Cista Mystica

02/10/2025

🔥Hello folks - news just in, two special events in store next week when Martin lands back in the (Devon)shire, fresh from his Ireland tour with Tommy Tiernan 🔥

We are delighted to announce two nights of OUTLAW STORIES with Martin Shaw, at the legendary St Lawrence Chapel, Ashburton, Devon. Each night is crammed with tales of visionaries, outlaws and the early saints, biblical stories, wild ideas and personal ruminations. The only plan is to take Martin’s imagination on pilgrimage and see what happens.

This will be a thrilling ride. Come for one night, or come for both. Shaw takes us into the heart of what he calls Christian Wonder Tales. Filled with meaning, humour and mystery, these stories are an inheritance many of us simply didn’t know we had.

Saturday 11th & Sunday 12th October, St Lawrence Chapel, Ashburton, Devon, 7.30pm-9pm

Tickets:

Two nights of OUTLAW STORIES with Martin Shaw at St Lawrence Chapel, Ashburton, Devon

28/09/2025

'To tramp long miles in wind and rain, to stand wet to the skin and hungry and footsore…such must have been the daily fate of many amongst the humbler minstrels at least.'
Sir Edwin Chambers

Well, I’m mercifully not footsore or soaking wet, rather warm-bedded and refreshed, but I would have known a fair bit about the position of the ‘humbler minstrel’ on and off over these last three decades. Back in the last century, when I realised I wished to swoon into the old stories of these North Atlantic islands I took myself off to live in a tent for four years. I’ve likely rabbited about this.

Over those years I would have lit a thousand fires, and by each fire I sat and absorbed stories. Few distractions: a cat on the bed, the bed being a single mattress on two pallets. Rain on canvas, a stew slow-cooking on the burner for a couple of days. Living in a circle. I had my Stonehenge-piled collection of books and the door open a slip so I could see the wind ruffle the heads of the trees in the valley below. There was no latch on my door, just a thick wrap of felt, and a discreet cough on the path from the occasional announcing visitor. The stories slipped in and out, like horses over the hill.

This is all in me when I stand up and start walking the myth-worlds. We all have events tattooed into us – events that can be made present simply be summoning them. Some a dread horror, which may require banishment of a kind, but others, like these, are a sustaining candle in the darkness of things.

The best I have to say is writ-large in the Backalong of my stories. The best I have to say is in tucking my boat in behind Christ. Wherever I am in the world, at night I fall into the shape of prayer as I fall asleep. Fall into the ancient Christian Mynde, fall into the garden, take the rock from Cain’s fist, dismantle Babel, let the flood be a flood of beautiful story not catastrophe, walk like Ruth and Naomi back out of the Underworld.

All the monsters of now – we are adrift in them – are trailed and negotiated in these tangle of tales that spill out of my blossomed but most imperfect jaw each night here in Ireland. It’s a teary privilege to carry them. I follow my storytelling God out onto the hillsides, stages, taverns and lecture halls and try to tell as much of the truth as I can stand, maybe a little more.

Can I gently suggest you light your thousand fires? Hopefully you already have.

These are vicious times, that need Star-Blanketing. It’s not unnatural to seek depth.

Sit with a story over the winter and learn it. Be gentle with yourself for at least an hour a day. Check up on a friend. Do something humanised and human-sized in the monstrous-sized calamities we hear about daily. That’s my advice. All of that can be a kind of praying. Vocalise beauty, manifest care.

This is all about mythic ground...

Finding Luminous Ground

24/09/2025

I am adrift with the mountain Ben Bulben,

I gaze up at the heroic spine, defiant it is,

Its purplish cloak and thousand scars

Flank scattered with warriors and poets,

Hounds and laughter,

Jaunty in the fog, whistling their joy.

Never did I think I’d have a hotel room with one enormous window, and that the window would look out over a sacred mountain I have told endless stories about. Ben Bulben, scene of so many Finn MacColl stories: so much mystical drama, lofty yip and grievous unfoldings in those tales. I lie in bed with my coffee and I gaze and I gaze. Fifty-three years to get here.

It is hard not to despair at the world sometimes, with its bigotry, hatred and wicked ambitions, and then there are days like these, getting to sit at the foot of Ben Bulben. Getting to move from the world of men to the earth of holy stories. Some small act of spiritual resistance in the face of madness.

