What touches my heart is that such a story keeps being told, and that such a woman kept being described over a millennium, that even the greatest king of all England felt it worth keeping this story safe in what became known as ‘The Cathedral of the Vale’.
This. Thank you for the gift of this post, Caroline. Truly a balm for a woman without many role models. I shared your Substack with a young woman in Braemar keen on making pigments from rock. Keep an eye out for young Annie. Light and peace to you.
Thank you. Re Braemar, I know it well. Granite all round, too hard and grey for pigment, but a joy to live amongst mountains! Many botanicals are found there in abundance for inks, tannins too. Feel free to put her in touch.
Thank you for helping unmake our age's preference for stories of conquering and dominating, or far-off unattainable demi-gods. I'm inspired by simple honorable bold St. Wite to love my little place and its creatures. May my end be as miraculous, as my community grows able to appreciate courageous love.
A beautiful meditation, and got many things stirring in me. It’s remarkable to me how many people, way back, seemed able to meet the very real possibility of death with far less (outward) angst than most of us meet the possibility of a lonely Saturday night or losing a smartphone. While the facts of her own story might be uncertain, I have no doubt at all that many have gone through what she did, and worse.
Perhaps it is only by living in a grounded way that the possibility of death can be faced. Where there is detachment, I think, it is detachment from control and from material things and false sentiment, yet conversely there is a deep commitment beyond the self that is surely as tangible as stone. Not a grasping, but an embracing.
We are buffered in our ideology of safety-ism, and live so often through representations of reality, that reality itself is becoming increasingly unbearable for ordinary people.
Yes, I feel your last line is just so true. It is insidious, how fear creeps back on us and dulls the natural creature-courage we have. Speaking from experience, though I faced what felt like it would be death 2 years ago, I am already securing myself, defending myself, and attempting to shore-up my comfort, despite my best efforts to stay raw. Interestingly, just after I had written that piece yesterday, a conversation with a local friend alerted me to these things via my verbal manifestations of the carapace I have written of before. So hard to live unguarded, but if I want anything real to come in (which I do!) then I have to take this risk for life again.
Today I am unsettling myself (in the good way) and allowing the discomfort to teach me, for the first time in quite a few months, I think. So, thanks again for writing. The conversations here really do feed my soul.
And mine too -- feeds my soul that is. So love this post -- all the thoughts and feelings it encompasses and engenders are nourishment to be sure. How to stay raw and open and also function though can almost be a full time job. Not a bad one though.
This articulation I will return to for some time, Caroline. Though asked many times, I had not yet taken the time to craft why I’ve felt the call to walk as a saint, and perhaps now I won’t have to because I can share this beautiful musing. In the face of all adversity, of aching heart, grieving body, and perplexed mind witnessing the gurgling rot of our time, I still feel the call towards softness in spite of the brittle and strength for those that cannot find it. This story is truly a beautiful one and touches the hidden still pool inside this hermit woman who too tends garden, tends community and prays in the face of all that would seek to take us away from the now.
Thank you Caroline. I keep starting to write a comment, but each time it becomes an essay on my own encounters with saints, during periods of stillness, often in the midst of the busiest and most chaotically exciting times of inner city life. One day I will share my own stories and experiences, I’ve not talked about them much. Your writing stirred many timeless memories.
I first read this essay when walking in the Lake District. I loved it then and, especially now, having seen and heard you speak at Dartington, where I can hear your words in action. It’s quite special.
This story about St Wite raises many questions for me. But at Dartington, I find myself facing you in action. It makes me curious about the way you live with uncertainty and put your words into practice.
In a response to a comment, you talk about your verbal carapace and your struggle to stay raw following your “would be death 2 years ago”. I hear this as ‘staying with the trouble’ and I am curious how you are:
“securing myself, defending myself, and attempting to shore-up my comfort, despite my best efforts to stay raw”.
Yes, this is indeed 'staying with the trouble'. Yielding to my societal and family conditioning to make myself comfortable and safe means first noticing it, then heaving a great big sigh. Then, stepping back onto the fray. Sometimes this is a minute to minute cycle, especially when I catch myself in defensive speech. Sometimes it's a big arc over years, to do with deep feelings or fears, depending on the aspect at play.
A fascinating article, Caroline. Like you, I'd never heard of St. Wite before reading your article, memorialised in the Dorset flag too - also unknown to me. Not surprised you find inspiration in her story. A side note: as a keen bird watcher, I know the familiar tale of the origin of the Wheatear's name, which Sir David Attenburgh says is a corruption of 'white arse', tidied up perhaps by the Victorian's (like Puddletown). However the correct pronunciation you give of St. Wite (Wheat-a) suggests a simpler derivation of the European Wheatear.
