beneath the Beech wood canopy… a languid Symphony of leaf filtered, modulated light the leaves a vibrant hue of lime green, yet the quality of this submerged light, cusp, of absinthe, of verdigris… a gentle patina of bird song… else the susurration of wind caressing leaves, balm and hush… here, friston forest, people are few this myriad columned hall the trees are tall, smooth grey trunks… elegant, somehow high elven, cheerful, yet self contained, stopping short of aloof, beyond… fey soft leaves, gentle to the touch, still holding the brown husk of their nascent sheath sleeves leaf edges are can opener jagged, crinkle cut the trunks are shaggy, moss footed, talons almost gryphon or basilisk? something from a bestiary… rising to a lightly speckled elephant grey have you ever tried to push a tree over? I have. Obdurate
Rafferty gallumphs along the path, a happy, black, curly haired dog, so dry the ground, giving him the repetitive hollow thud rhythm of horses hooves past nettles, ragged robin, purple campion
out on the fringes of the wood, a view across open farmland, field maple, elder, the white froth confetti of hawthorn in bloom a hawk rises up, not a kite, not a kestrel, but buzzard tatty, out stretched be-feathered fingers she is framed in the foreground… paragliders, neon orange, away by the white chalk horse, on the hill beyond stasis, painterly, stasis
can smell the woodsmoke lingering in your hair (excerpt from a letter to T) blessed with a fairly outdoorsy childhood… well, mostly all the nature that suburban surrey can provide… beautiful woods, trees galore and a friends father’s farm to roam across (where does the apostrophe belong in that phrase?! plonked like a wind blown speck of confetti) one summer we tried to be bare foot every single day, just so our toes could grow far apart, we would become cavemen… reading ‘Stig of the Dump’ that year
I remember being age 11 or so, in Mosset, a small idyllic stone village, tucked away in a valley, high in the French Pyrenees a long straight stick, size of a boy, it’s bark is a bright russet, lets call the wood cherry a classic French Knife, Choix Opinel, wooden handle, a blade that arches back then open, silver grey, stern of stainless steel whittle the end of my stick to a sharp precise point… pensively testing against fingertip my younger brother and I set off on a hunting trip up the river a fast flowing mountain stream, it’s bed rubble-d with boulders, festooned by smaller stones water babbles, weave and turbulence, here bouncing, splashing high over a rock then serpentine sucking back downwards, a ribboned plume of rainbows alder and goat willow jostle on the banks light is dappled, brown, speckled… with here… then there… the patter smattering of sparkles upon water
clear, euphoric
slicked back brown hair, I am changeling, otter sleek… creature of water, of land… flow state, merged within the stream we wade upstream, else hop from rock to rock amidst the bright chaos, there, backside, around the eddy of a large rock, lies a small still pool eyes searching the depths for the stillness, the lolling calm of a fish I stand there, spear in arm drawn back over my head poise, stasis slither of a flint flake of memory, to be held, here, forever
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)
cdslove patrol bicciesold friend from healing gardenbf websiteold tree
I love climbing trees, heres me, ooh mbe 8 feet off the ground limber lumber! aloft! a mottled, dappled, fickle light, decanted through the vibrant green of leaves… seethe green the long, far sprawled arms, which creak wiithin the wind, something of a sea swell, an ease, a sway, that further emphasises this living sturdiness yet root chakra, shackled securely to the ground, a great grey elephants foot, then the root rummage deep within the earth dragonflies skitter past, iridescence of wing
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fraught of thought! duff photo, lack of perspective, so you’d never know i was near skybound went for a cycle ride yesterday, battled up to the South Downs way, followed the ridge to alfriston, then back via Friston Forest. kids and i have been climbing this tree forever, the be-tentacled Ash… on account of its octopus limbs I love Ash energy, always feels gentle and forgiving… tho I do know 2 ancient ones, in a much neglected copse, those are trees of the fae, you can imagine doors, a portal to the under realm climbing, i usually get to about 8 ft up, then think, hmmm, thats probably far enough i’ve never been the daredevil type, a smidge delusional and gung ho, yet renowned more for timidity and vertigo super impressed by anyone who scales to preposterous heights, but they be creatures of fire and air, whilst i’m more earth and water (mud!) when doing a creative visualisation, in the bit when they say ‘imagine your home, somewhere where you belong’ i always feel myself to be cradled in the arms of a huge ancient oak tree, proper gnarly usually its near to a stream or a waterfall, else a gentle slope down to the sea and a small sandy shell strewn cove grown ups should climb trees more often! a political slogan? …peters out midst vast distraction and things to do
