Whenever I think of the three realms of Druidry, the land, sea and sky, I think of the North Norfolk coast. This stretch of coastline looking out to the North Sea is one of my favourite places on earth. From clifftops where gulls and terns soar high ahead to farmland soundtracked by the song of skylarks, to shingle seal-speckled beaches and shifting, erring saltmarshes, to the vast and constant call of the sea, there in one small area the three realms can be truly experienced and known.
It is in these liminal spaces, where land and sea and sky meet and shiver together that I feel the sense of the sacred that grounds and informs my Druidry. There, where boundaries are soft and permeable, time flows differently, past and present blurring. The land itself shifts and changes, as the sea claims ground here, and deposits silt to form new beaches there.
The three realms remind us that all is change: even the land, the most seemingly solid of the three, is in constant flux, growing and receding, eroding and building. The sea ebbs and flows, tides in thrall to the moon, waves crashing against rock one moment and softly caressing your feet the next. The sky is never still, or silent. The song of birds joins with the song of the wind in constant chorus, the breeze bringing air and bringing stories from around the globe.
Druidry is about relationship, and going to the Norfolk coast feels like visiting an old friend, instantly recognised and welcoming, eager to continue conversation and connection. Standing on the sand or the saltmarsh path on a misty morning, looking out to the sea, with the wind whistling across the open spaces, is to stand at the centre of the tripal spiral of the three realms of Druidry, to be at one with land, sea and sky, ever changing and flowing, ancient and ever new.
[Prompt from Alison Leigh Lilly’s 30 Days of Druidry]