Here is the truth: sometimes I lose my spiritual connection. It usually happens when my routine is disrupted for some reason. Going away from home always does it. Going to stay with my mother in Belgium for a week always stops my spiritual practice dead. Being without my usual room, or my garden, it just doesn't happen. And without the practice, the sense of connection grows very thin.

I am very firmly rooted in the London clay, in the land between the Hill (Harrow Hill, which held a sanctuary to the gods long before the church was built) and the ridge (a wooded rise of land where and ancient ditch marks an old boundary). If I go somewhere else, I need to put down roots before I feel stable and grounded enough to fruitfully meditate.

I'm a bit of a beast of habit, when it comes to my practice. And I'm pretty sure that I could stay in the same place for months, without ever really going anywhere, and be perfectly happy. Going away from home has always been a wrench.

As is usual for me, I have always fought this. I have berated myself for not standing up for myself and my sacred time with Spirit. I have forced myself to meditate early in the mornings or late at night at my mother's house and felt drained by it, not nurtured. At Westacre, which is still the home of my fater-in-law until later this year, I have often tried to do the same. It always feels forced.

For many years I have believed that there is something I can do about this, if only I'm faithful enough to my Goddess, if only my connection to Spirit is strong enough, if only I am brave enough to claim this time for myself. If only I am good enough. And we all know that old refrain.

Spiritual practice at Westacre, so far, has been very minimal. And that is hardly surprising with all the pressure I have put on myself. Is it surprising that yesterday, when I chose to walk into the garden just for the sheer joy of it, I felt more of a connection than I ever have in this place? Is it surprising that acting out of love, with my heart wide open, is more effective than forcing myself out of a sense of duty? Of course not.

I guess I have discovered another part of myself to accept and love. I like my sacred routine, I like my home and the land I have lived on for nearly two decades. This is a good thing. This is as it should be. I have already learned that loving myself into something that I am resisting is a hundred times more effective and more joyful than forcing myself to do it. Doing things just for the love of it, with an open heart, makes living more beautiful.

As we come to Westacre more often, and I begin to relate to the garden more strongly, I trust that roots will grow here. This land supports Oak and Ash, Hawthorn and Elder. It grows crops and feeds cattle. It will support me. And it will do so more readily if I approach it with an open heart.