Explore the new cosmology with its roots in the sacred core of spiritual traditions, in ancient wisdom from the mystic path, from ritual, from mythology and story http://sophiawakens.com

Anne Kathleen McLaughlin, author of four novels published by Borealis Press, Ottawa, Canada http://borealis press.com

A Place Called Morning (2001)

Planted in the Sky (2006)

Called to Egypt on the Back of the Wind (2013)

Singing the Dawn: Rebirth of the Sacred Feminine (2022)

Singing the Dawn

Anne Kathleen McLaughlin’s novel “Singing the Dawn” is now available for online orders: http://www.borealispress.com/BookDetail/rid/1137/Singing%20the%20Dawn 

A small community of women living as hermits on islands off the west coast of Ireland, “beyond the ninth wave” gather to celebrate the earth festivals of the Celtic Year. Their shared calling is to prepare for the Rebirth of the Sacred Feminine in our time. These seven women who form the Communion of Star of the Sea in the twenty-first century are the inheritors of a way of life founded in the ninth century by Maire, a woman forced by a Viking Raid on the Monastery of Kildare, to flee to the west. On the shores of Lough Corrib, Maire encounters a Woman who gives her the task of beginning a Community whose role will be to prepare for a future time when once more the Feminine Sacred will be honoured on the earth. The story begins in 2012 with a new arrival, mysteriously drawn to the islands.

Here is an excerpt from the Prologue:

You cannot tell how long you’ve been journeying. The sky has lightened to rose, to rose-gold, to gold-blue to pale blue. The sun has climbed to its zenith, wandered back down. The light is dimming now.

You know, the old tales have instructed you, you must pass beyond the ninth wave to reach the otherworld. But who knows how far beyond that? You stopped counting somewhere near the nine-hundredth.

Bread, cheese, fruit, you’ve eaten through the hours. Your water-skin still holds more than half its fullness.

It’s the time of dusk, when shapes become less distinct, when the horizon holds uncertain promises. Yet, surely, ahead, that is an island?

Hope strengthens as you draw nearer. Promise of dry land, trees, bushes, fruit and berries, a clear stream. Shelter under boughs and branches.

You’re almost there. The approaching shore is low and sandy with a smattering of pebbles, a scattering of stones, larger rocks. Somehow you know you won’t be alone here.

Sandals hung on your shoulder, you step from the currach. The water is shallow, cooling your bare feet. With surprising ease, the small boat allows itself to be pulled up onto the shore. You hide it behind some gorse bushes, careful to avoid the sharp prickles of the branches, stow the oars, remove your bundle. You gaze around the shore, note exactly where you have hidden the currach.

You begin walking.

A clear path leads from the shore into the small island, curving towards the west. Others have walked this way before you, perhaps many others, for years longer than you could count or imagine.

You feel safe and yet a tingle of excitement tells you there’s mystery here. Magic even. You know you will be guided. You sense something or someone awaits you.

You look back over your shoulder out over the sea… Then you see it. The seven-pointed star, just beginning to glow silver in the cobalt blue of the evening sky. It has guided you here though its light has been hidden all this day long. You whisper your thanks.