Passed this lichen on my walk yesterday. ______________________________________ I’ve always been a great admirer of the poetry and writings of Mary Oliver. The other day I was going through some notes of mine and came across these words of hers – deeply touching. Sadly, she died in January 2019. “When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, […]
This morning I stopped alongside a fence and listened to a horse grazing in the field. It was a beautiful sound, breathy and hollow with an echoing kind of chomp, punctuated now and then by the slight sound of the grinding of teeth. It was a lovely moment and I was transported back to some of the words of a favourite poem of mine, “The Listeners” by Walter de La Mare: […]
A quick sketch I did of a ridge in the Kent countryside. I often have a dream where I launch myself from a ridge and fly over a deep valley. Not sure what the dream means, but it’s a pretty exhilarating one, even though the initial act of launching is extremely scary.
A sketch I did of an Irish coastal scene. The place seemed abandoned with an air of loneliness about it.
To courageously take in the palm of your hand that which you fear, and to gaze into it with discerning sight, is to empty it of all dread. What is understood has little power to frighten. Inner peace is deeply tied to our ability to understand. To understand is to be at peace.
I enjoy walking through the woods. Whenever an opportunity to do so presents itself, I welcome it. There’s something so idyllic and peaceful about it. However, there’s also something a little strange about it. Many spaces in the woods have a wonderfully welcoming atmosphere about them, and lingering in them can be so uplifting and energising; but, there are also spaces that feel decidedly uncomfortable, disconcerting, even a little malevolent, […]
An evening walk – on my way home I listen to the wanderer within. Wise and ancient voice, known, yet unknown, always calling me beyond myself; I’m awakened to my sense of pilgrimage, yet also to my roots and belonging. Between these two I live and dance.
A scene near our village just longing to be sketched. I had the distinct feeling of this being a restful place in spite of the signs of neglect. So it found its way into my sketchbook.
Standing alone on Bluebell hill, I watched the clouds go by, their shadows like smudges of ink gliding across the countryside. A thought came to mind – do these shadows at some mysterious level leave behind their tracks in the landscape, or do they simply, without a trace, dissolve with their twin in the sky?
This morning’s walk: The soft morning sunlight has this unassuming power to gladden the heart of things and to call them forth into the confidence of a new day. It’s not a glaring light shaking us into forceful wakefulness, but a gentle one, introducing and revealing the day with poise and with grace.
