Among Good Neighbors
The pine woods across the street from my Big Grammy's Mid-Atlantic home were a realm of mystery and wonder to me as a child. I would venture into those dappled shadows carrying small treasures—colorful pebbles, smooth shells, or carefully gathered moss to make fairy tea. Though I don't recall explicitly saying the offerings were "for the good neighbors," there was an unspoken understanding that these gifts weren't random acts but deliberate exchanges with the unseen inhabitants of that place. My grandmother never called it superstition when I reported leaving these trinkets tucked between roots and stones; instead, she would nod with approval, teaching me through her quiet acceptance that we were not alone on this land, that we shared space with others seen and unseen, and that mutual respect formed the foundation of peaceful coexistence.
In Irish tradition, the term "good neighbors" refers to the fairy folk or aos sí (Irish pronunciation: eess SHEE)—the spirits of place that inhabit the landscape alongside human communities. As Dr. Sharon Blackie, best-selling author and psychologist with a background in mythology and folklore, notes, "The relationship with the good neighbors wasn't based on worship or subservience, but on mutual recognition and respect for boundaries. It was fundamentally about good neighborliness—about how to live well together in a shared landscape" (Blackie, 2018). This traditional practice reflects a deeper understanding that hospitality extends beyond human interactions to encompass our relationship with place itself and all beings who dwell there.
The Land as Host
Before the concept of land as property took root in Ireland through colonization, the relationship between people and place was fundamentally different. In Brehon Law, land was not owned by individuals but held in trust by the community, with rights and responsibilities distributed according to one's place in the social order (Kelly, 1988). This system recognized the land itself as having agency and identity separate from human use or occupation.
The dindsenchas—place lore preserved in medieval manuscripts—reveals how intimately the Irish understood their landscape. Every hill, river, and stone had its story, its meaning, and its proper relationship to the human communities that dwelled alongside it. These weren't simply entertaining tales; they were maps of relationship that taught people how to exist in proper harmony with their surroundings (Ó Crualaoich, 2003).
Archaeological evidence supports the existence of these practices across millennia. Votive offerings found in bogs, wells, and other liminal spaces demonstrate that people maintained active relationships with the spiritual dimensions of their landscapes long before written records documented these customs (Green, 1992).
The Spirits of Place
The concept of "thin places"—locations where the boundary between ordinary and spiritual worlds becomes permeable—remains central to Irish spiritual understanding. These thin places could be natural features like wells, caves, or particular trees, or human-made structures like stone circles or burial mounds. What defines them is not so much their physical characteristics but the quality of experience they engender: a sense of standing at the threshold between worlds.
The "good neighbors" were understood to inhabit these threshold spaces. Far from the diminutive, whimsical creatures of Victorian imagination, the traditional aos sí were powerful, complex beings with their own societies, values, and concerns. They were the Tuatha Dé Danann (Irish Pronunciation: TOO-ah day dhanna), the old gods of Ireland who retreated into the hollow hills when new ways came to the land, remaining as guardians and sometimes intercessors between humans and the deeper powers of place (Ó hÓgáin, 2006).
Relationships with these beings followed specific protocols. Certain trees—especially hawthorn, elder, and rowan—were known to be under fairy protection and were never cut without permission and proper offerings. As folklorist Henry Glassie documented, "The fairy faith encoded ecological wisdom, teaching people to leave certain areas undisturbed, to harvest in sustainable ways, and to maintain a relationship of reciprocity with the land" (Glassie, 1982).
Carried Across Waters
When An Gorta Mór (Irish Pronunciation: uh GORR-tuh moh-er)—the Great Hunger—forced millions of Irish people to leave their homeland throughout the 19th century, they carried their understandings of place and relationship with them. The Great Hunger was not simply a natural disaster, as the term "potato famine" misleadingly suggests, but a complex catastrophe intensified by British colonial policies. As historian Christine Kinealy documents, Ireland continued to export food throughout the hunger years of 1845-1852, with armed British guards ensuring grain and livestock left the country while the Irish starved (Kinealy, 1994).
The challenge these displaced people faced was profound: how does one maintain connection to land-based spiritual practices when separated—often violently—from the specific landscapes that birthed them?
In the coal mining communities of Pennsylvania, Irish immigrants transferred their reverence for the underworld beings to the dangerous mines where they now worked. Offerings were left in tunnels, certain areas were approached with particular caution, and stories circulated of encounters with beings who weren't altogether human (Miller, 2001).