I have enjoyed reading this so much. Thank you. I shall be thinking about St Wite too and looking her up. 🌸
What touches my heart is that such a story keeps being told, and that such a woman kept being described over a millennium, that even the greatest king of all England felt it worth keeping this story safe in what became known as ‘The Cathedral of the Vale’.
This. Thank you for the gift of this post, Caroline. Truly a balm for a woman without many role models. I shared your Substack with a young woman in Braemar keen on making pigments from rock. Keep an eye out for young Annie. Light and peace to you.
Thank you. Re Braemar, I know it well. Granite all round, too hard and grey for pigment, but a joy to live amongst mountains! Many botanicals are found there in abundance for inks, tannins too. Feel free to put her in touch.
Beautiful post and beautifully crafted .. precious curiosity, reflection and flow .. thanks 🕊
Beautiful! Thank you so much for this
Thank you for helping unmake our age's preference for stories of conquering and dominating, or far-off unattainable demi-gods. I'm inspired by simple honorable bold St. Wite to love my little place and its creatures. May my end be as miraculous, as my community grows able to appreciate courageous love.
A beautiful meditation, and got many things stirring in me. It’s remarkable to me how many people, way back, seemed able to meet the very real possibility of death with far less (outward) angst than most of us meet the possibility of a lonely Saturday night or losing a smartphone. While the facts of her own story might be uncertain, I have no doubt at all that many have gone through what she did, and worse.
Perhaps it is only by living in a grounded way that the possibility of death can be faced. Where there is detachment, I think, it is detachment from control and from material things and false sentiment, yet conversely there is a deep commitment beyond the self that is surely as tangible as stone. Not a grasping, but an embracing.
We are buffered in our ideology of safety-ism, and live so often through representations of reality, that reality itself is becoming increasingly unbearable for ordinary people.
Yes, I feel your last line is just so true. It is insidious, how fear creeps back on us and dulls the natural creature-courage we have. Speaking from experience, though I faced what felt like it would be death 2 years ago, I am already securing myself, defending myself, and attempting to shore-up my comfort, despite my best efforts to stay raw. Interestingly, just after I had written that piece yesterday, a conversation with a local friend alerted me to these things via my verbal manifestations of the carapace I have written of before. So hard to live unguarded, but if I want anything real to come in (which I do!) then I have to take this risk for life again.
Today I am unsettling myself (in the good way) and allowing the discomfort to teach me, for the first time in quite a few months, I think. So, thanks again for writing. The conversations here really do feed my soul.
And mine too -- feeds my soul that is. So love this post -- all the thoughts and feelings it encompasses and engenders are nourishment to be sure. How to stay raw and open and also function though can almost be a full time job. Not a bad one though.
This articulation I will return to for some time, Caroline. Though asked many times, I had not yet taken the time to craft why I’ve felt the call to walk as a saint, and perhaps now I won’t have to because I can share this beautiful musing. In the face of all adversity, of aching heart, grieving body, and perplexed mind witnessing the gurgling rot of our time, I still feel the call towards softness in spite of the brittle and strength for those that cannot find it. This story is truly a beautiful one and touches the hidden still pool inside this hermit woman who too tends garden, tends community and prays in the face of all that would seek to take us away from the now.
Thank you Caroline. I keep starting to write a comment, but each time it becomes an essay on my own encounters with saints, during periods of stillness, often in the midst of the busiest and most chaotically exciting times of inner city life. One day I will share my own stories and experiences, I’ve not talked about them much. Your writing stirred many timeless memories.
The Pharmakon piece is incredible!
I first read this essay when walking in the Lake District. I loved it then and, especially now, having seen and heard you speak at Dartington, where I can hear your words in action. It’s quite special.
This story about St Wite raises many questions for me. But at Dartington, I find myself facing you in action. It makes me curious about the way you live with uncertainty and put your words into practice.
In a response to a comment, you talk about your verbal carapace and your struggle to stay raw following your “would be death 2 years ago”. I hear this as ‘staying with the trouble’ and I am curious how you are:
“securing myself, defending myself, and attempting to shore-up my comfort, despite my best efforts to stay raw”.
Yes, this is indeed 'staying with the trouble'. Yielding to my societal and family conditioning to make myself comfortable and safe means first noticing it, then heaving a great big sigh. Then, stepping back onto the fray. Sometimes this is a minute to minute cycle, especially when I catch myself in defensive speech. Sometimes it's a big arc over years, to do with deep feelings or fears, depending on the aspect at play.
A fascinating article, Caroline. Like you, I'd never heard of St. Wite before reading your article, memorialised in the Dorset flag too - also unknown to me. Not surprised you find inspiration in her story. A side note: as a keen bird watcher, I know the familiar tale of the origin of the Wheatear's name, which Sir David Attenburgh says is a corruption of 'white arse', tidied up perhaps by the Victorian's (like Puddletown). However the correct pronunciation you give of St. Wite (Wheat-a) suggests a simpler derivation of the European Wheatear.