back of the Winter concert would celebrate this quarter-century milestone and remarkably, she invited 300 of us to share the stage with her. 

When I signed up for the workshop in 2024, I wasn’t confident they’d let me on the stage. When the follow-up questionnaire prompted me to insert my level of experience, I felt like the biggest imposter.

I’m not tuneless, but I’m no singer, and I envisioned at least one moment when I’d be found out and turned away during the process.

What actually happened is that I was warmly welcomed into this community of voices without question. On our first day, I was stood between choir leader, Charlotte, and community choir member, Mary (picture below)  and neither pointed at me and laughed me out of the auditorium—I was in!

Heart and soul deeply touched, I embraced the process and set about learning nine songs by ear. Our skillful choir master, Stephen, managed us with a big dollop of humour and humanity. I have never experienced such kindness and encouragement from strangers as that offered to us all, without exception, during rehearsals.

To be Karine Polwart and receive 300 voices mirroring back the joy, melancholy, hopefulness and love she pours into her songs must be quite something.

To be so obviously moved and yet tenacious enough to lead us for three full-on days speaks to the quality of the human being she is.

I often call the work I do in the world ‘soul-work’, but my own creative endeavours have never touched my soul as deeply as this project. Sure, the quality of the folk leading the project is unquestionable—including Steven Polwart, on guitar and supporting us musically throughout—and the bringing together of folk in community is always heart-warming, but for me, the key to unlocking this particular magic was the singing itself.

Each morning, as I practiced through getting ready for the day, I’d catch my breath, tears stopping my voice from completing the line.

I couldn’t even complete a sentence talking about the project without resolving into tears.

Inexplicably, these songs with lyrics not my own were unlocking my soul’s voice.

I can’t explain it. I can’t quantify the reasons why I felt the way I did, but it lasted all the way to the concert and beyond.

I succumbed to a vicious gastro bug this last couple of weeks and the last thing I’ve been thinking about is singing.

As my wee ravaged body brings me back into the world again and the monotone grey skies pour forth icy rain stirred by whirling winds, I’m encouraged to recall again the magic of this Imbolc experience and the celebration of the Back of the Winter.

My 2025 Word for the Year is REACH.

It carries with it all sorts of meanings to help guide me through the days, weeks and months ahead. My first visceral manifestation has been reaching this place of the soul’s voice and I’m excited to see how that helps guide me forward.

In a world where the news is mostly unbearable, the gift of localised, creative projects cannot be underestimated. That I paid for the privilege is something I am grateful to my own community for, as their support continues to provide me with a meagre living.

All too often, folk like me are excluded from projects and events like this because the costs are so high.

The experience was worth much more than my £85 ticket price—so much more, and none of it easily measurable.

• How can we make sure that creative projects like this continue to be funded in a fair and accessible way?
• How can I continue to support projects like this moving forward and at the same time make my own endeavours affordable and accessible whilst still allowing me to meet my needs beyond paying the bills?
• How might I concretise the values embraced by this project in my own business?

These are just the beginnings of thoughts I’ve been having since Imbolc. They are small and tender, yet— like the energies of Imbolc, where we have to be careful not to tread too clumsily and crush that which raises itself from the dark depths below.

Thanks to choir member Debbie Pipe for taking and sharing such great photos of such a special event!

Another seasonal gateway, as the Sun crosses the equator from North to South—we call it Equinox and it holds much symbolism for creative exploration.

It’s the Autumn Equinox here in Scotland. On the same day a couple of years ago I felt a massive internal shift and I knew something big was happening, but just a few days before, I had been drawn to the ordinary, everyday experience of the season the Equinox welcomes and recorded it in a wee poem.

The poem fell out of my journal just this week and I think it has some merit. A reminder to stay with the ordinary, even as we take a step away from the everyday to go deeper, perhaps to find ourselves within the maelstrom of external circumstance, or the cosmic wonder of astronomical occurrence.

For who we are is a collection of everyday noticings, are we not? Surely, the meaning we derive in life can arise just as much from the rhythm of changing the duvet each spring and autumn, as the position of the Sun’s rays in relation to an imaginary line drawn on our planet?

It’s my understanding that we need to consider both the cosmic and the mundane to speak to the human experience—a body animated by breath and electric impulse, both. A being composed of clay and stardust. A mystery of consciousness.

