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My first experience of numinosity was at a ritual that is part of Catholicism, namely my first holy communion. I remember it to this day (though not so vividly as in my younger days). As I walked down the aisle, I was embraced by an uplifting radiant white light and a sense of being in another realm. I didn’t, at the time, have a name for this experience or even the realisation that it was something special. In adulthood, after abandoning Catholicism and embracing transpersonal psychology, and later on, exploring spiritualities centred on Shamanism and Celtic spirituality, I realized that numinosity is one of many words and phrases to describe this experience, and that numerous writers over centuries have sought to elicit this feeling.

            Like many writers born in the Ireland of the 50s, 60s and 70s, I grew up with the Catholic Church as part of the fabric of existence, a towering presence, with God the Father as the ultimate power. In the Irish context, the Virgin Mary was an important presence, and in many churches statues of her stood alongside those of the patron saint Patrick, but this apparent respect for women was negated by practices such as churching, whereby women who had given birth were to be purified before they could return to the altar.

            Catholic teaching on sexuality dominated public life to the point that all forms of contraception were illegal. In school, we were threatened with Mother and Baby homes, and even though we weren’t aware of Magdalene Laundries, we lived in fear of pregnancy, with subsequent banishment. Fortunately, my parents were more open and tolerant. They observed Sunday mass, confession, first communion and confirmation, but were not dogmatic or punitive. The practice of churching was one that incensed my mother, and both parents openly disagreed with Humanae Vitae, the dogma that forbade contraceptive devices.

            At college, we had heated conversations about god and religion, and it was after one of these that, as I walked across campus pondering on the topic, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to believe in God the Father. In that instance, belief slipped away, and with it all of the dogma, doctrine and ritual. I was studying to become a psychologist, and humanistic and transpersonal psychology provided a framework for much of what I then understood as spirituality - a connection with something greater or beyond ourselves and the everyday; transcendence; self-realization; quest for meaning.

            I followed this path through many workshops based on the human potential movement, and also taught it to students; I often struggled with language and with the difficulty of communicating such esoteric concepts to students. But something was missing for me in these practices, and I drifted away as psychological approaches became consumed by an individualistic quest for authenticity and self-realization, and morphed into a wellness industry.

            I never came back to the Catholic Church. In fact, I rejected it completely and still regard it as a source of oppression and suffering, especially through its misogyny, which continues to blight the lives of millions of women across the globe. I became actively opposed when I came out as lesbian and encountered the appalling pronouncements on the evil and moral depravity of homosexuality. Later, in the 1990s, the discovery of widespread abuse in institutions run by Catholic orders in Ireland and elsewhere revealed more disturbing aspects of Catholicism. Whether it was an individual case of a priest abusing boys in a parish or systematic abuse in institutions that amounted to serious neglect, torture and rape, the first reaction of the Church was to close ranks and protect itself at all cost.

            I was involved in developing a framework which became an international movement in psychology, namely liberation psychology. This had origins in postcolonial, feminist and anti-racist contexts, and found its greatest development in Latin America, where liberation theology already rejected top-down or hierarchical practices that perpetrated oppression, and aimed to develop practices for liberation. This led to a request to work with religious orders to facilitate insight into how these abuses could have occurred. Over a number of years providing workshops for women in religious life, I developed a deeper understanding of religious life and vocation, acknowledging the positives, such as meaning, faith, ritual, community and belonging. I also saw depths of denial and doublethink, an aversion to sexuality and relationality, and, again, a wish to protect the church and blame the victim. I came to believe that a theology of monotheism, an absolute top-down hierarchy, dogma and authority were destructive aspects not only of Catholicism but also of other organized religions.

            In the 80s the tragic death of my brother in a drowning accident set me on a quest for different approaches to the soul, and to life after death. In the same year, Ireland hosted an international conference where the radical feminist philosopher and theologian Mary Daly was a keynote speaker. In her book Beyond God the Father she argued that if god is male, then the male is god, and undertook a radical critique of Catholic theology. In later works she placed language as central, and strove to develop a new language for transcendence, numinosity, and what she called “Elemental Be-ing” - the hyphenated Be-ing intended to indicate an adverb rather than a noun. Her sensitivities about language were of great importance to me in writing, and in particular, more recently, in writing a novel set in ancient Ireland, where I hoped to create a world centred on a nature-based spirituality.

