Into The Wild ’26

Into the Wild Festival. I was there supporting my friend with circus pole for kids.
End of Summer vibe, the endless heat of this extraordinary summer finally come to an end

Rain! tho not enough to ruin the festival, but the seeking of shelter gave it a distinct flavour… intrepid ways of overcoming the hinderance
Folkkadelic playing on the Sun and Moon stage.
People were gently grooving and gyrating, but then a huge downpour came.
The majority of the crowd rushed straight to shelter within the ‘Into the Wild’ Cafe.
But I and a few bold, foolish others ran towards the stage.
the band and their equipment were covered, the awning stretched out far enough that there was space for two rows of people to dance without getting wet.
About 20 of us gathered there, a lifeboat of survivors… we went absolutely crazy, twirling and whirling, euphoric bedlam
outside the raindrops hopped like frogs!

I spent a lot of time in the Buddhafield sauna.
something nourishing and ancient about being naked and warm, the cozy womb-like atmosphere.
Chatting, sometimes impromptu chanting, occasionally singing.
It’s always a unique blend of people. You stay for 5 minutes, the sweat starts to drip, you retreat to the cool outside.
once outside, sway gently or dance naked, arms upraised, as the rain pummeled and cascaded down, looking up at an ash tree likewise swaying in the wind. Resonance
An easy win! because the minute you got tired of this, the cold, the clammy starts to creep, hop back in the sauna, heat up again…
three cycles of this, until it was time to head to the chill-out room, where musicians would play, and you could just lie and relax.

For a similar reason I spent much time in the late night dance tent, silent disco, ear hugging headphones on, subside into the music… delirious, geometric rhythms, the laser strobe and looped visuals, club vibe… it felt like you weren’t in a rainy, muddy festival at all!

Favourite band was BCUC… conscious Soweto sound, hugely intense with an urban edge! soulful singing and rapping, with a crescendo of disparate psychedelic, acoustic drumming! went mental

spent a sunset hour sitting by the fire, firstly chatting with a couple of new found friends, but then appreciating the closely woven voices and acoustic guitar of a young hippy couple, sat directly next to them, a very intimate energy
they got a few of us to sing along, a song about rivers and home, they’d only written 5 days previously, its first fireside performance, enchanting

helping out in the kids area was a pleasant change, we’d lug the portable pole up from where it was stored in the tent, then set it up
My friend would dangle upside down for a short while, long enough to entice the first batch of kids over… warm up stretches, then a gentle choreographed routine of spins

Aww and R was there! My lovely friend from BF, the first person we saw as we drove onto site, I stopped the car and vaulted out to give her a hug… fancy meeting you here!?
I only saw her twice more, the first time we halted 3 metres apart and did a little leg shimmy dance, before passing on
we have a friendship that seldom erupts into words, she is not that kind of person… every time i embark on one of my stunning, well honed anecdotes, her brain evaporates, skipping somewhere free, far away across the field
and that is mighty fine by me… usually we end up with a symphony of beeps, honks and gurgles

oh but a long, heartfelt hug… transported to the realm of perpetual bliss… a shimmering delicious thing… a yearning, solemn silence… forever, somewhere beyond the further shore of love

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setting up with J, such a novelty to have any pictures at all! fist evening sunset then phone off for the subsequent 3 days