Anyway, here is a poem of the everyday experience of being cosmically aware.

I’ve recorded the telling of it, and included the text, to help with the understanding of the Scots.

The Turning

Foggy puffs o breath intae
a sky o watery blue,
dewdrop webs glisten, canopies tae the secret world of the Wee Folk.

Only three plums left,
wan batch o juicy brambles,
rosehip itchycoos, bright and jolly in the hedge and the ivy’s just getting goin.

We’ve aiples coming oot wur ears,
shaggy inkcap dissolves intae words yet tae come.
The Equinox approaches as a meteor streaks across the nicht.

Barefit cauld on porcelain
oor hands clutch cool metal haundles atween rooms,
it’s time tae change the duvet again.

Dancing the Sun Up and Hedge Morris Dancing isn’t a common practice, it’s true. And when my 4.30 am alarm call woke me up, it felt unlikely to become one. Yet, an hour later, there I was in front of Bothwell Castle, by the great River Clyde, quite literally dancing the sun into the morning sky on this Bealltainn (Beltane) morning.

It was exhilarating!

Why would I, a guid Scots lassie, be morris dancing on the morning of Bealltainn (Beltane?)

Usually associated with the English folk scene, morris dancing was once popular with the Scottish court, although there are only a few morris sides active in Scotland today. 

But that isn’t why I felt compelled to rise an hour before sunrise, don some questionable fashion and grab my mini maypole.

‘Hedge morris dancing’ is morris that is renegade and solitary, or undertaken in an informal group. It’s for those of us who don’t have, or can’t be with a group of morris siblings but still feel the call to dance and celebrate the passing of the year.’ So says artist Lucy Wright, whose project it is.

There is something deeply inclusive about hedge morris’s acknowledgement of solitary folk practitioners across the globe who wish for a deep connection with the land, our ancestors and the wider practice of turning into the seasons. That definitely feels renegade in these times.

I’ve written elsewhere about Carl Jung’s encounter with Ochiway Biano [Mountain Lake.] This sentiment has stayed with me since I first read the story;

“After all,” he said, “we are the sons of the Father Sun, and with our religion we daily help our father to go across the sky. We do this not only for ourselves, but for the whole world. If we were to cease practising our religion, in ten years, the sun would no longer rise. Then it would be night for ever.”

What if the darkness that so benights our world is partly through the disengagement of folk practices like this?

Too woo woo for you? Let’s reframe that …

What if we could effect change through our resurrection and reinvention of folk practices? For, although hedge morris as a movement is new, dancing the sun up each morning is as old as time.

What if, by reengaging with these offerings that leave no trace, we are shifting attitudes and raising awareness about how deeply entangled we are with the very fabric of existence? What if that knowledge causes someone, somewhere to change their behaviours?

There is plenty of evidence—certainly here in Scotland—to suggest that Bealltainn has been observed as an important marker in the year’s progress for centuries. Without a community fire festival atop my local hill, then perhaps hedge morris is the best option for observing this traditional celebration?

I imagine that meteorologists and physicists might question my supposition, but my reality is that I did dance the sun up this Mayday morning!

The dancing was solitary, but I met a resplendent urban fox as soon as I left my building and the dawn chorus was magnificent, as you’d expect at this peak time of year.

Once the sun was surely up and in the sky, Martin played some tunes and I sang greatly out of tune, “oh, the summertime’s a comin and the trees are sweetly bloomin.”

Some final words from Am Beannachadg Bealltain, The Beltane Blessing, quoted in Alexander Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica;

BLESS, O Threefold true and bountiful*,
Myself, my spouse, and my children,
My tender children and their beloved mother at their head.
On the fragrant plain, on the gay mountain sheiling,
On the fragrant plain, on the gay mountain sheiling.

Everything within my dwelling or in my possession,
All kine and crops, all flocks and corn,
From Hallow Eve to Beltane Eve,
With goodly progress and gentle blessing,
From sea to sea, and every river mouth,
From wave to wave, and base of waterfall.

…

Accepting our Beltane blessing from us.

(*substitute for whichever force you feel guided by!)

May it be so for me, may it be so for you, may it be so for all of us.

This transition of menopause offers much in the way of creative inspiration.

Trying to manifest the inspiration into output is proving to be more difficult!

Here’s a wee poem I wrote in response to my chosen word of the year, courage.