            Her work also brought me to an outpouring of interest in goddess spirituality from different cultures, and in the associated writings and rituals. Anthologies of poetry, chants, blessings and stories from cultures across time and place (including Ireland) provided a literature that created a very different sense, reflecting the beauty and compassion of goddesses, along with powerful disruptive aspects.

            Soon after, a visit to Ireland by Marija Gimbutas, a renowned archaeologist, offered a vision of a goddess centred culture. Her extensive archaeological investigations of Neolithic Europe revealed a widespread culture where temples with female figures, frescoes and pottery depicted many facets of an ancient spirituality. She believed that in ancient societies goddesses were more important than gods, and that Newgrange was a womb that was built to honour the Goddess. I participated in a healing circle that she and her colleagues organized, where a priestess created an altar with candles, sculptures of goddesses and pictures and symbols of the four elements - earth, water, fire and air. We shared stories, meditated and danced together, and the joy of that opened new spiritual pathways for me. Here was the potential for a complete spirituality involving rituals, objects, images and practices.

            At the time there was an upsurge of interest in Ireland in feminist and goddess spirituality, and also in longstanding Irish traditions of Druidry, Paganism, holistic healing and spiritualism. Many of these traditions had been either suppressed or subsumed by Catholicism, but were undergoing a revival through various paths. While I was uplifted by goddess spirituality, I felt uneasy with some of the parallels to western concepts of god, and a tendency towards hierarchy and dogma, and was attracted to the more mystical elements of Irish traditions. During a course on meditation, the teacher suggested that we attend a weekend on Shamanism, which she described as a nature-based approach that would complement our exploration of spiritual realms.

            Shamanic practice invites us into the richness of the natural world as well as the spirit world; they become integrated into a beautiful, holistic experience of existence(s) beyond our everyday experience. Connection with the soul is a core purpose, and this brings us to understandings of illness, death, after-life, and ancestors. My formal involvement in Shamanism over a number of years began with the classic western view of the shamanic world as involving three levels, the lower, middle and upper worlds, which are realms of spirit beings with whom we can communicate through the shamanic journey. The main purpose of the shamanic journey is to make direct contact with spirit beings who can facilitate wisdom, insight and healing. Without going into the details of the healing aspect, which is quite complex, this highlights a central insight - that we can have direct communication with spirit guides, without the mediation of a priest or priestess. Shamanism rejects dogma and hierarchical leadership and, while there are experienced teachers and practitioners, honours the uniqueness of each practitioner as they follow their own spirit guides.

            Shamanism came into Ireland primarily through practitioners who, mainly in the 1990s, were seeking new spiritual pathways, and encountered Shamanism through Native American, South African and Mongolian traditions. Very quickly, the links to Druidry became apparent, and our collective imagination expanded to include Irish Celtic mythology with its druids, gods and goddesses, magic and divination; longstanding folk practices such as weaving crosses on St Brigid’s day (also linked to the Celtic goddess) or visiting wells; and deeply embedded folk traditions of healing. Ancient sites with remains of cairns and stone circles all over the country became a focus for gatherings and rituals. There was a renewed interest in the Irish language, through which writers such as Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, and later Manchán Magan, offered a different expression of our links to the land and to ancestral memory. These multiple strands can fall under the umbrella of what may be called Celtic spirituality – albeit recognizing that the term Celtic itself has many meanings, and that some strands can be traced back to prehistoric times.

            In Celtic spirituality I could integrate the elements of goddess spirituality and Shamanism along with the connection to ancestral traditions and the land. The umbrella term offers a loose framework centred around ancient sites, Irish mythology, and the natural cycle of the year. It aims not to reclaim, but rather to retain echoes of ancestral traditions. Celtic and pre-Celtic legacies offer symbols, images and objects imbued with ancient spiritual meaning that we can only imagine. The spiral is perhaps the most well-known symbol that is carved in Neolithic stone – it inspires in me a sense of connection with ancestors and the cycle of life. Ritual such as gathering in a circle, chanting and singing, drumming and dancing are often freely created by whoever attends a gathering.

