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the vicissitudes of water
down by the river Mole contemplating the reflection of trees, on the opposite bank, in the waters of the river below a mirrored green prolifferation of foilage apart from the occasional pock mark and wind ripple, the reflection is serene, calm and still… and yet, peering beneath the surface, the water races downstream hurtle and intent something astonishing, how can motion summon such stillness? like the chime, the clear gracious note from a singing bowl, this grasps me emotionally, buoyed up, then pulled slightly apart, gently rent much in the way a tree, its roots rummaging down into the earth mother below, yet branches and leaves reach to the light above, tension and stretch river of flow and stillness, realm of insight and reverie in truth but a variant on the notion ‘we can never bathe in the same river twice’, whats in the noggin, but stepped down from the lofty impregnable, turret of thought emotions, held in the body, modulated, softened through the blessings of water
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later, at the mill race, after the water has come over the drop, rebound, it surges back upwards from the depths a marbled ooze like the clouds of some gas giant planet, all mottled greens and blues 4 separate pools, between them a linked chase of bubbles, a pattern that breaks then reforms again in an identical manner a holding pattern, a frequency resonance? sense of seethe something about water welling up from below, primordial, the goddesses of springs like Sulis Minerva at Bath, each is unique we have always come to speak with, praise and parley, make offerings to, the goddess of a particular place this intimate knowledge of the divine
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i always think of dad on this stretch of the Mole, as when up visiting, just before he died, I walked here all the time, it would have been his birthday today the blue flash of the insignia of a kingfisher, this miracle irridescence… a gasp, a fleeting dazzle, yes, and he is gone ‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song’ the river meanders through the Eliots Wasteland dad was cremated a mile downstream, the hospice where he died 5 miles further, so much of my childhood pottering along the mole canoeing with Rich P on boxing day, in wet suits, capsizing somewhere near the weir floating down the river, cold, laughing
when shamanic journeying, in my imagination I often come to this archetypal british river, familiar, comforting alder and willow, streams of slime green water weed, dragon flies, swans and kingfishers a golden rainbow light of vision
Chutniiieeee! Tomato and Apple….. agonisingly, ecstatically yum! first time i’ve ever made it! the secret ingredient ginger (not so secret now blabbermouth) toms from the garden, a bag of apples from up the hill… the rest of the ingredients all from rummaging deep within the pantry bung EVERYTHING in the pan and gently hubble and trouble boil away… eventually all was reduced to a state of primordial gloop… that wot the first amoeba clambered out from? its texture sticky to the finger, colour kinda brown but with lashings of radioactive vermilion as you can gather i’m proud of it… it also required great poise to achieve a selfie balancing an apple on my head (William ‘kiss and’ Tell) anyway had intended to give up on facebook… horribly last decade… at least i’ve spared you my poetry… but you know. CHUTNEY! a Hindii word originally ‘to lick, or eat with appetite’… indeed!
a dollop of golden honey smeared across the horizon, heatwave, early morning, down by the sea later it will be batten the hatches. bludgeoned. furnace stale air yet for now, the gentle lap lap as the sea tip toes closer… Grandmother’s Footsteps…. ‘Whats the time Mr Wolf?’ Cliff mirrored in the stillness of tide pool, the reflection has something of the wobble of water Brighton and wind turbines lurk further, distant through the haze Sea birds their sound: clatter and clamour, gobble or chunder… the gulls call has a rhythmic insistency, the throb and urgency of a police siren so different to the melodic warble tweet of woodland birds… this cry, far flung, out across the emptiness of the ocean, else harking back thru profound time to the days of dinosaurs
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chalk there is scribbleage a game of hopscotch etched out on the path… who could ever resist? toss the stone… hop jump, hop jump, hop jump, stoop, pick stone, turn, then hop jump again… a patterning of effort and limbs somebody has written ‘chalk’ in chalk from the chalk cliffs, the recursive nature pleases my programmers mind an environment you can write about with the substance of itself we too are the instruments of our own saying? ‘Chloe loves Jack’ Chloe, or Jack, for that matter, thought it worth articulating a possessive specificity? this cri de coeur… love walks the chalk? I have never written ‘I love insert name here‘ in chalk! my Romantic soul somewhat aghast forever a caveat, a complexity? yet written in chalk a cheerful ephemera, perfect for youths tender blooms of love