To choose, courage or collapse – this is what’s available to us in times of crises. 

In honour of all those who can’t choose … I call for ceasefire from the deepest chasm of my unfathomable being.

In case you prefer to read, or need a wee bit of help to understand me, here’s the transcript:

She is privileged
to have two choices,
courage or collapse.

To collapse might end
the persistent,
all-encompassing,
overwhelming
tiredness of each day.

She imagines collapsing,
rehearses and fantasises.

In the midst of dinner,
she could simply slide
down the kitchen cabinets,
a puddle
on the
floor.

PING!

Today, the tiredness is vanquished.
For no discernable reason, 
an absence
where yesterday’s tiredness
permeated
each
blood
cell.

Ashamed and abashed, she finds vigour renewed and motivation restored.
The fog parts and the road ahead is a to-do list longer than her remaining years.

All she needs is more discipline.
More time!
Better nutrition!
More sleep!
All she needs is to get serious.

PING!

A new day and
she stares at her planner.
The text, a trickster dancing on the page
won’t stay still,
she can’t catch it.

But she’s holding on… and summons COURAGE.

Courage to not collapse
Courage to turn the page
Courage to make mistakes 
Courage to share.

Courage to not look away
Courage to speak up
Courage to stay silent.

Courage to grieve
Courage to love
Courage to stay the course.

To choose courage is her privilege and she holds on, in honour of all those who can’t.

I usually reflect on my year with something visual but for this birthday, I’ve recorded a wee audio essay. It’s only eight and a half minutes long – I hope you enjoy 🙂

In case you prefer to read, or need a wee bit of help to understand me, here’s the transcript:

No one could have told me what a difference it would make.

Outwardly, the shift is perhaps imperceptible, although I haven’t run a poll to gather hard evidence.

Inwardly, the transformation has been such that I’m comfortable with the words liberation, freedom and release and yet, the truth is that I don’t often think about it.

The realisation most often arrives when I look back at old footage for Mandala Magic and sometimes when trying to find a particular image in the Photos library on my magical iPhone.

Aye, I call my iPhone magical. I know we’re all addicted and in danger of staring down at those dastardly wee screens more often than we get lost in the eyes of our loved ones.

But that wee phone has been one of the best investments I’ve made in my tiny creative business. 

I’d always imagined that in the second decade of Mandala Magic, my shelves would be groaning with DSLR cameras and associated lenses.

Instead, I’m almost exclusively recording on my iPhone, whether for the Mandala Magic School classroom or during a live Zoom.

In the early ‘90s, my job was as a sales & marketing exec for an Apple computers reseller – there were no Apple shops back then.

Margins were super tight, especially as my territory was education. Memory was minuscule and monitors were almost as big as the telly in your house (the girth of them, not the screen – that was tiny!)

Sales is not something I’ve ever had a natural talent for and thankfully, I was able to concentrate on marketing and communications for the rest of my first career.

I laugh at that sentence now because marketing has been an area I’ve sorely neglected in the second!

Still, here I am, trying to balance my discomfort with being online and my gratitude for connecting with so many amazing creative souls.

Being comfortable on camera comes more easily for some. At college where I studied all aspects of communication, we practised a wee bit.

The set-up was much less comfortable, with a television studio approach and even in the late ‘80s an encouragement towards the rounder vowels of Received Pronunciation. 

Each day, my working class, West Lothian accent was being replaced by an Edinburgh University twang. My pals at home teased me for it then and even now, I fight hard to resist the automatic switch to what I call my phone voice when I’m recording myself.

To be transparent, I attended Napier and not Edinburgh Uni, but we were all at it. Even those like me, where linguistics was part of our curriculum and we were taught that our native accents were considered base by mainstream media.

I’m always in admiration of those folk from that time who held on to their true tongue. My pal, Mhairi, moved to Canada a lifetime ago and still sounds as Scottish as she was when she left. 

If that were me, you’d likely not be able to distinguish me from a native just a few months on. 

Born in England to Scottish parents, I’ve had to negotiate a few accents, dialects and even language in my time with at least three wildly differing mixes before I was ten.

When we visited family in Scotland before we moved back here, my mum’s Dad, Pop, couldn’t understand what we were saying and asked for a translation. 

These days, I consciously try to stay true to what feels most natural. Even so, I can switch it up multiple times in one day, depending on what I’m doing or who I’m with.