below: long ago… 2017? 18 more likely? with lol, fran and alex

buddhafield 2015 singing

buddhafield! some moons ago, 2015 0r possibly 2018?! I love to sing!! few things make me happier… tho obviously I can’t hold a tune, stabbing wildly, and with bewilderment, at each and every note
this pic a pleasant stumble upon, I’ve never seen before today, i’m malingering at home with the vestiges of a summer virus, cheerfully whiling away an hour rummaging through the official bf photo account… some beauties in there! such fun to find friends in photos of yore, else to spot myself ‘wheres wally’ styleee lurking somewhere in the crowd scene… weirdly comforting to have passed through such emotional extravaganzas and somehow to have left a trace, not too much, not too little… a soupcon
anyway singing!! hurrah!! it really is such an profoundly joyful and glorious thing to do… particularly wonderful at festies in a large group, singing spiritual songs in four part harmony. communion. euphoria. belonging.
i’m always burrowed away in the bass section (had to google to make sure it wasn’t base!), standing in solidarity with most of the men… it has a proper brotherly tribal vibe there
i tend to be in the front row, luckily many british men are foot shuffling shy grunters, so there’s usually room at the front! which means I can dance! and gawp at all the beautiful faces across the circle… I really love to dance too
the front is also the best place if your a singer lacking in confidence, your held by the voices behind you, there’s normally at least one strong bass singer, so follow their lead and try to mesh with them… if your stuck at the back, why, guaranteed you’ll just just get lost, drift off and wander away!
down the front your cocooned by voices… oh and it’s even better when you go right in the middle of the circle… that’s where you can hear the full interplay of parts… it’s the most healing and nourishing of things to be caressed by several hundred human voices.. really is the pinnacle of being human. kindred. vibration
after a singing workshop, theres a real synchronising of moods… everyone leaves mildly radiant
ha! so many times someone will seek me out elsewhere in the festival, tell me how much they loved watching me in the circle
mantras/kirtan are brilliant too… and this year never managed to leave the ‘land and social change’ fire before 1:00… singing around a fire, so many lovely talented people, primordial, full power… my throat chakra is always really open by then, sapphire blue, i love warbling along in a resonant basso profoundo
just to clarify, when i say i can’t sing for toffees, i mean that i can’t hold a tune, or hit a note, i actually enjoy the fruity timbre of my voice, congealed wisdom (yeah baby!)
but nope no musical ability in my family… not allowed to be in the choir when i was a child… music teachers love to spout something like ‘everyone can sing’… yeah after a fashion
mostly i think it’s more like an aptitude for say maths? ‘everyone can do maths?’… well i can anyway, possibly one of the reasons why most money I’ve earned is from programming? a brain box for book learning… i remember tutoring my daughter for her gcse maths, which, absurdly, everyone has to pass… watching her failing to grasp what seemed like the most obvious of concepts… anyway i get the same polite blank incomphrehension when the choir leader looks at me when they teach the tune, a diligent effort to supress their eye rolling, incredible people.
hmm somehow I’ve digressed?! long windedly! how does that happen… daughter passed her maths! i love singing! huzzah! x

watching tree creepers in the glade… for Joanna Macy

pic from bf facebook

a blessing: radiant white gem of clarity and constancy

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watching tree creepers in the glade… for Joanna Macy

heat bludgeoned at Buddhafield, plunge into the cool shadows of the glade, deep within this submarine realm of myriad green
hammock marooned, a cheerful sprawl, limbs strewn, arms and legs akimbo
above, glimpsed through patchwork leaves, the blue calm of sky
girth of benign pondersome oak, surrounded by slender silver birches

a tatter scrap of a bird alights, nervously it skitter stitches up the trunk, spiraling higher.
then scarper flits from tree to tree
I recite the dictum ‘nuthatch down, tree creeper up’
another bird joins, then another, a whole family, shy oblivious, as, again, buddhafield bloom blossoms around them

I love to walk this land, a deeply storied place
within this glade, standing in circle, as friends made their wedding vows, else the soft solemnity of the grief space

tumble into sandals, hoik heft of rucksack, follow the path towards the stream, heading for crew food, tea, friends the gentle chatter before shift
the background ommmm of nature? we the creatures of busy burden

but here, earth rumpled, astonished, a molehill in the path
earth fresh excavated from the night before, a blacker dirt, a more recent tumnulii than it’s neighbours, volcano splattered about
fresh grave? Joanna, your personal turning within the seasons and cycles of our own great turning
but more, molehill, with the steady measured comfort of your words, seek for sanctuary, this soft earth turned burrow of being almost home
Thank you




pic from bf website

context and natter chat!

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another Buddhafield festival come, and after 10 days in the field (for me!), gone

Buddhafield is a conscious festie, ‘no drink, no drugs’, held in the Somerset Blackdown Hills every July
At its heart it’s a Triratna Buddhist festival, with Meditation, Dharma Talks and Pujas… yet due to the nature of the movement, theres also yoga, inclusive spaces, shamanism, dance, singing, permaculture, 12 steps, live bands, music around the fires… the whole hippy kit-kaboodle!! hundreds of beautiful people to dance with, laugh with and hug!

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On the Sunday afternoon, as the festival was beginning to wind down, I ambled along, grooving to the musicians jamming outside old tree
popped into the beloved arms tee-pee for a smattering of a Kirtan, before ending up in the dance tent… where Sofia and Sandra, Italian friends, were holding a ‘dance of the elements’… think dance followed by Didge and Singing Bowl Sound Bath
whilst I was nimble prancing around the dance floor, a seed spore blew in from one side of the tent… one of those huge ones, spore sputnik, hairy awesome gossamer spider THINGS… it was drifting towards the ground, so i wafted it back upwards, like you would with a giant Rainbow soap bubble… a gentle gyre, then it caught the gust of wind and exited through the other side of the tent… i chased it to see it drifting deep into the dark, ominous fairytale woods
reminds me of Bedes Olde English Saxon tale on the stark brevity of this life
on a winters night a sparrow flys into a mead hall, where a King and his thanes are feasting, a brief flutter, before it leaves through the other door, back into the cold and dark
which, to mind(!), chimes well with Buddhist thinking