from the cliff flint falls… its clatter
I think of the mountains of Slovenia, Shiv and I setting out along the Triglav trail, the lush beauty of spring, we climbed higher and higher amongst a host of golden butterflies two nights camping along the shore of a snow melt lake, distant peaks lotering, crowding the valley sides nobody, nobody but us you’d think that, unobserved, nature would be silence, stillness? but each evening we sat serene in the red light of our campfire, listening to rocks, rattling down the hillside like shooting stars, turned to stone, turned to sound world creaks
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smelling salts, mind revivified by the ammonia tinged stench of seaweed
next i play with the light, shadow summoning a loch ness monster dapple, stipple these words with memories shadows … away walking up at devil’s dyke when the kids were young… daughter perched high on my shoulders… a low sunset light… Yawn stretch of shadow away over the valley and the villages clustered below Fi Fi fo fum with this thumb, this omnipotence, I obliterate Poynings! turn, reach further out with arm, vastmess ‘Now the shadow falls upon Fulking!’ chortles from up top, she too raises arms, dabbling with this power two heads are better than one
I came across some peasblossom at the end of my run today… it nearly made me cry… not for any murky sorrows, tho they are forever lurking, but just because it was so gorgeous and enchanting a vibrant pink magenta in colour, like some Thai Airways orchid… hothouse spoilt… preposterous an escaped cultivar? slumming it amongst the ruffians of ragwort and briar petals peeking out here, then THERE, far flung further along… betwixt and between the tendrils submarine submerged somewhere beneath the host bush louche and sprawled throughout the hedgerow, the flowers, like some 1920’s flapper, partied out, collapsed, draped elegantly across a chaise lounge
when we were young my older sister was peasblossom, one of the fairies in midsummers night dream she had this beautiful, frivolous, lace and tulle pink garment, topped off with a purple pixie cap i vaguely recall the performance, outdoors, it went on forever, so it seemed to the 5 year old me, i was sitting under a chair… late late late, yet still light in the sky, so must indeed have been midsummers eve solstice the endless languish of light the costume was a staple of the dressing up box throughout my childhood, that and dads old biggles-esque leather flying helmet, that he, in turn, had worn as a child, the smell rich, leathery, beautiful oh and a long blonde wig, which dad had foolishly bought for mum, she always had dark short hair, instantly BANISHED to the dressing up box… whatever her opinion of the wig, the four of us all loved it a box of possibilities?
oh peasblossom unkempt amongst the hedgerow as we pass through the world, world is straggle pulled through us
away across the field, a swag uddered cow yet to be milked the gut clutch of being, churn the raft of thoughts, ego clod hopper lurches across
yet beyond this, all is golden, in its majesty, brimful, somehow swollen life is imbued by the gentle quality of our cherishing steady… with poise… toes uncurled, dear Hobbit, bask in this, the endless, endless torrent of presence
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this the bliss, the blossoming of our perpetual becoming
Lammas/Harvest blessings… right on cue the first tom to ruddy ripeness… tho this one seemingly so huge that it has, after einstein, warped the fabric of both time and space must be such a bulge full world seeing thru the eyes of a fish? apols for another veg snap… guess august is always fruit and festies yield of a different type… daughter has been moving out of her student house, a glut of clobber! where does it all come from? the trusty estate car fit to burst guess that is what being a parent to kids in their twenties is often about… i can see my dad patiently and good humouredly helping me move for the umpteenth time… lugging another lucky dip box: wizard cape, curios, futile gee gaws and a hoard of books. thanks dad! life in all its rhythms and cycles
Sarah: Oooh that’s goodMine completely failed this year no tomatoes
oh thats a shame… for me, most years, the only thing that gives a decent harvest… slugs and snails don’t seem even remotely keen on them! xx
Sarah: only thing I’ve managed so far this year is radish’s!Think it was v wet , then v hot, now v wet !
yes, sit, be soft, be kind, with these your orphaned loves
the black smoke of sorrows hangs heavy dense, acrid, cloying no single specific reason these things surface from time to time… shadows are sometimes foregrounded… rearing up, given substance beyond our imaginings often, with me, it follows a joyful, full power morning yoga melancholia seeped deep into muscles, settled, pooled in a habitual way of holding good to limber, then loosen, mbe, if possible, allow to pass?