These changes help with making myself more easily understood and that works well, but there also lies underneath an echo of the shame I felt about my working-class background.

A council scheme in the eighties during the miners’ strike wasn’t a particularly aspirational place to be. My sense of romance was high, you see, and wasn’t yet to be met by any aspect of Scottish culture. Politics and socioeconomics were difficult – these were the Thatcher years. 

Even by the end of secondary, I was ignorant of Scottish folk tales, myths, most history and literature, aside from the ubiquitous Burns. The curse of the modern comprehensive education. Oh, but Tam O’Shanter fair took my breath away!

College started to see a shift, with an introduction to The Cheviot, The Stag and the Black, Black Oil and what had been awakened back in primary school with an audio programme on the prehistoric Skara Brae was brought more consciously to the surface in my final year project on the symbolic art of the early Picts.

The land we now call Scotland and the folk who have inhabited it have such a rich, deep culture. That it’s taken so many years to unravel and discover the aspects that light up my ancestral knowing and my creative curiosity is just a small part of the story.

As I prepare for yet another cycle around the sun, I’m much more comfortable with who I am and in the work I choose, where I come from is just as important.

Writing this, I’m much more at ease in the places where shame and confusion used to sit. Year upon year, I’m growing ever closer to home. You could say I’m feeling comfortable in my skin. 

For a perimenopausal woman, this seems like no mean feat. 

I’ve always had skin issues. Not the teenage acne kind, but the hormonal, always shifting and metamorphosing.

It reached a crescendo about eighteen months after my mum died. The herbalist I was seeking help from told me this was likely significant.

She also had me cut out caffeine and nightshades and drink copious amounts of herbal tea.

Since then, the skin issues didn’t ever go away, they just changed. From eczema to pustules, the conditions always affected my face most of all.

I wouldn’t say I’m particularly vain but when you have to film yourself regularly as part of your work, it’s quite disheartening to deal with shifting blemishes. Och, in the whole scheme of things, I know it’s small fry – but bear with me.

Over the years, I’ve managed to cope with my face, choosing when to be on camera, guided by when my skin looked its best.

Just over a year ago, I visited my GP right when I was in the midst of a virulent and painful outbreak. Previously, I’ve sought out herbal practitioners and alternative, natural therapies.

Perhaps it was the distancing of myself from the new age persona I’ve accidentally adopted over the years, but that day I felt so exhausted with all of the menopause symptoms, that I knew I wanted some straight-talking science and even medication to help.

I figured it was a case of menopausal acne and upon arrival, told her so. “Why don’t you present the symptoms first and let me give the diagnosis?” came her swift reply.

My straight-talking GP decided to offer treatment for a type of pustulating rosacea. Two tubes of medicated cream later plus a new skincare regime and I’ve remained almost entirely blemish-free since. 

Liberation, freedom and release might seem hyperbolic to you. But I can honestly say it’s been my experience. No longer do I have to figure out when to film based on how my skin looks and I’m losing some of the self-consciousness that comes with it.

Being comfortable in your own skin comes in many forms. Whether it’s deep-seated psychological, socio-economic, geographic or physical, it’s a prize well won.

Does anyone else still use Twitter in the era of Musk? I often head there to check in with authors, artists and other content creators who entered the platform many moons ago and still find it to be somewhere they can connect with their audience.

It’s somewhere that I can completely relax and not worry about sharing content from my own business – although I sometimes remember to do that too!

During the month of May, I found myself repeating quite a bit of the content that other folk were sharing in my conversations – confirmation bias, anyone?

It prompted me to write a wee poem of sorts – a marker of the month of May 2023.

It’s not brilliant poetry, but it’s a technique that’s useful for creative journaling, especially if you’re tired of listening to your own thoughts or stream-of-consciousness.

Of course, I edited out loads of themes that I’m happy to see in my feed but didn’t want to include in my poem. Right now #naturetwitter is the winner for me!

And it’s a theme that isn’t restricted to Twitter: over at my Patreon, we’ve been creating love letters to the seasons and here’s an extract from mine for Spring.

Truth be told, in the ways of old, I usually count May as the beginning of Summer. As we reach the Solstice, I’m seeing a change in environmental conditions this summer that is even more concerning than usual.

I’m tempted to make a practice of this Twitter poetry as a record of my year as seen through the lenses of others. I wonder how the story might evolve through each of the seasons.

