First of all, I check on the bird tables in the garden to see if there is enough food for the birds. This morning before going out I look from the window as I grab a pair of binoculars for a better view of the most gorgeous woodpecker with his very red head and stark black and green tailfeathers. He was somersaulting upside down as he pecked at the peanuts with his pointed beak. Had to be quick, the slightest movement even from inside cause these birds to make a hasty retreat. Although years ago, when living on the North York Moors, where the birds were used to us, a woodpecker brought her babies to the garden wall and sat feeding them, fully aware of us in the window looking excitedly on. A robin also used to feed from my hand. I do miss that farmhouse in its isolation. In my mind I can see the house and garden in detail and can point out all the little quirks and nooks and crannies.
Back to this morning though, inside this cottage, I lower the binoculars. Close to me I observe a tiny wren. She comes most mornings, scratching around with her beak and petite feet in the garden trug, as she stops her darting around. Her movements quick and precise, there one minute under the rosemary bush, popping up near the hellebores the next. So much energy but always aware of her space and surroundings it seems. On another bird table, flying in from the high beech hedge and circling the garden, I spot the robins, sparrows and blue-tits, a variety of finches can often be seen, but the starlings not so much recently. The blackbirds, along with pigeons, hang about under the table for seeds to drop. There is a ground feeder but neither the robin nor the blackbirds use that much. It is often said the robin doesn’t go onto bird-feeders; they do in my garden! Occasionally, I’ve watched kites soaring overhead and once to my dismay saw the resident village hawk snatching our favourite blackbird mid-flight. My daughter had named him Christopher!
Calling to Aimee, my dog and walking companion, I step out gazing up at the honey bees which have made a home in the crevice of the cottage wall. The drones are getting sleepy now and I keep finding the odd one dying in the house. I walk through the small village, past the beck which is flowing very slowly just now, there has been little rain the past two weeks. It looks quite clear and sandy at the bottom at the moment, the rushes brown at the tops and dying. They will be back in the spring as is the wonderful cycle of plants. The grass has been cut either side, it is too short close to the beck which upsets me, I feel a choked feeling when locals are strimming regardless of all the insect and plant life.
When I first moved here, I would see water voles on a daily basis and watch them from my bedroom window as they swam backwards and forwards collecting pieces of river-bank for their nests. What a wonderful sight, it was like being in the most glorious hide. Now they have left, their habitat has been destroyed as the village parish council has deemed it needs to be neater, some said they were a nuisance, despite the fact that they are a protected species. I won’t use this space to get started on my feelings regarding this, but needless to say it makes me bewildered, annoyed and alarmed. The same as I do when branches are lopped from trees without reason.
I walk up a small hill and turn towards what we call the ‘big house’ next to a church, past beech hedges on one side standing erect on this still, dry November morning full of vibrant leaves, copper, gold, green, brown, so that it forms a kaleidoscope of autumnal colour, like an amazing quilt.
A crow calls. It sounds as though he is having a laugh. I love the way their hoarse caw rings out. A pheasant in dismay at seeing us approach, runs to the hedge, darting this way and that before taking flight, crowing all the time, as it dashes across the field.
I walk past a big tree with its vast trunk on the ground in the gardens bordering a large house. I knew it was sick last winter and placed my hand on its rough bark as I could feel and hear it groan. Not many listened or noticed as it swayed until one morning it died and simply fell, back to where it came from on the woodland floor, amidst lots of nettles and grasses. It lies with its branches like huge arms and twiggy extensions. Other trees keep it company and appear to shield it. I inspect the knots in the tree – potential homes for little creatures and insects. The trunk is huge as it lays splayed out. The surrounding trees hold their ground, making me think of my tai chi practice. I used to teach an exercise called ‘standing like a tree’. We’d feel the strength in our ‘trunks’, the power to firmly root into the ground and our lives. The fallen tree makes me think of the impermanence of everything, the pattern of life, especially since someone I was getting to know more has recently died. I feel sad. I can relate to this old tree. Sometimes I feel, after having had a major illness, and survived, that I live on the edge – and yet at other times I feel that I’m becoming wiser with age and have so much so learn and impart. But the wisdom of age is not always acknowledged, not as it would have been in ancient communities or indeed in tribal communities. I sometimes feel I’m looking for my tribe, although I have a wonderful huge tribe as a family.
