What foolish thoughts

To search

To wander

To quest for a way

To cut through wild thickets

To shred skin on brambles

To fall down in ditches

When all the time

When all along

You were offering me

Pathway

After

Pathway

Leading this way

And that

Stretched out in front of me

Laid down before me

Soft strewn with oak leaves

Right under my nose

Right under my feet

An abundance of pathways

An oak leaf communion

Traffic, people, conversation round about her: ceased.

There was only the sea, the wide open beach, the crash of the waves on the shore.

She moved, slowly, forward, looking always out to sea.

The wind shrieked in her hair.

Sand stung her cheeks.

She laughed in delight.

She sat down in front of the sea.

Northern sunshine, cold wind, the sting of the sand, the tang of salt water. Rocks, pummelled by the sea. Waves, crashing.

She sat, and watched, transfixed. Transformed.

She wanted to shout. She wanted to run. She wanted to fly into the waves.

Energy coursed through her.

She knew anything was possible.

She sat watching, lost in the crash of the waves, found in the spray of the sea.

Lost and found.

It was as far north as she could go.

It was the end of the pilgrimage.

As I walked past a small park I turned and caught this light show on the wall of a block of flats. The trees were dancing in the light. I felt so moved by what I could see: just an ordinary wall, a vent, a window, and this art work playing on the wall for us, dancing, delighting.

I took the photo not sure if it would ‘work’ and I’m not sure it works in the way some photos I normally ‘take’ – of big wide open landscapes and pathways through trees, inviting us in.

However, when I dropped my gaze into the photograph I still felt deeply moved by it.

Could see more this time – the different patterns of squares and rectangles, the play of branches reflected in the window too, and the image of the shadow tree dancing seemed stronger and more compelling, each time I looked I could see movement, grace, beauty, and the invitation to dance.

Meanwhile:

You were calling me to turn around
Drink in beauty
Dream in wonder

You threw in sunshine, in January
Just warm enough to stand on deck
To breathe in sunshine
To drink in Clydelight
To wonder at the blueness of the day.

Oh you were calming the waters of the river
So the boats drifted smooth
Casting perfect reflections

You were draping white mist on the hills of the Holy Loch
Begging me to look at you
To look back and wonder
To look back and cry for you

As I tried to turn my back on you
As I tried to say “goodbye”

But still
When I did
When I found you by the river
When I looked once and looked twice
When I bent down to look more closely
When I cleared away the rubbish and the brownness of old leaves
When I looked down and found you there

Soft, strong
Tiny, vast
Green, white
Sign of spring and gift of winter

I couldn’t help but cry

~~~
Christmas Eve, 2009

I grew tired of thinking, listening, smelling, hearing, feeling, trying to write, trying to notice, trying to think about how I would write.

Grew tired of the creative challenge I had set myself: exploring, looking for evidence of autumn, looking for 29 things.  I grew weary. Things looked jaded.

I stopped myself.  Stopped trying to capture, to process, to notice, to think.

Started to gather instead.  Gathered objects: real, tactile, dirty, wet, curled up, broken, twiggy, wet.

Felt the pleasure of the objects in my fingers: seeds, leaves, burrs, nuts.

Noticed the imperfection of the objects, more real than the photos of the colours.

Dull, faded, brown, dull.  Curled up, broken.  Falling apart, disintegrating.

Wanted it real, not processed.  Wanted 3D, not flat.

Wanted to feel through my fingers, not think through my mind.

So I walked through the woods, gathering leaves.  Felt about seven years old.

Gathering leaves for my grandmothers: look, look at this one!  Look at this, what a beauty, look at this!

Gathering leaves for a nature table at school: look what we’ve found, what we’ve noticed, what we’ve learned.  Look how we’ve gathered the feel of autumn.

My spirits lifted as I walked, not taking photos, not writing,  not thinking, just gathering.

Processed it later, of course.

A fragment of conversation:

Why do we stop gathering up leaves and seeds to show, share, tell, celebrate?

A photograph

A word picture on my wall:

But still.  Still, as I touch it, the picture’s in 3D.  It’s changing day by day.  The leaves turning dry.  The seeds hardening.  The berries rotting.

It’s real.

It’s dark, imperfect, curled, up, disintegrating.  It’s darkly red, it’s reddening darkly.

The picture is red at its heart.

~~~

And somehow I know there’s one more than one lesson here.

It’s a reminder not to write, sometimes, but rather just to gather, to bundle up leaves, to go back to childhood, to celebrate, gather and enjoy.

But it’s also a story of nature’s harvest.  The gathering time for a woman.

Patterns repeating.

Curled up.

Torn and tattered.

Dull, and colourful.

Colourful, and dull.

Disintegrating.  Slowly letting yourself fall apart.

Perfect imperfect.

Imperfectly perfect.

Three dimensional.

Red at heart.

If only I could write you a poem.

If only I could tell you how the path dropped down through the woodland of the Lednock, how the trail led us to the side of the water, how the trees had shed their autumn leaves into the falls of the water, how the river stilled at just this moment and the red leaves floated past, so slowly, oh so slowly, for all the world like a procession, like a religious ceremony, a procession of confetti leaves, floating down the river, calming me, stilling me, catching my breath, spilling my tears in wonder.

If only I could paint the peace of this moment.

Breathe, she said, breathe the air that stops as I pass,
Soft, hushed, calm, electric

Listen, she said, to the music that follows my moves,
Songs, whistles, drums of the forest

Smell, she said, smell my perfume as I sway,
Still turning heads and breaking hearts

Feel, she said, feel the strength of my feet
Solid, rooted, grounded

Watch, she said, watch the swirl of my skirt
Watch it fold, and dance, and twirl,

As I scatter confetti
As I move in the forest
As I dance to the birdsong
As I breathe out my perfume
As I stand here sure-footed
In my full female power

Watch, she said

As I swing through the seasons
As I dance through the decades

Learn, she said

As I shake my leaves
As I twirl my skirt

As I show you just how to dance.

~~~

Inspired by this gorgeous tree at the side of the River Earn, whose bark reminded me of the swirl of a skirt, and who looked gorgeous and graceful enough to be a dancing queen.

Thanks to Amy Palko at Less Ordinary for the additional inspiration to dare to write (and publish and share) something creative on Will You Join The Dance?

Says the ancient sycamore,

As the river thunders

As the waters swirl

As the high water Tay rushes past,

Here I stand.

Here I stand,

Says the tall mighty tree,

As the people pass

As they gawp at my neighbour

As they rush past my splendour,

Here I stand.

Here I stand,

Says the sycamore,

As the forest was timbered

As the trees were cut back

As Birnam was broken,

Here I stand.

Here I stand,

Says the ancient,

As you walk with your troubles,

As you pass with your fear-thoughts,

As you wrestle with worries,

Here I stand.

~~~

Inspired by this ancient, 300 year old sycamore, standing next to the more famous Birnam Oak, one of the few survivors of the ancient medieval forest at Birnam.