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I’ve been coming to the festival since ooh 2009 and, thru a quick head mathematical totting up, as an ex programmer, I love being logical(!)… reckon, that down the years, I’ve spent over three months in this particular field… and what a joy that has been!
every year several old familiar faces don’t return… but always there’s new people to Love! the inevitable truth that in fair time, one year, however distant, I will no longer return… which admittedly sounds a little maudlin and nostalgiac, but in my opinion is exactly how life should be
Anyway I’ve always stewarded, usually running one of the teams up by the front gate… Rocking the Podule!… I love the energy of arrival, greeting people just as they first get here

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oh, the poem, I was going to say something about that… I wrote it sitting in the glade, between shifts, we had heard that Joanna Macy was in the last few days of her life… I’ve always loved ‘the work that re-connects’, usually popping in for at least a couple of the daily sessions at BF… it’s a profound body of work, crucial for all of us alive in these times… and also a great smorgasbord of a workshop, which has a little soupcon of everything… bit of eye gazing, a few games, a lot of soul sharing!
In the poem I wanted to give voice to the other creatures that live on this land, all year round… the owls that hoot deep amongst the trees… the frogs, that go hopping about the site every time it rains… the brawler hares that live in the fields up by the front gate… what do they make of it when the glade is invaded?… by slack liners, teetering along a rope… by kids whooping… by the tranquil sanctity of the grief space
they just get on with it, going about their tree creeper and mole ways…
oblivious to the festival, but beyond that, oblivious to the throes and heroism of human mortality
i would wish that when i die that this is treated with deep nonchalance and disregard, by nature, going on with it’s own business
but my fear, THE fear, is that this is now only the case in isolated pockets? that such the hubris, such the sickening tragedy, of our reach that this has become the exception rather than the norm?

anyway, i’m hoping the moles don’t mind too much the dance tent, foot stomping, earth juddering base sound resonance?
part of the impetus to write something came about because when Love Patrol (they bring us tea, biscuits and love) came by where I was working, Meera had a book of Mary Oliver poems, a couple of which i read aloud to the team… I love reading aloud… Mary an obvious, and much more lofty-profound influence

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Stewarding in the sunshine and the rain… bekky took the sunshine snaps, she wanted to send her mum a couple of pics showing her how it was… her looking wholesome, before donning war paint and reverting to the feral, loving Rainbow child she really was!
One of my favourite tasks was driving ‘Dancing Queen’ around the site… the stewards purple vehicle… so named because it only had one cd, Abba, which would play the first three songs then spit it out!
I arrived laden with charity shop cds ‘Bat Out of Hell’ which sadly would not play at all, scuppering my plans to dawdle about with ROCK melodrama blaring out the open windows… my other cd was Prince, a purple vehicle deserves tunes by his regal purpleness!
This vehicle a huge improvement from the one in previous years, a scrap yard salvage, completely missing 1st gear, this would make getting up the steep hill from slope a wheel spinning extravaganza!!
Anyway I’d pop down to pick up a huge vat of crew food, enough for all the Stewards working up top… then with Halley cuddling it in the passenger seat, a human gyroscope to stop it spilling! we’d crawl slowly up the hill, the fruity sounds of ‘Head’ blaring out and deliver grub to all the stewards… there was a huge double rainbow, it’s arch radiant over all the site… slightly soggy, starving, delusionally happy stewards were most content as ‘meals on wheels’ finally arrived!

dancing queen

(to be cont’d)

pujas next! (note to self)

cds
love patrol biccies
old friend from healing garden
bf website
old tree

gorge on courgettes

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gorge on courgettes, man and his marrows… tomatoes refusing to ripen, understandable, soggy drek day
yawn, slightly sleepy… tons o’fun stuff 10 days at buddhafield, daughters graduation! xx

RIP, had almost forgotten this fabulous song

Nat: Ahh didn’t see you at buddhafield!

Shame! A familiar tale, what with the bonkers weather, so many old friends glimpsed but briefly across the field… but, ha, a glut of glorious connection and hugs galore… So can’t REALLY grumble… Hope yours was a good un xx

buddhafield bound (1)

oh… and finally… the hazel medicine is with me today…. one of my favourite Christy Moore songs, an irish ballad… its a late at night round the fire type song, don’t listen now,… its actually a beautiful W.B Yeats poem… about a man finding then losing his fairey lover… lots of hazel lore in this one:

The Song of Wandering Aengus
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

peasblossom redux

peasblossom
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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

……………..

this the bliss, the blossoming of our perpetual becoming

Jog on
Jaw first.. tilted, forward to the future

70’s a few years later