The person who died was the mother of my new daughter-in-law. Peculiar expression really as she has been my son’s partner for twenty-one years so I have seen her as a daughter, as part of our family, for a long time now. She is a wonderful woman, a good friend. This thought leads me to think of my son who was born in the autumn, the season we are celebrating now. I wrote of it recently.
One of the memories that sprang to my mind was of another autumnal day many years ago now when my son Adam was born. It was Michaelmas Day, a beautiful day full of sunshine to be and promise, both in the weather and the years to follow. Adam was born at home by the open fire in the early hours of the morning. I woke and within what I remember as a fairly pain-free hour he was born. Born early, he was small and tender, keen to get here into this world, I like to think to be with us. He gazed around for a moment, it was if he was saying “Oh, I’m here, am I?” He looked like a wizen. wise, sage of old, before possessing the presence of a new-born baby. The midwife arrived for a cup of tea!
As he grew up, we always flew kites on his birthday. One year I remember his whole class from the Steiner school came and we went into the field next to our house, walked to the top and ran down the hill with our colourful kites. I never had a good camera but those memories are in my heart. As I write about my experience with the space around me, memories come to my mind. So onwards with this journey.
I often see a hedgehog here out in the daytime but nevertheless a very healthy looking one. I expect he’ll be finding a home for the winter soon; I hope he makes his way to my hedgehog house.
Pigeons coo and fly overhead as the crows continue with their cackle as I walk. I carry my notebook and pen in hand, noticing that an unrecognisable insect has landed on the page and is walking across it. It is so small, but has its place here in this world.
I walk past what appears, even at this time of year, to be shoots of fresh green grass appearing through the carpet of browning shrivelled leaves. I reach the avenue of trees. From the beech hedge which is just above my head so that I have to stand on tip-toes to see over to its immediate vicinity, I can see further afield to the hills.
Trees are planted every few yards within the hedge. They line the way and yet are so characterful, each having their own identity and uniqueness, just like people and different in size and build. To my left I gaze off into the woods – ‘No trespassers please’ – Why did I ever leave Scotland all those years ago, where the same trespass laws don’t apply, although I lived on the Yorkshire moors where I roamed freely, occasionally breaking the rules! Hopefully roaming laws will change soon.
I pass a beautiful oak where I often hear woodpeckers tapping their beaks in the spring time. I always try to spot and find the woodpecker, sometimes I spy him, sometimes it is hard, they hide as they move around the large tree, as though playing a game of hide-and-seek. I look at the holes, cracks and crevices in the trees. I can imagine a family of mice or other little creatures. Hibernating time. I know the feeling! Good to listen to this.
Leaves fall as I walk. The silence is as golden as the leaves, then a slight breeze appears as if from nowhere. I watch as the leaves spiral down and I rustle as I walk through the dryness of them. Mindfulness, I have walked this route many times, each time is different, I notice, sometimes not, but today I am alert, attentive and enjoying the feeling.
In the distance to the north, I can see the trees lining the horizon in their magnificence of colour, the field in front browning and becoming dry and bare by the week. Autumn to me always feels poignant and yet joyful at the same time.
To my right as my feet travel this quiet road, I see the old walls of the walled garden of the large house. Falling over the walls are the last of the tall, rambling rose bushes and buddleias which were covered in butterflies in the summer. They climb over the wall as though they want to escape.
I sometimes think of moving, or escaping? From this space, to try pastures new, but as time goes on, I am finding my place here, or does this come from inside? Am I becoming more satisfied as Mary Oliver in her Wild Geese poem says and allowing the soft animal of my body to love what it loves, the quiet space inside? It is a good place to be physically and mentally, but nevertheless in contrast and contradicting myself, I do love the wild nature of an environment.
Now looking ahead, the only sign of life is a car outside the old gardener’s cottage, now a holiday cottage. Time changes inhabitants.
Between the trees on my left I can see the folly, I would love to walk there, it is inviting me to explore its square stone walls and pillars reflecting the wealth of the past, and is a still-life. Not being allowed to walk here is infuriating to me. A leaf pirouettes freely past me. I love the way they twirl and tumble as they fall, like an experienced dancer.
I walk on. There is an old, high wooden gate in the walls on one side and in the line of trees on the other so that I feel enclosed by warmth. The gate near the trees reminds me of the children’s book The Secret Garden which I read avidly to my children. Past the orchard of the big house now with its arched gold and black, locked gates. I could continue my walk if they were not barring my way, straight down to the lake. I’ll have to turn and walk back over the bridge over the beck to walk to the lake which is all part of my morning walk instead of five minutes if I could go through the gate. But it’s a pleasant walk and I may even climb to the top of the steep hill past the lake to see if there is any sign of the peregrines today. What magnificent birds they are.