How are you marking your year so far? What creative projects are keeping you connected? Let me know in the comments below – or drop me an email – I love to hear from you!

I had no idea who Rick Rubin was when I chose this book for our Patreon Book Club. It appeared on my screen courtesy of the algorithms and I chose it 1. based on the cover – yes, I am that person and 2. the three words of interest in the title: creative, act and being.

I learned Rubin was a hotshot music producer shortly after I ordered the book and had in mind someone who looked quite a bit different from the silver-bearded, barefoot individual I’ve since come to recognise. 

Rubin looks like one of my high-school pals, all grown up. We’re of a similar age, although he’s a wee bit older than me. There again, most of my high-school pals were, too. Looking at his photos, I feel something of an affinity, what with the silver locks – most of my old school pals either have no hair or have cut it all off by now, at least that’s true of the boys.

Anyway, the book. It’s lovely.

Here in (not so) Great Britain, the book’s published by Edinburgh’s Canongate and it’s good to know that it’s also printed and bound here.

I have a bit of a thing for cloth-bound books, especially when a ribbon is attached as a ready bookmark. Although I generally don’t enjoy hardback editions because they’re uncomfortable to hold, this 400-odd paged tome wasn’t so uncomfortable. The lack of a dust jacket definitely helps.

The design has a fair bit of Rubin’s minimalist/Zen aesthetic (I read that his home is basically a large space with a good sound system, a comfy bed and little else,) with just a hint of mysticism – the alchemical symbol for the sun dominating both the cover and throughout the chapter breaks.

When it arrived, I was a wee bit jealous. This is what my book would look like. At least one version of it would.

Did Rubin use my words and ideas inside, too? Truth be told, he did!

Not all of them, of course, but what I discovered upon reading was that he articulated some of them super succinctly;

“When we take notice of the cycles of the planet, and choose to live in accordance with its seasons, something remarkable happens. We become connected.”

For the next many chapters, Rubin goes on to articulate his somewhat metaphysical thoughts on the essential nature of the artist as a practitioner of being aware – of noticing. 

He uses the term Source as a reference for the place whence our creative ideas and energy originate. This sits quite well with me as an alternative to the idea of a Divine Geometer. I prefer to think of that Source not as one point of origination, but rather as a realm (of the imaginal) made up of all of the experiences of life, the universe and everything since time began. 

Rubin asks us to consider that our creative ideas don’t live within us but within the imaginal realm. (I wish he’d used this term in his book. I’ve a feeling it would make it more palatable for his more sceptical readers.) It’s down to us as artists to pluck ideas out of that realm in a timely way, he somewhat sagely advises, through the art of noticing/listening/practising awareness.

“The ability to look deeply is the root of creativity. To see past the ordinary and mundane and get to what might otherwise be invisible.”

For those not of a metaphysical bent and expecting some kiss and tell about the bands he’s worked with over the decades, the next few chapters might come as a surprise/disappointment.

This is where one of the big positives about the book comes in handy – the chapters are super short. The paragraphs are, too. The sentences are downright pithy. Finding it all a bit too woo-woo? then skip a few pages, dear reader. This book is made for the times. For those of us with the shortest attention spans and a super big to-do list.

Rubin is clearly a man who accepts the spiritual side of his being as fact. This might stem from the fact that he started meditating as a teen, prescribed to help reduce his stress.

Not long after I started reading the book, I listened to Rubin’s Desert Island Discs interview with the BBC. What a lovely man, I thought. And also, how lucky to have been gifted the positive upbringing/start in life that he had. I don’t know much about Rubin’s life as an adult, but I have an inkling that how he is able to be in the world has a lot to do with his early years.

It might be correlation rather than causation, of course, but I know that being supported in the way he was as a child must play a direct part in how he has been able to act as a vessel in the world and apply his filter of awareness to shape his unique lens of perception.

His wasn’t my story and I struggle with the consequences each and every day. How many kids have the potential to be as creatively successful as Rick Rubin but whose origin story is the complete opposite?

And perhaps this is where my biggest beef with Rubin’s book lies. 

I am a HUGE proponent of practising the art of awareness as a primary act in my creative process. Taking notice, practising awareness, listening with an open attitude and editing my input to support my practices are key factors in my modus operandi.