But before the mountain, I must take us back a week, back earlier on this bang of storytellin’ across Ireland. Back to Galway. Back to the storm.

A Week Earlier

The sea is smashing amiably up against the hotel window, or that would be how it sounds. Old heroes are riding snorting red horses back and forth on the road between Barna and Galway. Seaweed stink, Guinness slurp and the pipes, the pipes are playing defiantly on the dark wind, crow-rattling the oaks outside my room. There’s a storm going on and it’s waking up all the old stories. The only sensible thing to do is brew us a coffee and sit here listening to it all. 6am.

Inis Oirr

We got the tour launched on Inis Oirr. I always feel the reward of a previous trip when I return to a place. To be back on the island, this time with friends and welcomed into the snug of cosy bars, strolls on the sand, a scoop of clam chowder, it’s warming to the old soul. The burr and crack of native Irish speakers.

Our first night of telling is chaotic but lively. Lots to be learned and there’s that distinct squeeze of stress that I associate with starting anything worthwhile. Phones going off, broken glasses, and a heated and relentless discussion in the front row that seems to buzz on for at least ten minutes. I can both see and hear a woman rocking back and forward, repeating, ‘I have to get out of here, I have to get out of here,’ over and over.

Sometimes the old stories flow into this world, and sometimes it’s more like breaking and entering. You have to hold your nerve and just keep going. Rather like the times we’re in. Attending to the grace is a radical act.

By the time you read this we will have done six more storytellings, six more fires lit, six more journeys out into the myth-world...

Coming Home To The Hut Of Ourselves

14/09/2025

Things I’ve learnt recently. Never, ever visit London when there’s a transport strike and the sun has decided to come out just when you’ve switched-up your autumnal, tweed-laden wardrobe. A bus from Paddington to South Bank, overly stuffed upon stuffed with snarling, yellow-fanged passengers drifting in and out of trance states on their phones (likely to distract from the hideous sardine-can surroundings) with shrieking bells and harsh flashing lights. Well, that would need a sturdier soul than me to describe as pleasant.

However – it was all smiles when I met for a great lunch with the sterling team at Ebury Vine, the new Penguin imprint who are putting out Liturgies of the Wild in the UK, as the book had hit the coveted number one slot in new release religious pre-orders. Many of you did that, and me and my publishers on both sides of the Atlantic say a huge THANK YOU. penguin.co.uk/books/477131/liturgies-of-the-wild-by-shaw-martin/

Suddenly it is two days later and I’m in the noon plane to Dublin. Buckets of rain – the city is on power-shower mode. I scamper from doorway to doorway and buy a rain mac and a possibly unnecessary hat from my favourite shop Kevin & Howlin. I slip and slide my way to Ulysses Rare Books emporium, again, and gaze, yet again, at their super lovely copy of Thomas Kinsella’s large edition of The Táin. Can’t spend that kind of money.

The pub next door, The Duke, was frequented in the mid-eighties by my friend Liam Ó Maonlaí and his band Hothouse Flowers. They had no money for pints being teenagers but loved to go dancing with good hair and wore outsize Grandad shirts and yes, hats. The landlord endured them and then they became properly huge for a few years. My friends and I also flopped around in massive shirts and read Yeats conspicuously in parks to startled swans. I’m wondering if Liam is about today for the just-a-minute of a day pint. I decide against it and have an espresso.

Of course I am here for the Between Dog & Wolf tour with my friend and favourite outlaw-stand-up-storyteller Tommy Tiernan. tommytiernan.ie/an-evening-of-storytelling/

I keep catching glimpses of an old fella in a shop window then realise it is myself in this new rain mac that I don’t recognise. He looks distinguished enough but about twenty years older than myself but IS actually myself. I think about the last few days and the amount of niggly little tasks required when you are leaving home for a month or so. Endless, and still I bet I’ve left a dish in the sink or forgotten to do the bins. The cats are taken care of, that’s the main thing.

For now I have the privilege and the pressure of doing little but thinking about stories for the next four weeks. This is the dream I tell you – my version of running-away-to-the-circus, the willy-wonka ticket of spiritual liberation in a world gone mad. There is no distinct plan or set list for these nights on the storytelling road – more the Backalong mode of prescription-in-the-moment. A folktale, a poem, a memory, a long tangly dream-myth of a thing, a saint tale or Yeshua-story. A what-ails-ye for the hours we are all assembled in the one place.