I remind myself of mindfulness, I am here now being present with the trees in this avenue of trees. Many of the leaves on the branches look like paper and have a diverse number of patterns on each. They hang on the branches similar to paper cut-outs that children get such joy from creating. Nature is so creative and spectacular. As I look at them, knowing that I am looking at them, the action fills me with love for my life. I love being outside despite the fact that it’s getting a bit cold now. I’ve just noticed some daisies on the grass, amazing, the remains of those warm summer days. I remember seeing a very unusual hairy caterpillar this summer in about this same spot, it was stunningly bright. It’s incredible the memories we store in our hearts and minds
I approach a tree that I love, its tall and slender with very small leaves. I can never resist touching and stroking the bark. It is so smooth and yet feels strong despite the fact that the bark is peeling. It would be possible to start at the top of a strip and just pull the bark off. Of course, I don’t, the tree would not be happy I feel. The long trunk on one side has lost so much it is like a smooth chestnut coloured slide, my hand caresses it, it feels good. I look on a little sign. It is young, planted in 1989 and is an Arbutus Menzies. I love trees. I know the names of all the familiar ones, this has inspired me to buy a book of trees. This avenue of trees has become a part of my life, a bit like friends, I recognise them and by more mindfully acknowledging them their images are sharper.
I can hear the rumbling of a tractor which disturbs the silence, the birds are unusually quiet this morning. I think because it is getting colder. I walk on and stop at six plane trees planted in 1967, they stand against one of the tall garden walls, a bit like sentries guarding whatever is beyond. There is a carpet of leaves beneath them, with the occasional leaf falling twizzling down, down to where my dog snuffles below and buries her noise in the earthy scent.
I arrive at the church. I don’t go in, preferring to be outside. I like the outside of it and the way the clock chimes but I don’t particularly find it inviting inside not like some churches. I remember the little ones on the hillsides in Greece where I lived for a few months, hardly room enough for more than very few people. In one I met an old, very fat priest who wanted a lift. We gave him one, he was very smelly and my daughter looked so squashed beside him and complained bitterly afterwards especially as he insisted on getting in with his very tall headgear. Strange I should think of that now, she was about nine at the time, I was researching for my MA. Seems many years ago, it was many years ago. Another one of those lives, or layers, as Stanley Kunitz wrote in his poem The Layers. I’ve never spent an autumn there, only spring and summer. I wonder if I would still feel this sense of intense nostalgia which I feel in autumn here.
The outside of this church is peaceful and the tranquillity of those resting fills me with sadness and I think of my grandparent’s grave, it doesn’t even have a head-stone. I wouldn’t know how to find it, there must be a way. Today I feel sad for those I have lost, family and friends. I still carry them in my heart though. Impermanence. Here in the graveyard, it makes me reflect on the ending of a life. These people in this graveyard would have known where they were to rest one day; in this beautiful space, snowdrops in the spring, summer laughter of the many wedding bells, now the autumn with the golden beech tress gently swaying and a carpet of snow in the winter. Am I being morbid, not at all, aren’t we lucky to have the seasons.
I wish that tractor would stop and now a fleet of land rovers, intruding on my thoughts taking many burly-looking men and a couple of women wearing green and camouflage off to kill pheasants. I am filled yet again with sadness for the pheasants. I remember how they used to shoot near us on the moors and I wouldn’t let them into the field we rented. I think they probably thought I was this wild, crazy woman who obstructed their sport. I had to give in in the end due to the Lord who owned the field and his mates but I made my point. I’d have to put music on when they came to shoot.
I can also hear a mower now and some distant drilling of machinery, a very unwelcome chorus to the silence.
I cast my gaze to the copper beech, with its brilliant red leaves. It is like a celebration; the huge tree gives off an air of exuberance along a pathway within the estate to a more conservative groomed space with topiary. I like the wild areas in between.
Why does nature have to be tamed, it saddens and distresses me, let nature take its own course please. And yet it wins out. And everywhere I look the colour around me is amazing so I switch away from sadness and rejoice, fill my heart with joy for what is. The way those birds are flying, I think they are field fares. I haven’t had the long-tailed tits to the bird table recently, haven’t seen any, I wonder where they are.