What emerges from these historical accounts is not a simple transplantation of Irish practices but a process of translation—finding the essential meaning and purpose behind traditions and recreating them in ways that made sense in new environments. As folklorist Ray Cashman notes, "What persisted was not so much specific rituals tied to particular landmarks, but rather a way of seeing and relating to the land as inherently alive and responsive to human intention" (Cashman, 2008).
Patty Krawec illuminates the complexity of this diaspora experience through her own mixed Anishinaabe and Ukrainian heritage: "Displacement creates a particular kind of grief—a homesickness that persists across generations. The challenge for displaced peoples is to honor that grief without allowing it to become a justification for displacing others" (Krawec, 2022).
Meeting New Neighbors
The Irish diaspora experience raises profound questions about what it means to be in right relationship with lands and peoples when one has been displaced from ancestral territories. For those of Irish heritage living in Australia, Canada, the United States (Turtle Island), and elsewhere, this question is further complicated by the role many played in colonial systems that perpetuated displacement of indigenous peoples.
Right relationship in this context refers to an ethical framework built on respect, reciprocity, and harmony—one that acknowledges historical truths while working toward mutually beneficial interactions that honor the sovereignty and dignity of all parties involved. For displaced peoples, it requires reconciling their own experiences of oppression with their potential complicity in colonial systems.
Right relationship begins with truth. The painful reality is that many Irish immigrants, themselves fleeing British colonization, became participants in another colonial project upon arrival in new lands. As historian David Emmons notes, "The Irish who fled British colonization in Ireland often became foot soldiers in the colonization of Native American lands, a bitter irony rarely acknowledged in Irish-American historical memory" (Emmons, 2010).
Historian Conor Donnan points out this complex reality: "It's a part of Irish history we don't talk about at all... [like] Edward Doheny, who made his money as an 'Indian killer'" (de Groot, 2020).
Yet this is not the complete story. Throughout these same periods, there were also examples of solidarity and mutual recognition between Irish and indigenous peoples. The donation from the Choctaw Nation to Irish famine relief in 1847—despite their own recent suffering on the Trail of Tears—stands as one powerful example. Historical research reveals this was more extensive than commonly known: "The Choctaw of Skullyville, Oklahoma, donated $170, while the Choctaw of Doaksville sent $150, and the Cherokee Nation raised $200 for the Irish... Here were multiple Indigenous communities imagining they're in the same colonial sphere as the Irish, both oppressed by imperialism" (de Groot, 2020).
One of the most striking examples of this solidarity came during Ireland's War of Independence, when Ireland's president Eamon de Valera traveled to Wisconsin in 1919 to meet with the Lac Court Oreille band of the Ojibwe. "He was made an honorary chief in front of 3,000 members of the Ojibwe," and Tribal Chief Joe Kingfisher told De Valera he wished he could give him "'the prettiest blossom of the fairest flower on earth, for you come to us as a representative of one oppressed nation to another'" (de Groot, 2020).
This solidarity continues today. In 2020, when the Navajo and Hopi nations were devastated by COVID-19, Irish people around the world contributed to a relief fund as a way of "giving back" for the historic Choctaw donation. The fundraiser collected over $4 million, with most donations being small amounts from ordinary people.
What does it mean to be in right relationship with the land and its peoples? The traditional understanding of the "good neighbors" offers several principles that resonate across cultural contexts.
Recognition—acknowledging the full humanity and sovereignty of all parties. When the Irish left offerings for the aos sí, they were acknowledging these beings' rightful claim to certain territories. In contemporary settings, this translates to truthfully acknowledging whose lands we occupy and the histories that brought us there.
Reciprocity—the understanding that relationships involve mutual exchange and benefit. Today, reciprocity might look like financial support for indigenous-led land defense initiatives, showing up when called upon as allies, or using whatever privileges one has to amplify indigenous voices and concerns.
Respect—for boundaries and sovereignty. The Irish knew certain places belonged to the aos sí and weren't for human use or modification. Similarly, right relationship with indigenous peoples means respecting their authority over traditional territories and cultural knowledge.
Repair—acknowledging harm and working actively to heal it. Genuine repair means committing to long-term processes of decolonization, supporting indigenous land reclamation, and challenging ongoing systems of oppression.
Creating Sacred Relationship in Modern Contexts
How might these traditional understandings inform contemporary practice? The essence of the "good neighbor" tradition offers guidance that transcends specific cultural contexts.