the woods reek of rot, of fungus, to speak of solemn loss autumn is afoot, not quite, but certainly tickling at the toes i am nimble amongst the cautious quiet of the morning having rummaged deep in the wardrobe for todays costume, vintage 2013! nut season… conkers with their whorled grain and rich lustrous mahoganny sheen hazlenuts startled, fresh from the preposterous, baroque lace of their casing yada yada! ….. grappled with flu, some work, equinox boogie and sacred stroll, lots of hanging out with friends and family! been pleasant snaps from this morning and a jaunt to batemans with daughter x
Chalk… crushed skeletons, the weight of forever! morning light, the sun washed white through the milk murk up on the cliffs at castle hill, this weeks theme the swathes of hawthorn berries, scarlet as flame jacaranda ‘blobbed’ blackberries, the best a yogic stretch out of reach later, down on the beach after a swim… ‘ALbion alBIon albiON’ rembering the chant from the football, that ebbed and flowed like waves Albion is, of course, an ancient name for Britain, from at least Romano Celt times, derived from a word for white, most likely due to the cliffs of the south east tho nowadays more familiar through the prism, the mythology of Blake, for whom Albion was a giant and THE primeaval man i can imagine a merchant from the low countries, his boat down laden with coloured glass, pewter plates, sails restless in the breeze, grey sky overhead, grey swell of sea, brood beneath the boat lifts up, a rent in the clouds, blue sky, and there… look … majestic towering cliffs gleaming, crown chakra white, this enchanted, shining land
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word froth aside, i’ve been loving this late burst of sunshine, swan song of a reluctant summer, was a busy august with festies, adventures in devon etc tuesday went with daughter up atop of the seven sisters, then yesterday a pedal with son up seaford head (autocorrect always wants to say ‘seafood’)! feasting on marrows from the garden (forgotten courgettes!), tomatoes and errm rotton apple juice! be cider sea side (kids.. mostly.. obvs reluctant to be in facebook snaps)
bless the infinite tumult crescendo of late may! a world burst higgeldy piggeldy with flowers bird song, days stretched out by endless light the air perfumed by liacs, roses and elderflowers kirtan, evenings of comedy, dancing at caravanersai the mighty elm of preston park dunk in the crisp, electric blue of the ocean a handful of words scattered carelessly the soft languor of twilight, expansive, realm of staggering rapture, flow from above bask in this enchantment, today, the euphoria of everywhere! ……… pics, mostly, credit to mara
it’s me, me,me and me again!… yes, i know, i tried diluting with flowers… but it’s impossible to choose a single snap, when the colours are just so blooming marvelous! x
impossible bluebells… a hue of blue, twixt dulcet lilac and strident sapphire by the billion, enchantment and harmony beneath green woodland canopy etc etc…. ha, Love em!
equinox blessings! where light balances dark, ebb matches flow, stasis amongst the tumult of change Rhythm of Blood, Rhythm of Breath, these entwined spirals, Gaia Gyre forwards days of poise and cusp… touching earth, reaching for sky… brimful, human in my pink wooly hat and green swim shorts, idly pushing fridge magnets together, tweaking between repulsion and attraction cheerfully, tunelessly, humming a mash up twixt… ‘big wheel keep on turning’ and ‘…the whole world in his hands’ pondering the contents of the depleted cupboards ‘leak and potato soup or porridge for brekkie? both?’ a selfie a day keeps the doctor away, oh vanity… whats that tarot card where he holds the globe? flicks quickly through pack… two of wands! will ruminate on that energy today anyway… things to be doing! rustle up those reluctant bones wishing you a sumptuous day! x
Debs: Hey, which did you decide on? Leek and potato porridge? Xx 🤣
ha! yum… sadly neither, was a day of errands for mum, inevitably pfaffed too long on social media and had to skip brekkie! xx
Laurence: funny, I have been listening to this after a long period of not… synchronisation
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… the first time i heard the massive attack ‘unfinished sympathy’ record… early 90’s in the squat in Prague, had been out all night at a party, so suitably off my trolly was being played on a cassete, blown away! dawn, someone had a croquet set(?!), so we blearily straggled our way past the baroque statues on Karlov Most (Charles Bridge) to the little park at Na Kampe Crusties! Croissants! Croquet!… and ha, Massive Attack still love that album, it and screamadelica… just made you ‘Believe’ how can it be more than 30 years old?? x
pondersome over coffee. surrender. the soft lilt of rain outside the window music all a mingle, bossa nova interleaved with irish ballads this tip toe whisper of spring, a hush almost on the cusp of lyricism soil a wriggle, of roots and earthworms chin tilted, slightly uplifted, faces echo flowers an expectation of warmth, the gentle balm of grace a turning