These gorgeous red leaves. I bought a red dress in the spring. I haven’t worn it yet, would be good for dancing. Dresses can be a nuisance for everyday activities and I seldom wear them. I tried it on, so much lovely cloth, so full, like a dress from the 1950s swirling around me. It made me feel like dancing when I put it on to show my daughter Myriam, a dress for a flamenco dancer, I would have loved to learn that or the tango but never did unfortunately. A dress to free oneself and express oneself, a bit like Isadora Duncan. I enjoyed reading about her, many, many moons ago. I guess that’s why I contemplated training to do eurythmy, but it was a long training and I would have had to leave the children too much. Shame really. But then that’s another one of those what if moments, there are often several in a life, well in mine. You get what you need, not what you want, as the song goes… I haven’t danced for a long time apart from at the wedding in June, the wonderful ceilidh. That was amazing, I didn’t know I had so much energy. I think I’d like to find some dance classes, would be good exercise.
Since writing, which I love, I have spent too much time sitting down and I’ve been writing for some years now, it’s a question of being able to fit everything in. It was wonderful to share the dances and everyone looked happy. Maybe I’ll see if Catherine, a movement medicine teacher can teach me, she has been teaching movement medicine for many years now. But we don’t live in close proximity, better face to face, strange to do everything on zoom. I did enjoy the Caribbean dance class I did on zoom though. There is a five rhythms dance class not so far away, but I know I don’t like evening classes any more. Not good to restrict myself but that’s how I feel. I do restrict myself in other ways, I know. Anyway, writing is a form of movement too. I feel a great shift in my inner life and my confidence since I started writing and also taking part in the study of poetry therapy. I love to see how other people change too. My writing for wellbeing groups have only been going for a short while and yet I can notice changes in people in terms of how some are becoming more in touch with themselves. I must think of my next theme. Maybe something to do with celebration – celebration of oneself? I’ve moved on from thinking about the red dress I know and moved onto my inner self – dancing away from the rules as Mary Oliver says in her poem.
When I leave the avenue of trees and walk down the hill I arrive at the stone bridge. Crossing it, I look into the water, I love the gurgling and watch small twigs and leaves move along; the movement of life. Following on I make my way past large oaks, one of them another my favourites, to the lake. I have to watch the lake and its inhabitants from the gate, the big house has padlocked it now, really annoying, I would love to sit by the lakeside right now but if I walk on a bit, I can take a track and walk across a field and get fairly close, break the rules again! I love to watch the swans, there are five of them, two adults and three signets born in the spring. That’s the number born for the past three years, before that there were five. In the spring they fly off, one by one and the female returns to the little ‘island’ in the middle of the lake to breed the next ones. The male has his fun as geese arrive which he loves to chase. Putting his long neck forward and circling them, he charges; tail feathers erect he isolates one and then two so that they all fly squawking across the lake.
Observing all the trees has, as I commented earlier, inspired me to buy a book about trees, must do my research, and fungi too, maybe I’ll borrow the ones I bought for Adam, my son, who is good at identifying different fungi. Oh dear, I remember that time I became ill by eating the wrong mushrooms, cooked and prepared. I’m glad it wasn’t too serious and none of the children ate them; children often don’t like mushrooms. Strange I just wanted to sleep in a dark room, a darkened place, like a mushroom! My homeopath was quick to give me the right remedy, I remember I felt very strange. They were not the little tiny ones which we could have recognised. Obviously, one crept in that looked like a field mushroom.
Another day. It’s really fresh this morning. I love it, why do people complain when the weather changes and mourn the lack of the sun. Feels good to me this morning especially the coolness around my ears, I have psoriasis, for some reason I cannot fathom. It is hard to rise above and keeps me awake at night so much sometimes that my brain goes into overdrive as, in between trying to get back to sleep again, I make decisions on what theme to have for my next workshops or other writing material.
As I approach the church today through the trees there are so many leaves falling, I wonder if there is a name for it somewhere. I feel honoured, there is nobody around and I love the feel of aloneness in nature. The clock on the big house chimes followed by the church a couple of minutes later. It’s always been like that, since I lived here anyway. What comes to my mind is Thich Nhat Hahn writing about Plum Village in France where everyone stops to breathe when the bell sounds. He suggested that it is good to set a bell up in one’s home whether on a computer or phone. I have always intended to do that but haven’t got round to it yet.
The leaves continue to fall. When the children would little we would go for a walk and collect all the best-looking colourful leaves we could find, take them home and dip them in candle-wax, bees wax of course, we’d get it from the Camphill Community close by from their candle shop. Then, when dry, we’d hang them on twiggy branches with little red felt gnomes that I made, or gnomies as the children called them. They looked beautiful and very festive.