I will continue with this travelling-mode of writing over the next few weeks, whilst also leaving stories here we haven’t likely explored before...

martinshaw.substack.com/p/the-road-west

Deirdre of the Sorrows

14/09/2025

Morning folks, catch Martin & Tommy on the wireless this morning as they set out on their epic Between Dog & Wolf Tour – tune in, 10am: rte.ie/radio/

tommytiernan.ie/an-evening-of-storytelling/

07/09/2025

On Liturgies Of The Wild:

Martin Shaw is our greatest living storyteller and here he offers an enraptured validation of all that is awe-inspiring and profoundly implicit in a world where we are cabined, cribbed, confined by the explicit and banal.

Iain McGilchrist

This is easily my book of the year. It is heartfelt, poetic and tender, yet immensely challenging and utterly real.

Justin Brierley

Liturgies defamiliarises the well-worn pathways of religion … here be dragons, but also grace in almost indecently extravagant abundance.

Catherine Coldstream

Shaw is blessed with turns of phrase only the masters possess. Once you fall into this world of a wild God and bush prophets, you realise you’d follow him anywhere. Liturgies of the Wild is a journey of heart-expanding magic and redemption.

Glen Hansard

Liturgies of the Wild will be released on both sides of the Atlantic, February 2026 :

Hello friends, I’m going to talk about this here first.

I’ve been labouring on this book for three years and it’s finally time to start talking about it. Liturgies of the Wild: Myths That Make Us is a big and rather urgent book about the need for myth to actually help us grow into real human beings. At its core is the story of a kind of falling-into-God that began for me five years ago in an ancient Dartmoor forest. You of all people will have a sense of that story and the seeking of a Liturgy of the Wild that led from it – indeed some of that investigation has happened right here at Beast & Vines. Thank you for travelling with me.

Please help

One of the things I didn’t know about until this endeavour was the importance of pre-orders. It turns out in this mechanised, algorithmed world that pre-orders are the thing that can most help a book have a chance of having any real reach. I would dearly love for some reach for this book, for some joyful noise, for some striking of cymbals. There’s thirty years of spiritual investigation packed between these pages. If you put your ears to said pages you may detect distant hoots, thunderstorms, and unexpected peals of laughter. There’s some kind of medieval party going on in the depths of a forest. We have a seat just for you.

These are harrowing times, even if we manage to distract ourselves. We need the most ancient technologies to come to our aid. You don’t defeat the wicked by focusing entirely on it, but by turning to its opposite. As the description states, Liturgies is a counsel of resistance and delight in the face of many modern monsters.

Please let your friends, communities and animals know. Something unruly is coming.

Pre-order your copy and help spread the word

US and international readers: On Liturgies Of The Wild:

Martin Shaw is our greatest living storyteller and here he offers an enraptured validation of all that is awe-inspiring and profoundly implicit in a world where we are cabined, cribbed, confined by the explicit and banal.

Iain McGilchrist

This is easily my book of the year. It is heartfelt, poetic and tender, yet immensely challenging and utterly real.

Justin Brierley

Liturgies defamiliarises the well-worn pathways of religion … here be dragons, but also grace in almost indecently extravagant abundance.

Catherine Coldstream

Shaw is blessed with turns of phrase only the masters possess. Once you fall into this world of a wild God and bush prophets, you realise you’d follow him anywhere. Liturgies of the Wild is a journey of heart-expanding magic and redemption.

Glen Hansard

Liturgies of the Wild will be released on both sides of the Atlantic, February 2026 :

Hello friends, I’m going to talk about this here first.

I’ve been labouring on this book for three years and it’s finally time to start talking about it. Liturgies of the Wild: Myths That Make Us is a big and rather urgent book about the need for myth to actually help us grow into real human beings. At its core is the story of a kind of falling-into-God that began for me five years ago in an ancient Dartmoor forest. You of all people will have a sense of that story and the seeking of a Liturgy of the Wild that led from it – indeed some of that investigation has happened right here at Beast & Vines. Thank you for travelling with me.

