Friseland; Sanctuary of Renewal

I wake as dawn is gathering its breath, and the world here already hums beneath my feet. The dogs explore the scents of last night’s visitors.   Friesland’s air tastes of salt and something ancient, muddy terpen rising like old gods from the green fields, windmill arms slicing the sky. 

Until 1918 this was its own country, free courts, free councils castles, rooted in the Lex Frisionum where local assemblies wielded real power. 

Now I walk those same furrows in summer’s slow fire, feeling that promise flicker in the dew against my skin.   I feel safe here, I sleep deep and well and am restored each day.  This land is ancient.   There are nearby monoliths, the mideavel villages feel familiar, celtic histories woven into the forests and patchwork fields. 

Reflection: In what area of your life do you long to reclaim personal freedom? What would it feel like to rule your inner world as fiercely as medieval Frisians did their land?

Each morning I step onto dew-damp turf, Easterein, Dongjum, names whispered by wind. Terpen rise like veins through these fields, earth mounds built by ancestors who dreamed of solid ground. I press my palms to the cool grass, tasting salt on my fingertips, feeling how their hands once molded this land.

I think of how the mounds of earth built to fortress against constant flooding, and where I have broken the patterns of repeated behavior and choices.   How have I built something to withstand life’s floods?   Where might I still need to raise my inner foundation higher?

Rows of poplar and elm surround each farmhouse, planted in the eighteenth century to tame Frisian gales. Their bark is scarred by time, their branches tremble with secrets, “this too shall pass.” I lean into their shade, inhale deeper than air, and find myself exhaling fears I didn’t know I carried.

This land has seen resistance, war, draught, organization, even sabotogue of the nazi’s.  The land is still standing; fertile and soothing reminding me no matter what, “this too shall pass”.

By midmorning I slip into the village café for strong black koffie and a rye boterham with beetroot cheese. The baker, whose grandmother once hid radio parts in her thatched roof, greets me with a laugh. We speak little Frisian: “Moai waar,” she says, beautiful weather. Each syllable is a ritual, reminding me that language itself can be an anchor to place and lineage.

By late afternoon the hay fields glow like embers. Dusk creeps in slow motion, gold bleeding to rose then to bruised indigo. Cattle drift home beneath cathedral clouds so vast they stitch the horizon to the heavens. I lift my face to that sky, remembering Wisconsin summers, and wonder if clouds swell here for the same reason, flat light, endless days, the world laid open like a lover.

I remember feeling the endless days in western Wisconsin, and feel the same time slows down here.   I wonder when I leave how I can keep this boundless perspective into your daily life?

Only five days ago I drove the Afsluitdijk, 32 km of reclaimed sea, watching markers tick by as water’s memory faded behind me. On one side canal houses and neon hum; on the other winding lanes, moss-green meadows, windmill sails turning with patient grace. That ribbon of stone is a seam between two souls, one of steel and neon, the other of turf and wind.

After morning dog care I slip into the rec center for strength training. Among flaxen hair and confident smiles I sense a lineage, medieval Frisian law once let women own land, petition for divorce and claim equal wergeld, radical autonomy on parchment. Now the gym is owned by a woman, the bakery and café down the lane are too. I drop my bag and feel that legacy pulse through my arms.  My nervous system recognizes this lineage.   It’s strong, fierce, loving and hidden in plain sight.  

Reflection: Which marginalized voice within you longs to be heard and honored? How might you claim space for it today?

On my way home the Frisian flag flutters above tiled roofs, four cobalt stripes, three bands of white and seven red pompeblêden. These water-lily leaves recall the seven sea-counties bound against Viking raids. Centuries later that same solidarity fueled the Knokploegen brigades, mothers hiding radios in thatch roofs on April 8 1945, and teenagers guiding downed airmen through moonlit marshes. I taste their courage in every breeze.
Reflection: What hidden gift or strength have you kept tucked away? What would it take to bring it into the light?

As evening deepens I climb the nearby terp mound at the village edge. From its summit I see the patchwork of fields laid out like a living mandala. Here I pause, close my eyes and trace two circles on my inner horizon, one the dike I’ve built to protect my heart, the other the soft mound I’ve raised to hold my dreams.

Back in my three-sided glass dining room windchimes tinkle beneath the rafters as light fractures across the fields. Life here feels generous and good, yet still I ask, where in my life must I build soil against repeating patterns, and where must I breach my own dike of fear to let freedom flood in?

Tonight I’ll walk the dogs along fresh-cut hay in the fading light. As coral floods the sky I’ll ask, which currents of history carry my breath and how will I honor every woman who dared to shape land, law and liberty simply by standing her ground?

I rest in this haven of my own making, each night a gentle exhale, each dawn a soft rebirth. Here I surrender into pillows that cradle every tension, and I awaken renewed, my spirit knitted back together with morning light. In this sanctuary safety is not just a feeling but a living presence. It wraps around me like a lover’s arms, stills the storm of thought, and invites my body to remember its own wisdom. Night after night I slip into untroubled sleep, and every sunrise finds me whole, restored, and ready to bloom anew.