They were wonderful days. Being very attached to Camphill, some of the children went to the Steiner school, I worked there occasionally and we went to all the festivals. A community full of light and celebration, especially celebrating the seasons. I feel nostalgic today clearly. I honour that too. I miss having little children around. Someone once described me as an earth mother?! Yes, those days were good, but they go so quickly and there were of course some problems at the time, for instance we were always broke, and yet I know they had a happy childhood. When in the zone sometimes for whatever reason, there are times when you wish a certain week or a day would pass, wishing time on, how I would love that back knowing all I know now. That sounds like I have regrets, I don’t think so, I would just savour the moments, which is what I try to tell my daughter when her five children are so busy and she has a bad day. But you can’t tell someone else, it has to be their own unique experience. And I know she knows these precious moments; she is a wonderful mama.
Talking about that time and the gnomes makes me think of the gnomes’ garden at this time of year. Really, they represented the earth spirits getting ready for the time of hibernation. We’d go out with a bag and collect moss and pine cones, old acorns, leaves and items from nature to make the miniature forest garden. I used to line a large old baking tray or something similar with moss and we’d erect twigs for trees, stones for a shelter and make a beautiful garden. Then the children would wait for the gnomes to appear, they came one by one. I would make them from colourful felt, they would all have unique characters. The faces of the little ones when they ran down in the mornings were so beautiful it brings tears of happiness to my eyes even now. For weeks the gnomes would get up to all sorts of excitement. I remember one year I sat up late whittling them tools. Saws and hammers. It took ages. I didn’t know I could be so creative. They were delighted. Eventually one morning they would all move to the Christmas tree. Mmmm the smell of a tree in the house, magic. My daughter has carried on the tradition and has a changing nature table on a special cupboard as I did to celebrate the change of the seasons, things like mother earth and all her little flower children alongside shells and stones. Wonderful that it is carried on and I expect a grandchild or two will do it for their children too.
And life continues, I could write like this forever. What I have noticed quickly looking back over my writing are the words free, dance, movement, nature, children, leaves, nostalgia, saddens, heart, time.
“Explore the rugged edge of thought”. I recently bought the book Writing the Bones and am finding it very helpful. I like Natalie Goldberg’s references to Buddhism (I consider myself a Buddhist if asked) and can relate to what she is expressing, in fact she reaffirms what I know, but don’t have the words for, although I think that as I write more my writing will become more expressive.
I will use the words I have chosen for further writing – ‘time’ relates to age and as for the looking back, it creates a form of nostalgia. Do these words inform me for the future? Or do they cause me to let go of certain aspects in my life to allow change, the key word being ‘change’? I would very much like to write some observational nature writing and with that in mind I will book onto a nature writing class with Resurgence which came my way this morning. The word ‘children’, I would like to spend more quality time with my grandchildren. At the moment they all lead busy lives, as I do, so sometimes it is hard to co-ordinate and I don’t want the years to slip by without them getting to know me enough. I used to have this dream that many of us would live together or in the same area but that dream has faded, life changes and I guess that as I grew older (not yet) we would be able to work together. Also, I had a dream that I would return to Scotland, that is fading too. Interesting that all the words that stand out in my writing reflect what I have always wanted, a sense of freedom to live a life close to nature, but with others, ideally my family and/or close like-minded friends to live and work with it. However, that is an ideal at the moment.
In this piece of writing, I haven’t engaged enough in the words to describe how I feel when looking at stones, leaves, feathers, lichen etc but it seemed to be becoming so lengthy that I decided to stop and reflect. but will continue with the writing so this exercise of a mindful, memory walk has been inspirational. I am so grateful for this opportunity to realise that. I would like to take this practice to the place where I often go to walk, an arboretum where it is possible to walk without seeing another. Or even further afield, to many places, for instance the sea, so that I can explore what comes to mind and heart in these different spaces.
Throughout, this writing I have implied or used the word ‘movement’. Inner movement is what is happening within me at the moment, maybe I don’t need the outer movement that I sometimes long for. A big question to answer, but by writing about it, I have the skills to assist me.
Writing for wellbeing is, in my opinion, a very therapeutic activity despite the fact that it is not always recognised in terms of funding and opportunities as is, for instance, art therapy or drama therapy. However, I will leave this discussion for another day and as a research topic for a paper I intend to write.