            The different strands converge in marking moments on the Wheel of the year, an ancient seasonal calendar which provides an annual structure for practice. This is an eight-fold division of the year into the solstices and equinoxes, and four in-between moments, the so-called fire festivals of Imbolc, Bealtaine, Lúghnasa and Samhain. These can be traced back to Celtic and pre-Celtic times and are embedded in Irish culture; many of them map onto Catholic holy days which themselves became carriers of ancient traditions. For example, Imbolc coincides with St Brigid’s day, (1st February, also associated with the Goddess Brigid), where the weaving of Brigid’s crosses is part of Catholic practice and can also be linked back to pre-christian times.

            Imagination is central to all of this, and this is where writing and literature are vital. The example of Newgrange, and of my efforts to write a book about Newgrange, can illustrate this. Newgrange, built more than 5,000 years ago, is a magnificent monument and unique globally by virtue of its age, size and orientation to the rising sun so that on the morning of Winter Solstice, the rays of the rising sun glide up a long passageway and illuminate the inner chamber. Beautiful artwork adorns many of the huge boulders that line the inner passage, the chamber and roof, and the outer circle at its base. The artwork is similar to art found throughout Megalithic Europe, and includes spirals, wavy lines, chevrons, and circles. Additionally, it is covered in white quartz which confers a glimmer that often reflects the warm glow of sunlight. Visitors to Newgrange very often experience awe and wonderment, a sense of transcendence, of connection to ancient mysteries.

            It stands on a hill overlooking the River Boyne (called after the Goddess Boann), and in front is a large area that offers a space for gathering and celebrating. Every year at Winter Solstice hundreds of people from diverse backgrounds ranging from the secular to the spiritual gather to celebrate. As we stand together and face the rising sun, the sense of connection with ancestors who stood there 5,000 years ago is palpable. The gathering offers a spectacular reminder of the mystical, of cosmic cycles, of the human connection with earth and sky, of spirit in nature, of love of the land and connection with ancestors.

            I wanted to write a book about the world that built Newgrange, one that would enable us to imagine that world as egalitarian and in harmony with nature, with a totally different consciousness from our Western, individualistic, colonial-centred and consumer-oriented one. In hoping to create a different consciousness, language is obviously vital. The language of transpersonal psychology, for example, seems to rationalise, explain and pin down something which is intrinsically intuitive, amorphous and fluid. The language of Catholicism, on the other hand, for me is imbued with external authority, morality, and dogma. Non-fiction seems adequate to write about spirituality, but not sufficient to offer an experience of spirituality. I wondered if writing a novel would be a better way to feed imagination and create a consciousness of a different time and culture.

            My novel, Keeper of Stones, published in 2025, imagines the world that built Newgrange as one with an egalitarian, nature-based, collective consciousness. The English language is a challenge; it has a history of colonization, and is imbued with domination-subordination, binaries, gendering, materialism and individualism. To create a simpler, though not simple, and accessible text, I wrote in a pared back grammatical style, in mostly short sentences, and with words that minimized domination-subordination. For example, telling someone to do something has a sense of domination, compared with inviting or asking. Both in the writing and in the editing, numerous words and phrases had to be eliminated. In the novel, spirituality was centred on a belief in the life force (called Beo in the novel, similar to Chi), with the purpose of channelling the life force for healing and prophecy. There is no single god or goddess, but images and references to Spirit, or the Source of life, often invoke a female form. Celebrations occur at each moment in the wheel of the year, with procession, fire, chants and joyous dancing, and there are other celebrations and rituals for birth, death and life passages.

            To maintain a harmonious feel, I hoped to avoid ‘good versus evil’, and build tension and drama through character relationships. The plot centres on a group of young people who embark on a journey to carry their birthstones to Newgrange as their rite of passage to adulthood. As the word ‘rite’ has religious connotations, I used ‘passage to becoming an adult’ in the novel, which is narrated in the first person by Briona, one of the young people. It takes place across the wheel of the year, with celebrations at each moment. As a coming of age novel, it involves conflict, betrayal, questioning authority, love and the search for a place in the world. Voyagers arrive from Malta, linking Ireland into a broader European culture, and warn that climate change and warfare threaten the culture.

            As writers know, it is impossible to judge the extent to which we manage to translate our inner vision onto the page. After many years and a comprehensive editorial process with the publisher, I could still see scope for further development, but also felt I had created a story of a culture which cultivates collective joy, and a different way of being that is in harmony with nature. I often experienced a sense of ‘remembering’ rather than inventing – my hope is that the novel brings the past into the present, and offers possibilities for a future that honours nature and each other.

 

 

 

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