much of it is not even our own misery some borrowed from the cloak woven by our ancestors how many times did we bury our beloved children? how often, as pastoral nomads, headed for the summer pastures, did we have to leave behind our infirm mothers, fathers, elders? in more recent days, frequently the crops would fail, else pestilence and war squat malevolently upon the land
other woe was crafted just for us… as a baby, the cries which went unheeded overwhelmed by the unknown… flinched from an imaginary blow were we held, cosseted, our needs met? gnawed by the ignore not a matter of blame, attunement is a most particular skill to master nonplussed by our sorrow
yet self more porous than we might imagine… sustained merely by the lie of its perpetual telling sadness, anger, the usual gang of neglected emotions, these with their ebb and flow, sweeping through us like a tide others borrowed from the zeitgeist (‘times ghost’), the maw of the media which chews over, spits out the myth kitty of our communal misery what the stain of trauma and abuse? climate catastrophe, how many species have thrown in the towel over the last decade? so much masked in our culture of frantic buoyancy
which of us has not poured imagination, courage and love into a project… to find it comes to naught as tho our dreams and hopes have no merit to see others flourish who has not told someone of our love for them, only to be ignored, pushed away this love, so tender, its sweet perplexed smile
yes, sit, be soft, be kind, with these your orphaned loves
Snozzcumber! that GREW in the garden!! probs shouldn’t be quite so suprised as i planted it… but miracle of a slug dodger i’ve named this one wilson… wilson pick-itt Update alas poor wilson is no more…. sunday morning yoga followed by courgette and sunshine… a great start to the day
couldn’t wait till the midnight hour tho… too peckish
Sigh … Since festie I have clearly eschewed the use of clothes… So unspiritual and a symbol of capitalist oppression… Sky clad in.B&Q
heart drenched with love, back from buddhafield, my slightly belated, a little bit exhausted, waffle appreciation post for the yearly lush bubble of buddha… soul nourished, mind frazzled yet fizzed, pure exuberance so good to see friends with their babies and toddlers, a new generation, to meet again after the grueling covid palaver beautiful pics from cc, as my phone turned off, thanks lovely x
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‘spring water flowing through a meadow and the shadows of clouds passing over the hills and the ground where we stand in the tremble of thought taking the vast outside into ourselves.’ from billy collins: directions
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we the bright shining ones a nighttime visit to the crew tent filling thermos flask with barleycup, about to head to the dance tent for a euphoric footstomping psytrance rave ah buddhafield the only time ‘barley cup and rave’ sit congruently within the same sentence else: emerging from a devotional puja to the sumptuous colours and harmony of an epic sunset lounging in the shade in a hammock, amongst the oaks and silver birches in the glade… before, eek, quick stepping up to the front gate, stewards hat on, to help out with the van fire! singing with gleeful but tuneless gusto buried within the brethern of the bass section… snoozing in the dharma parlor in a ‘work that reconnects’ workshop, grieving the loss of species and habitat, then lurching into the middle of a comedy yoga skit out on the village green these things, and yes, a lot of dancing! i so love to dance… to drums after the rituals, live music in small world, or to the bedlam cacophony in the recycling / drum and bass tent gleeful juxtaposition… each minutiae but a fractal of the whole… or vice versa?! a summoning
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i tend to wonder, wander, wind blown thistledown, seeds of the heart, going whither my feet roam… join a group, then drift away… trying to stay within the field, the aura of grace and flow… the minute i ‘want’ something/somebody the energy seeps away trust that when i acknowledge the immediacy, the intimacy of feeling… then all is fine, not to say flippin’ gorgeous it helps knowing so many people, disparate down the years, else just to turn around and share a few noodlin’ words with your neighbour the golden thread of hare magic, motif, woven through the whole festival Alala’s heartfelt recitation of a poem from memory the divine transcendence of a hug from a stranger, a lover, stopped still for eternity halfway across the field… green gold, gold green… twixt nettles and the hare an impromptu 5 minute sing-a-along and boogie in a queue for crew food chanting kirtans around the fire as the moon rises and the night time stars wheel serenely overhead