First is the practice of introduction—announcing oneself to a new place and its inhabitants, both seen and unseen. In contemporary contexts, this translates to acknowledging whose land you stand on—not as a performative gesture, but as a genuine recognition of relationship.
Second is developing genuine relationships with the human communities who share these spaces. In traditional Irish villages, communal relationships were maintained through practices of meitheal (cooperative labor), patterns (community celebrations at holy wells or other sacred sites), and céilí (social gatherings with music and storytelling).
For diaspora communities today, this means actively participating in the care and defense of the places we inhabit alongside diverse others. As theologian Ched Myers suggests, "Becoming people of a place means standing with those most vulnerable in that place. We cannot claim spiritual connection to land while ignoring the struggles of those facing displacement or environmental injustice there" (Myers, 2016).
Third is attention to threshold spaces—the boundaries between different types of land, the places where elements meet. Dr. Sharon Blackie writes, "In traditional Irish cosmology, thresholds were places of power and potential danger—doorways, crossroads, shorelines, the meeting of streams. Today's thresholds might be found in urban green spaces, in community gatherings that bridge different cultural traditions, or in moments when we consciously stand between stories—the inherited colonial narrative and an emerging story of repair and reciprocity" (Blackie, 2019).
Fourth is regular practice of reciprocity—giving back to the land and communities that sustain us. Ojibwe teacher Wendy Makoons Geniusz explains that "Reciprocity isn't about equal exchange, but about understanding our responsibilities within a web of relationships. What does this land need from me? What do my neighbors—human and otherwise—need? How can I give appropriately, without expectation of return?" (Geniusz, 2015).
Becoming Good Neighbors
In a world facing climate crisis, mass migration, and profound disconnection from place, these ancient practices of relationship offer practical wisdom for creating more sustainable and spiritually fulfilling ways of dwelling.
Sharon Blackie argues that "The lasting trauma of the Great Hunger reverberates through generations of Irish diaspora communities. Understanding this ancestral wound is critical not to justify harm but to recognize how unhealed trauma can lead to participation in harmful systems. Collective healing requires acknowledging both the wounds we carry and those we've inflicted" (Blackie, 2019).
What does repair look like in practice? For those of us descended from settlers, it begins with truth-telling—acknowledging the full history of how we came to be where we are, including the parts that challenge cherished narratives about our ancestors.
Patty Krawec's work in "Becoming Kin" offers a framework for this truth-telling process: "We must 'unforget' the histories that have been deliberately obscured—both the violence of colonization and the moments of solidarity and kinship across difference" (Krawec, 2022).
Perhaps most importantly, the good neighbor tradition reminds us that coexistence doesn't require sameness. The aos sí were understood to have their own societies, values, and purposes distinct from human concerns. Yet their well-being and that of human communities were recognized as interdependent. This understanding offers a powerful model for pluralistic societies struggling with difference—one based not on assimilation or mere tolerance, but on mutual respect and recognition of distinct yet interconnected needs and gifts.
As I place my own small offerings at the base of a favorite tree in a Durham city park built on unceded Haliwa-Saponi, Sappony, and Occaneechi Band of Saponi land, hundreds of miles from my grandmother's pine woods where I once left treasures for the unseen, I am participating in a tradition that spans generations and geographies. I am acknowledging that despite all the distances traveled and boundaries crossed, all the harms done and suffered, we remain—always and inevitably—among neighbors.
Meet the High Witch
Erin Harker
Hi there! I'm Erin. My earliest memories are filled with reading tarot cards alongside my mom, lighting candles for courage before presentations, and spending evenings at the Irish Club with my dad. These weren't just sweet childhood moments—they became the foundation for my deeply spiritual life rooted in ancestral wisdom and witnessing magic in the everyday.
My practice carries forward the stories and traditions of my Irish, Scottish, and German ancestors, while honoring the wisdom of the land beneath my feet. At the heart of everything I do are the ancient traditions of sacred hospitality and community care—traditions I believe we desperately need to revive in our disconnected world.
As someone who walks between worlds—a practitioner of animism and student of Druidry—I spend my days helping folks reconnect with nature's rhythms and their own inner knowing. Whether I'm giving private readings, teaching workshops, blending herbs, or simply creating cozy spaces for fellow seekers to gather, I'm happiest when helping others (re)discover their own magical gifts and feel more connected—to their power, their communities, and the world around them.
So pull up a chair, neighbor. The kettle's on, and there's always room at my table.
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