Tag Archive for: healing

 

“Animals don’t heal us by doing, but by being. They hold a space of presence in which our ragged spirits can begin to mend.” Jay Griffiths’ luminous exploration of wildness in all its forms has established her as one of ecological literature’s most important figures. How Animals Heal Us is a soul-stirring meditation on the bond between humans and animals, written with the lyrical intensity and the philosophical depth that characterise her work. In this slim but potent volume, Griffiths traverses grief, madness, and healing, guided not by medical hands or societal platitudes, but by the instinctual, generous presence of animals—creatures who, in her telling, offer an elemental form of salvation.

Griffiths does not anthropomorphize: her reverence is not sentimental but spiritual, rooted in humility. From the fox who watches her from the woods to the horse who bears her sadness without judgment, each animal becomes a silent witness to pain and transformation. Griffiths writes with the raw ache of someone who has known despair intimately, yet she lets the natural world speak its own language of solace.

In a world often severed from its ecological roots, How Animals Heal Us reads like a re-enchantment. Her writing is both elegy and invocation, reminding us that healing might not be a cure, but a reconnection to the web of life. It is a profound, poetic, and necessary book for anyone who has ever been saved by the silent wisdom of other species.

 

Garden Physic is a radical poetic movement through plant life. With her singular line, Sylvia Legris journeys readers through an investigation of how we articulate our ecological surrounds in language through botanical histories.

With a structure that emulates the style of classic manuscripts, Legris’s book deploys humour, deep intellect, and a fanatical obsession with the potential of language, punching through the cliches of contemporary nature writing. A brief snapshot:

‘how to write about flowers without the nauseating sentimental phraseology?
No quaint, no dainty, no winsome. This smells good, that smells bad, my hands
rank with manure. This at least is pure.’

The whole book is a glorious meditation on the garden and the power of plants: how they can heal us, emotionally and physically, and how we communicate with them.

Ricky Ray entwines the beauty of the world and his love of life with the weight of physical pain he shoulders daily, in this stunning chapbook which urges you to find new meaning in nature’s mysterious workings: “Every time I look up/ into a canopy, I see a mind at work.”

In The Sound of the Earth Singing to Herself, Ricky Ray invokes the animalistic yet the utterly, undeniably humane. Visiting the most intimate corners of memory, this is a chapbook that promises linguistic prowess and the healing – however raw – of the ache of living. From Indiana, Florida, and Oklahoma to the inescapable moment of our own death, the moment the sun sinks below the horizon, the moment “the cancer / bloomed like an angry / flower in her liver”, Ray’s language is masterful, transfixed on elevating the mundane and exposing every private moment of our existence. ~ Kayla Jenkins, Writer