Please help

One of the things I didn’t know about until this endeavour was the importance of pre-orders. It turns out in this mechanised, algorithmed world that pre-orders are the thing that can most help a book have a chance of having any real reach. I would dearly love for some reach for this book, for some joyful noise, for some striking of cymbals. There’s thirty years of spiritual investigation packed between these pages. If you put your ears to said pages you may detect distant hoots, thunderstorms, and unexpected peals of laughter. There’s some kind of medieval party going on in the depths of a forest. We have a seat just for you.

These are harrowing times, even if we manage to distract ourselves. We need the most ancient technologies to come to our aid. You don’t defeat the wicked by focusing entirely on it, but by turning to its opposite. As the description states, Liturgies is a counsel of resistance and delight in the face of many modern monsters.

Please let your friends, communities and animals know. Something unruly is coming.

Pre-order your copy and help spread the word

US and international readers: On Liturgies Of The Wild:

Martin Shaw is our greatest living storyteller and here he offers an enraptured validation of all that is awe-inspiring and profoundly implicit in a world where we are cabined, cribbed, confined by the explicit and banal.

Iain McGilchrist

This is easily my book of the year. It is heartfelt, poetic and tender, yet immensely challenging and utterly real.

Justin Brierley

Liturgies defamiliarises the well-worn pathways of religion … here be dragons, but also grace in almost indecently extravagant abundance.

Catherine Coldstream

Shaw is blessed with turns of phrase only the masters possess. Once you fall into this world of a wild God and bush prophets, you realise you’d follow him anywhere. Liturgies of the Wild is a journey of heart-expanding magic and redemption.

Glen Hansard

Liturgies of the Wild will be released on both sides of the Atlantic, February 2026 :

Hello friends, I’m going to talk about this here first.

I’ve been labouring on this book for three years and it’s finally time to start talking about it. Liturgies of the Wild: Myths That Make Us is a big and rather urgent book about the need for myth to actually help us grow into real human beings. At its core is the story of a kind of falling-into-God that began for me five years ago in an ancient Dartmoor forest. You of all people will have a sense of that story and the seeking of a Liturgy of the Wild that led from it – indeed some of that investigation has happened right here at Beast & Vines. Thank you for travelling with me.

Please help

One of the things I didn’t know about until this endeavour was the importance of pre-orders. It turns out in this mechanised, algorithmed world that pre-orders are the thing that can most help a book have a chance of having any real reach. I would dearly love for some reach for this book, for some joyful noise, for some striking of cymbals. There’s thirty years of spiritual investigation packed between these pages. If you put your ears to said pages you may detect distant hoots, thunderstorms, and unexpected peals of laughter. There’s some kind of medieval party going on in the depths of a forest. We have a seat just for you.

These are harrowing times, even if we manage to distract ourselves. We need the most ancient technologies to come to our aid. You don’t defeat the wicked by focusing entirely on it, but by turning to its opposite. As the description states, Liturgies is a counsel of resistance and delight in the face of many modern monsters.

Please let your friends, communities and animals know. Something unruly is coming.

Pre-order your copy and help spread the word

US and international readers: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/741189/liturgies-of-the-wild-by-martin-shaw/

UK readers: https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/477131/liturgies-of-the-wild-by-shaw-martin/9781846048913

Ok, thanks for reading. Let’s get on with the main dish of the day. (Today’s audio begins here otherwise this would be a very, very long recording).

Here’s last week’s section of The Singing Bone as a quick refresher (and link to the audio of Part One below). Next week we will be in Ireland (literally) with tales of the mythic feminine in all its nuance and strange charismas.

UK readers: Liturgies of the Wild, Martin Shaw

Ok, thanks for reading. Let’s get on with the main dish of the day. (Today’s audio begins here otherwise this would be a very, very long recording).

Here’s last week’s section of The Singing Bone as a quick refresher (and link to the audio of Part One below). Next week we will be in Ireland (literally) with tales of the mythic feminine in all its nuance and strange charismas.

UK readers: Liturgies of the Wild, Martin Shaw

Ok, thanks for reading. Let’s get on with the main dish of the day. (Today’s audio begins here otherwise this would be a very, very long recording).