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my stewarding mostly consisted of meandering between the different steward positions, checking how everyone was getting on each a Galapagos island of conversation, chewing the breeze(?), sure, a 5 minute of perfunctory ‘hows the shift going’ which swiftly lurches in ANY beautiful and random direction: ‘vipassana and the myth kitty of each individual, unique yet eternal soul’ ‘whats your favourite flavour and colour of ice lolly?’ ‘the spirit essence of our huge ancient beech tree’ ‘the mores, foibles and manners of the 90’s crusties squat rave scene’ ‘the beauty and exquisite precision of logical thought’ ‘roll over on your back, kick your legs in the air, upturned turtle yoga!’ i always love stewarding and the whole steward team… most of it’s loafing about nattering to passers by… else laconically, on the walkie talkie, in best late night radio dj voice issuing shift advice ‘watch out for maroon motors… they always give most trouble. over’ yet occasionally something festival important happens, focus, reset: function… ‘how can i help?’ part of the joy of the steward crew is that often their fresh to the whole experience many of them the same age as my kids… i’m occasionally pondering what does it mean to become an elder? if not me… if not us… then who? if not now then when? a slow gradual transition, settlling down into this, suprisingly comforting, notion what are the energies and the postures that i wish to model? wisdom. open hearted kindness. embody boldness… that man can be a bedraggled, florid extravaganza! that world is both beautiful and often funny? that to sing and dance and chat together is astonishing, we are enough all of that and stubborn more i see too many folk, usually young men, wandering around on their own, bewildered on the fringes… these kindred… all beings are welcome, all included… some fierce yet protective dharmaparla spirit Feet Rooted in the earth, Rose Gold Rising, Arms Aloft, White Gold tumbling down… these energies to spill out from the heart, onto this land or into anothers arms… echo echo the same x as always to clutch at things with a splodge of words, acknowledge the intangible, the various… breathe
buddhabuddha
Jonnyfen: Beautiful words man! x
thanks lovely, hope to see you there next year x
Clarissa: Love this! Takes you right back there reading these beautiful words
Dinnae neglect nor forget the glorious pics too! Xx
Saoirse: Joy beyond joy, deep immersion in the moment. Blissful and radiant .
Graeme: Summation.It was a great pleasure working with you once again Richard.These words deepen a tangible gratitude for this gift we share.Ty
Yes. Ditto. Hugely enjoyed reconnecting with you, Emma and all the team. Having a role, some responsibilities… however fluffy and occasionally flakey… helps anchor the experience. In a warm, supportive, rich and stimulating environment we can all flourish… and become more who we truly are… blessings on your onward journey! xx
We be beautiful!
Sam: Was lovely to see you again Richard
You too bro! Tho, ha, that ‘neuro-bleak-batter-core’ was a dismal racket! Dunno how Cleo and Ella tolerated it… Each to their own! Xx
Ok ok secretly I loved it… Life isn’t always folk noodlin and bird song!
Sam: haha everybody loves a cheeky bit of neuro Hope you got home alright bro & are adjusting back to whatever this normal stuff is x
Ha ha… Soul is always exultant, yet mind frequently dingy and body just craves a ferocious beat!… Neuro deffo has its place … All good here, tho stopping by Saintsburys on way back from a run, smiles, let alone hugs in drastic short supply… Wishing ya ease for your transition xx
RP: Ooh, like the sound of that!
Cleo: Lovely to see you Richard! Hope you having a wonderful time back by your coast big love xx
Cleo! thanks m’dear… all pleasantly slow and gentle back in seaside sussex… today will toodle along to stanmer organics… permaculture, tea and a boogie…. adventures continueloved your warmth and beautiful energy at the festie… hope life flows sweetly with you! hug xxx
Cleo: sounds wonderful and i am glad to here your adventure continues lovely to see you again, the kindest soul and maybe the seaside will call us together someday – see you on the coastline
aww a baby snail curled up and asleep in a courgette flower! cute …. that or she’s punch drunk sozzled into unconsciousness having gorged herself on the nectar… the blighters have utterly decimated almost everything i’ve planted…. runner beans are has-beens of all the courgette plants this is the ‘last man standing’… a pyrrhic victory… snails have been so bent on devouring the others this plant has mostly survived… one fruit looks like it will make it to harvest. yay courgette flowers are super on salads… tho might give this one a miss… plenty of vitamins in snail slime? toms are looking good tho the devastation is the same every year. you’d think i’d learn. try something different? apparently not! i don’t mind. spiral shells… mystic beauty evicted to the patch of great willow herb down the far end of the yard anyway stuff to do! x
Megan: If you plant lots of garlic, onions, leeks, etc. around the plants they like it keeps them away (to some degree).
no tomatoes 
everybody loves a cheeky bit of neuro 
Hope you got home alright bro & are adjusting back to whatever this normal stuff is 
x
big love xx
lovely to see you again, the kindest soul and maybe the seaside will call us together someday – see you on the coastline
