This I discover experientially

Dear Friends,

We hope that you all had a safe journey back home from Woodbrooke.  Thank you so much for all the creativity, joy, energy and enthusiasm you brought to our weekend workshop. We felt that the easiest way of sharing information from the course and allowing a network of kindred spirits to develop was to create a post-course blog.  And here it is! We will be populating this with pictures from the course, recipes, useful resources and a booklist so do contribute your own thoughts, experiences, poems, stories, artwork and photographs as well.

In friendship

Kevin Redpath and Alison Leonard



  1. Wendy Lloyd-Sweet said,

    February 11, 2010 at 2:53 pm

    I’m still thinking about last weekend. The thing that struck me most was the great sense of fellowship between us, I also came away with a renewed enthusiasm for my Quakerism
    I’m hoping to introduce Cirencester Quakers to some aspects of the weekend through a talk during shared lunch (respecting confidentiality of course).
    I’m hoping to try out the Poppy seed cake recipe soon!

  2. Alison Leonard said,

    February 15, 2010 at 9:08 am

    Dear Friends who gathered at Woodbrooke for the Pagan-Quaker weekend –

    Just to thank you all for making the weekend so rich and creative.

    Here is the poem about my ‘First Communion’. After years of frustratedly trying to connect with the Divine through the Anglican sacraments, and decades of peaceful worship in Quaker Meeting, this was my experience on Glastonbury Tor at Lammas in 1998:

    First communion

    Fifty-four years on a hill I’ve been
    waiting for the wind to blow
    and all it did was blow the other way.

    Sixty-six women and a few men and kids.
    Two of them specially got up at five
    so as to be ready with this and that.

    This was a corn sheaf, tacky, maybe varnished,
    and that was sage, which means something,
    I don’t know what. The incense wouldn’t light.

    Someone played a flute, I only noticed
    when it stopped. Dancing also ended
    so we were still, and maybe wondering

    what they would do, the two of them,
    or we either. It was wonderfully simple,
    they took a wooden bowl of seeds, a clay

    goblet with sips of strong drink where you
    could see an imprint of the potter’s rough thumbs
    and waited for the wind to blow the spirit round.

    I knew, seventeen women and a few men and kids
    away, that this would be for me, true.
    Fifty-four years of waiting fell down the hill

    and I stood wet, alone, and part of it all.
    There was nothing that was not me,
    or Spirit, or wonder, or seed, or dancing.

    Alison Leonard.

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