Here’s last week’s section of The Singing Bone as a quick refresher (and link to the audio of Part One below). Next week we will be in Ireland (literally) with tales of the mythic feminine in all its nuance and strange charismas...

https://martinshaw.substack.com/p/skin-flesh-and-bone-memory

& The Singing Bone, Part Two

24/08/2025

The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
– William Blake

Well, we’ve passed the halfway point in August and it’s cardigan weather in Devon today, even a log or two on the fire. It may not stay this way. It’s been so hot for so long the stressed trees are shedding their leaves prematurely and there’s a swathe of orange and brown over the breathless hills. There’s a group out fasting in the woods – older folks – and so last night I joined the guides for the romantically titled ‘meat bucket’ that is often a staple of camp diet. ‘We eat the food so you don’t have to,’ is how we reassure the vigilers. Wandering down through the forest (the very same as in Bardskull) as it started to get dark I felt a certain shift in the air, a moistness, that is always a foreshadowing of autumn. I find it dizzying I love it so much. Members of my family have been strolling in and out of that wood for seventy years.

It’s been interesting being around – even at a distance – a group of older people out on the hill. Thinking about the Blake quote – maybe we all have to be foxlike in our younger years (the sheer hustle of it all), but maybe lionlike in our later. Trust me, I love foxes, I tell far more stories about them than I do lions, but I think we can get a sense of what Blake is on about. A certain majesty, a trust, a boldness. Take up some space in the world for goodness sake, at least your divinely appointed shape. Of course, no one can be a full moon all the time, or a tiger, or as truthful as a river. That’s one of the reasons I love those old shape-shifting stories so much, why women suck in their breath when they hear of the selkie-skin, it’s some primordial recognition of our changeability. But where the Blake quote leaves me is this: when you go the way your soul wants you to go, God provides.

Maybe not in terms of pensions and windfalls, but in livelier, more eccentric ways. More delight, certainly. God seems wildly eccentric to me, and if we are to be more like God, then maybe we should lean into a little of that too. In these words I can hear an echo of my meeting with Mr Duncan in Zennor a couple of weeks ago – the 91-year-old, Yeats reciting, deep listening fellow – he has stayed curious. I am remembering now that I’ve also been writing about Moses meeting the Burning Bush at a ripe old eighty years. Seems I’m circling back on a theme.

Jesus tells it straight – you can’t serve two guv’nors...

Nine Careful Wounds

16/08/2025

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qu3AUesjn8U

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14/08/2025

Support the Show on PayPal | (https://www.paypal.com/ncp/payment/PYR6HWRK8BRYA)Two bards battle. Martin recalls an old friend and his stunning poetry. Like, ...

08/08/2025

Come discover your inner-pilgrim with Martin this autumn!

https://substack.com/home/post/p-170334270?source=queue&fbclid=IwY2xjawMCp8FleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHu3edPDReGkutiJsqKGzqyk6EHLWXPIF90WzgNYg4h4PaNF16aV3FrdTi4Ek_aem_ilt0k3Jo_A1-taJ62GZ_tw

November 15-16th, the Wilds of Norfolk, Albion

22/06/2025

On alchemy:

Its beauty lies just in its materialised language which we can never take literally. I know I am not composed of sulphur and salt, buried in horse dung, putrefying and congealing, turning white or green or yellow, encircled by a tail-biting serpent, rising on wings.

And yet I am!

James Hillman

Hillman’s great hero, Henry Corbin, said that where there is only logic you will find a place strewn with dead angels. Corbin an academic and mystic, Hillman a brilliant shrink (as he would put it), both believed in a world ensouled and personal fidelity to an art-making that reached out and touched such vivacity.

Today in Bologna while nursing a double espresso I saw a beggar slip by the window of my comfortable, air-conditioned cafe. Something was wrong with her arm and her face was covered in Kabuki-like white paint, she rattled her tin and alarmed tourists who hurriedly stuffed coins into it, before she scuttled down a side alley into whatever Underworld she had arisen from. And I don’t say it lightly – the Underworld word – it was like something rearing up from the down below into this world of lofty Renaissance ideas. She was just the kind of person who would be making a bee line for Jesus. He never neglects to address the Underworld of his times, the leprosy of his times, the dementedness of his times. I’m not sure I can always say the same.