For much of my day, I seek out beauty, comfort and harmony and greatly enjoy being in alignment with the cosmic order.  I employ playful experimentation and apply limitations where necessary to help me expand creatively.

So much of what Rubin expounds in his book as practical examples of how to be an artist is true to my experience, and a lot of it forms part of my own teachings and yet, and yet …

The Creative Act: A Way of Being leaves me with the impression that Rick Rubin has mastered the art of gliding barefoot through his life, without much fear of cutting himself on the broken remnants of a shattered living room after a monumentally destructive parental episode, or simply a broken Buckfast bottle or ten, discarded on the side of the pavement.

Still, I’d recommend this book to any creative who needs a wee bit of encouragement in their practice.

I’d just add that they should also give a wee bit of thought to who travels through the world barefoot in these times – the folk who happen by accident of birth to be born in the global south and the privileged few who can afford a beachfront property in California.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh? Perhaps I’m being overly judgemental? Perhaps my Shadow is coming out to play and I’m simply jealous that Rubin has produced something of beauty in the world that I covet.

Yes, perhaps.

My conclusion is that the book feels rather self-indulgent overall, even at the same time as it is full of gems for those of us in the creative industries.

It’s as much a manual for life as for making art. But it isn’t a manual. It’s a series of sound bites from the imaginal realm pulled down from the cloud by an artist, Rick Rubin. They may not even be true. He tells us so.

There are only ten days left in this current cycle of my signature Mandala Magic course, ALIGNMENT and I’d hoped that I’d be able to segue directly into opening the Mandala Magic School and its launch event, Mandala Secrets.

After so many years of hosting the Five Days of Mandala Magic event in November, it feels like these few weeks are synonymous with thousands of magicians spreading mandala love around the globe.

Alas! It is not to be.

This year I’ve set out on one of my most ambitious projects yet – to shift my mandala teachings onto a dedicated platform and Mandala Secrets is the first event hosted on the new platform.

I’m super proud of the new content I’ve filmed for Mandala Secrets and also a new mandala course for beginners, called Circle Magic. Together with ALIGNMENT, this content provides a brilliant introduction to the Mandala Magic process and a robust foundation upon which I can launch the school.

But – it’s taking a huge amount of effort to make sure everything is in order.

When thousands of folk turn up at the door, the last thing I’d want is to turn them away because something’s not quite right.

So last week I took a step back, breathed deeply and made the difficult decision to delay the opening of the school for a few weeks (until 16th January 2023.)

I know that for you this might not be a big deal but for me it’s pretty impactful and it’s taking a while to process.

It’s particularly impactful in terms of finances, as Alignment is my main source of income, so as that income stream draws to a close, I’m very grateful to my Patreon community for helping to keep the fires burning here at Julie Gibbons Creative.

In fact, my Patreon community has been something of a life saver this year and I love the sharing we do there, as well as our Creative Ceilidhs.

And, so if you have enjoyed my content over the years, whether in the original Mandala Magic, during the Five Days of Mandala Magic event, in Alignment or otherwise, please do consider joining us over on Patreon.

You can join from only $2USD per month (Clan Salmon) and catch up with my vlogs and other content or join Clans Adder, Deer or Beastie from only $12USD per month and join us for our regular creative gatherings – the ceilidh.

Our next and final ceilidh of the calendar year is scheduled for Sunday 18th December. More details over at patreon.com/juliegibbons.

A warm welcome awaits you!

Otherwise, I look forward to welcoming you to the Mandala Magic School in January. 

There’s a Scots verb that we use to describe the act of nestling into a space (or person) that feels particularly appropriate at this time of year – to coorie. 

October is the month that sees me welcome the art of coorying. My particular version involves draping myself in soft fabrics, copious amounts of hot drinks and plenty of good books to read and listen to. There’s also lots of baking and as many log fires as someone who lives in an attic flat without a stove or garden can get their hands on.

Coorying helps manage my anxiety and I spend quite a lot of time in this mode, or being actively creative around now. It’s a direct response to the spiralling inwards that is our natural response to the shorter days and colder temperatures.

A couple of weeks ago I was lucky enough to coorie in at The Lint Mill for a mini creative reatreat. I did manage to catch some glimpses of my time there on camera and shared a mini film with my Patreon community – I honestly can’t wait to return.

What does your idea of a creative retreat look, sound, taste and feel like? How would it be different from your usual environment?