The
wind is wild today. It slams cold
into my face up at the hill fort and harries the trees, making the beech, with
all their fresh, young, and oh so green leaves, tremble. The oaks are slower, calmer, not so hasty.
Their leaves are only just uncurling, amber drops unfurling, cautious.
And
I stand with my back to my tree and I think how young and fragile-strong it
feels. How all alone. It? Not him? And I wonder. Is this just another projection? Have I got it wrong again? Is this my self-tree? And for the first time
I notice another, on the other side of the track - larger, wider, more solid. And he (for this one, surely, is he?) doesn’t
stand alone like my tree.
Other trees bustle around. Young beech saplings crowd around his
roots. And the thickest ivy (as thick as
my upper arm) sticks like a vice to his trunk.
I tentatively tug it but it’s clinging tight. And again it bothers me. But then I figure he
probably likes it like that, really. But
then again, if you’re a tree, what choice do you have?
There
are bluebells everywhere.
The
scent sends me back, thudding through time, to Gaunts House. I had gone to write about retreating, was
only able to spare a few days – how ironic.
And I was restless, a bit lost without the flurry of deadlines and the
thrum of the city. And so I walked, mind-fretting
– and came across a bluebell wood.
And
cried, if I recall. And sank into
it. And that was a point at
which I could have taken my life in a totally different direction because, I realized, I didn’t need anything. And I meditated a lot and did yoga and helped
out in the garden, planting stuff, and didn’t really talk, just smiled, and it
was good. But then I went home and ego
said ‘Be normal! Be successful! Be a good cog!’ and soul shrank back again, shy
as bluebells.
Anyhow. Every walk in the woods is a medicine walk
for me. Things appear on my path and
talk to me. A while back it was all
death and decay. Bones, skulls, a broken
wing nearly every step I took. So I
picked them up and adorned the small wooden hut with them – an offering to Baba
Yaga. And I laid low, hoping the
Morrigan would fly past.
Today,
however, it was all runes. Twigs and
branches in shapes of the runic alphabet.
Futhark. Tree messages. Chatty.
And
what did they say? What did they say?
They
said…
Protection. The
Spiritual Warrior’s battle is always with the self.
And
they said….
Flow. The River. The Self. Conjunctio; the sacred marriage.
And
then they tried to say something else but the SP bounced on them and scattered
them to the wind.
5 comments:
Woods are so close to the real spirit of nature I think. Walking in them always evokes sorrow in me too, and wildness and deep thought. We are so blessed to have these portals. Minerva x
Jane, thank you for allowing the rest of us to have a little taste of what your woodland walk told you.
xo
... Things appear on my path and talk to me... Ditto
I'm waiting for warmer days to walk in woods. For now the bluebells in my garden sing.
Wow, no offense but I really find your blog post a little dramatic and emotional. Well maybe because, I have understood your grief. Anyway, today is a brand new day and let us celebrate life and new opportunities! There are more reasons to thank God about. Seize the day my friend!
@Minerva - portals is right. And yes, very blessed. My mood in woods changes like the wind - but they always affect me. :)
@Frances - me in my woods, you in your city...and I think we both listen for the hidden messages. :)
@Ashen - Of course they do... the bluebells in my garden are garish creatures, Spanish upstarts..but still beautiful. :)
@Denise - I had no idea this would come across as dramatic and full of grief. My mood was more meditative and curious. But I do think we read what we need to into other people's words. And I cannot disagree with your Carpe diem, my friend. :)
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