Today I see a life worth existing in.
The land here moves heavily downwards. Without grace or elegance it rolls and tumbles over itself. Bracken on gorse on purple more grass on bluebell. Where one begins and another ends is impossible to tell, all woven together by the bejewelled hammocks of spiders.
The thorn trees have shed their winter coats of broken crone and instead stand in maiden blossom whilst butterflies follow the soft breeze beneath them. There is refuge above in the Old Drovers Way, an ancient army of beech that guard the ridge and their own exposed skeletal roots. Seeking refuge may seem ridiculous on a day like today but I have been here when she is wailing and it's all you can do to stand against her gale.
Today the heat is oppressive and seems to seep from the ground as much as the sky. Pockets of warm air seem to materialise and burst around me for no particular reason. It is a clear day with one cotton cloud in a forget me not sky. For all its clearness there appears to be some kind of veil, a haze that hangs if you look past the obvious. I can't be sure if its the heat or the history.
A jay has just flown into the oak on the bank. His brilliant blue flashing amongst the dappled green of the vivid oak. He stares this way and that, tilting his head to a prey I don't see. He makes his way down the branch that sweeps low on the shaded earth and drops below, I don't see him again.
I seem to be sat under a hawthorn of bees, a sound I have just tuned into and is now all I can hear, How the walkers way in the distance cannot hear my little bees I will never know for they sound as loud as the tides.
I hold my breath, I hear her out there calling her name 'I am here! Cuckoo, Cuckoo, Cuckoo.' A fluting echo dissolving into the heath. I imagine her looking out to the wild belly of the land upon an old withered gorse. But that is just my imagination and her song fades with my realisation.
I lean back on the moss covered skin of thorn and surrender my weight to her. Here I stay until something tickles my face. The fine white lines of wild horse hair have become trapped on the bark. I suddenly feel the need to move so I free the hair from it's snare and as I take out towards where the hill drops away and the view opens I release them to the breeze. Watching silver tendrils gallop out of sight.
As some of you may know I struggle with being me, often things can seem overwhelming and that opens the door for the demons. However I don't really want to go into detail on that today because as you can see I have just spent a day letting that go. I just wanted to say this...I have seen councillors and health practitioners and although they have a place nothing heals me like nature, nothing! and since sharing my words I have discovered how many of you feel a similar way so I have decided to start a new hashtag (I know a bit techy for me!) I want it to be a safe hashtag where we can share our healing journey in nature. Share your joys, your happy places, your hidden moments or your pain and maybe we can support another. So guys, who wants to join me?
It is time to rest those weary bones on the earth and enjoy the peace of this magical place. This is a place I have known for a very long time and have gratefully been gifted the ability to recreate the creatures that reside here in wool, thread and words.
I really hope that my sculptures bring you joy and that my blog posts about
The Whispering Wild and my life within it inspire you to help open your heart to my wild and creative life.
Much love and magic xx