<![CDATA[Heart & Roots

The rocks, roses, the solitary standing stone of old. Firefly, eagle, sparrow, robin. A generous expansive tree stump, inviting my whole body to lay down her bones. The butterflies, oh, the butterflies.

This incredible chorus of softness and strength, welcoming every fabric of my grief. Showing me again what it is to stay present for the agonies and joys. Drawing me in with elegant gifts; “rest my love, lean on me, be carried”.

A deep grief for my dearest Mum, of course.
And for the life I’d often longed would play out. A private graveyard of lost possibilities. We’re not so socially versed in sending condolences for the latter.
Death and endings come in many forms.

I used to disappear into a field on my own as a child. Plenty to choose from on our north east farm patch. Some fields were better than others for staying hidden. The soul often needs to pull in close from all that’s out there, to find itself in here.

It echoes of the Kashmiri mystic, Lalla, that a dear friend and songstress brought to my attention:

“Alone I crossed a field of emptiness, dropping my reason and my
senses. I stumbled on my own secret there and flowered like a lotus
rising from a marsh”

I would lie down in the barley straw in summer, the overgrown grasses of spring, staring up into the vast blue sky. My eyes tracing the veins of each cool green blade, and sensing the promise of my warm, gold, prickly, insect-infused imaginings.

Being with land and place is a constant and precious reminder of our not-aloneness, our not-separateness, our participation in the cycles of life. From the open empty fields of Scotland in my youth, to thirty-somethings under full moons on the London commons. From the mushroom and deer-dappled woodlands of West Berkshire, to the mucky mound of St Werburghs, clambery slopes and tangled roots of Arnos Vale, and mossy stone angels of Greenbank cemetery. Looking out upon a landscape, it looks right back at you.

Like a gathering of all the well and wise ancestors, sitting with the trees, earth and stones, has held, resourced, and nurtured me countless times. I found out that I belong here just as I am, and my body needs to land, often, all the way into the ground. It's an honest meeting with self, a way of letting faith and vitality course back through my veins in the face of life’s challenges.

Human to human witnessing is beautiful. Embracing the more-than-human is a meeting with mystery and grace, and maybe the murkiness we’d rather not face in ourselves.

Nature redirects us from what’s wrong, to what’s profoundly right, and what's longing for transformation.

Maybe you feel like joining me under a tree some day?

When we bring our honest struggles, questions, or transitions, the land often mirrors what we most need to see.

Nature knows about composting, regeneration, and growth. You know too if you care to remember. And while you remember, through layers of stuckness, burnout, despair, or stubbornness (who me?!), she’s there to hold, guide, and attune to us as witness and helper.

Some of the most profound, fierce and gentle transformations I have supported have been with nature alongside, whether the medicine is dirt, roots, wind, rocks or rain.

This autumn, I’m opening space for 1-to-1 therapeutic coaching in Bristol, outdoors, held by the changing colours of the landscape. I invite you to come and walk or sit with me for an eight- or twelve-week wander with your heart’s needs.

This could be a way of accompanying yourself through a period of conscious change or growth. Together, we turn to collaborate with the part of you longing to move forward in a generative way (nature knows how to do that brilliantly).

We can also work with somatic or systemic insights as relevant to you.

If you feel called to this, please reach out by email at jill@heartandroots.co.uk to explore locations, timings, and costs.

P.S. I guess if you reeeeeeally want to meet indoors or zoom, we can do that too! 🙃

#naturetherapy🌿 #bristoltherapist #bristoltherapy #ecotherapy
#systemic #generative #personcentred #Bristol