As you may remember from last week, here in Bologna I am running a parallel narrative of arriving in Rome almost twenty-five years before. Then a young painter with half an instinct for a Christianity I hadn’t yet encountered, but that I’ve now articulated to some degree in my essay on The Merrie. As I wistfully did the maths I realised that twenty-five years in the future I would be round about seventy. That gave me a sepia-tinged, soft, happy-sad feeling of the passing of time. This quickly drained away when I realised I was still terrible at adding up.

Eighty baby, eighty.

Ok, better make the most of it then.

I’d left Rome and gone into tent life for four years. It was about billhooks, cords of rope, rain on canvas, rabbit for the pot. All virtual social communication was handled by an alchemically red phone box on the main road between nearby villages. I had plenty of books to read, and the endless visionary gawp of watching weather bound through the valley below the tent – squalling rain, stuttered snowstorms, and a furtive sun that gradually turned my canvas from monastic black to a rather washed out grey. I could drive, and had – mercifully – friends, I worked a bit, so it was a tempering in solitude but not complete isolation. And the only way to talk fulsomely about what was happening inside of me was myth. Anything else was a little feeble. Like Hillman’s example from the beginning of today’s essay, I knew I wasn’t a mystic knight living in a forest in the middle of a great quest, but at the same time I knew I WAS...

Bologna Part Two & An Italian Fairy Tale

15/06/2025

When I travel I like to have a word or idea to be thinking about as I go, it’s my crossword puzzle. And this week it’s an old Sufi saying:

Alchemy is the sister of prophecy.

Alchemy. A common word these days, but with all sorts of implications. I’m not thinking of the external technologies of the medieval gold-maker, more alchemy as images of the soul working-on-itself, that precarious road that bubbles and hisses and submerges and then finally transforms lead to gold. These stages, both alarming and sublime, that as a Christian gradually lead one into experience of God. A theosis that walks – with grace – from the raw to the cooked. Alchemy is a very lively metaphor in the way I’m thinking about it. And for me, metaphor is not a waspish belittlement but a place for imagination to live. They are alive with association, that’s the point of them.

Alchemy can be described in a couple of sentences or puzzled at for a lifetime. I’m cautious about what I’m doing here, as when we think we understand something we tend to dismiss it. I teach it occasionally on post-graduate courses, and even the little I know has taken many years to absorb. Please note: I’m not advocating a turn to Gnosticism or slowly poisoning ourselves on fumes in a hut in an Italian forest. But I don’t think contemplating this saying will do us any harm whatsoever.

Real prophecy – a discerning of the spirits of the age – will likely require the fluidity of alchemy, the holy-spiritness of movement to accommodate its diagnosis. When you have only prophetic proclamation and no response you have all rock and no roll. So prophecy gets at the deeper truth of circumstance that-in-turn provokes changes in our inner condition (this could be seen as alchemical movement) as a response. Prophecy is a doing word. We have to be still enough to discern the prophetic, and open enough to the change it can provoke. No openness and I just tend to create my next set of panicky rules and regulations.

So I’m thinking about prophecy as an unearthing of this is what’s going on. The big reveal. Also we have prophecy in the plural; the pile up of layered realities that take a form solid enough to finally be spoken in to. And prophecy also as warning rather than a slam-dunk immutable future. Prophecy as prompt for possibility. Sometimes. Sometimes it is a ship crashing into an iceberg, two minutes before. I don’t know if prophecy is always as dramatic as the association of a message from God, more something a little less grandiose, a sober joining of the dots. Maybe an angel assisted the thought process.

And just for the record, a frequency that’s entirely prophetic is exhausting and finally hard to build on. You need the pastoral too.

I’ll come back to this later.

Bologna: The Red City

I’ve been travelling this month, and am now in Bologna. Not Canada, or Ireland, or Devon or Cornwall, or Bath or London, but Italy. A city known as being red (the colour of the houses), fat (the consequence of the delicious food), and bright (having an ancient University). So I become a chubby, sun-burnt guy with an overactive mind. What else is new? I hear you mutter.

Alchemy is the sister of prophecy: maybe it’s also a thought that the more alchemically aware of our own inner-nature we are, the more accurate our read when we lick our finger and to see which way the wind blows. Outer reflecting inner.

Bolonga is a great place to be thinking about such things. Everywhere is murals, mosaics, shadowed churches, flickering candles, sandy coloured backstreets leading to unexpected, leafy gardens...

A Fulfilment In Bologna