The barley fields have been harvested. There comes a time in life when you begin to harvest your memories and live comfortably with the wheat and the chaff.
I sat in the garden embraced by the evening light, pondering on the day’s experiences. Where does the past go? Does it simply melt away like morning mist in the rising sun, or does it pass into a mysterious, invisible and universal library to be referenced for some great, cosmic recollection; or is it destined to travel endlessly around some karmic circle repeating itself over and over again. I’m not sure, but the one thing I am sure of is that this too will pass.
i was walking in the woods and was captivated by this. I’m always humbled in the presence of a tree like this – old, wise, scarred and full of memory and experience. I wish it could speak. But then I think it does. I just don’t know how to listen.
Thomas Hardy walked here. Do some of these trees remember him? Did this ground feel the touch of the soles of his shoes, and did the stones hear his literary and poetic whisperings as he conjured up stories and poems? Do the leaves in their cyclical existence of life and death carry within themselves memories of his face in moments of creative struggle and insight? Thomas Hardy walked here and the Woods still remember.
He was slowly beginning to slip out of sight. His days in the sun had become memories and he found himself receding into a kind of obscurity. He’d become a grey ghost standing on the sidelines of life. It was not an easy place to be, yet he felt a certain sense of freedom and peace about it – nothing more to prove or to compete with.
Funny how, without any invitation, certain memories just pop into your mind. The other day it was the case with “Ronny.” I knew him well. The normal thing for him was to be out of the normal. I admired that until I saw his aggressiveness towards the world going beyond the bounds. I knew then something was locked up inside of him. Tragically, “Ronny” never lived a full life. He turned his aggression onto himself. To this day the haunting questions yearn to be answered.
” Like dried up and hard pathways in a human brain, no longer in use, but carrying within them distant memories of Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn.”
I took this shot on the same walk I described in the previous post.
The Boabab tree dots the African landscape. To the local peoples, these magnificent trees are seen to be retainers of the memories of the ancestors. There is a sanctity about them. Their branches always remind me of hundreds of fingers reaching out and trying to clutch the sky. I love sketching and drawing them.
There’s something wonderful about ruins. They speak of age, memory and past lives, and stand as a living protest against time’s destruction. There’s a dignity about them, even in their decaying and worn-out appearance.
These ruins are part of the old Scotney Castle in Kent. Loved our visit there. Took this shot with my iPhone.