Tag: Nature

On blogging

I’ve been in this peaceful corner of the internet for nine months now.

I wanted a place to write, to explore ideas, to experiment, to see what this blogging thing was all about.  To share, maybe, if anyone found my blog.

I started out thinking I’d write about creativity, and how to fit it into a busy life, about nature, and the importance of connecting with the natural world.

I ended up writing poetry.  Poems about everyday life; the first snowdrops of spring, anxiety before a hospital appointment, the first canoe trip of the year, tai chi.

I luxuriated in language.   I wrote about things that I don’t usually talk about, feeling safely anonymous among millions of bloggers.

I haven’t been trying to promote my blog, but somehow I now have some followers.

♥ Thank you! ♥

I follow some of the people who have commented or followed my blog and now every weekend my inbox contains poetry and stories.  Some of my favourites so far:

The Cedar Journal – adventures of a Cedar Canoe

Elle Guyence, who writes a beautiful poem every week

Paperbark Writer Australian nature meets science & art, which combines many of my favourite things in one blog!  Actually I’ve been following this blog for a few years now, it’s really inspiritational and makes me want to visit Australia again.

 

So, I’m going to keep on writing, exploring, experimenting and reading and see what the next nine months bring for Life In The Fresh Air!

Sea pilgrims

Here we are,

the sea pilgrims.

The wanderers,

the seekers,

the beachcombers,

the sunset-catchers.

Not many of us tonight.

A damp evening,

dark before its time.

Thunder rumbles in the distance,

water mirrors grey

and turns it into silver,

alchemy before our eyes.

An infinite supply of treasure

for a sea pilgrim.

We leave the shore,

turn inland,

the light darkens,

sky lowers,

but inside us the sea shines silver,

and fills our hearts with light.

Heatwave

11pm in the garden,

the air like velvet on my bare arms,

unexpectedly warm.

A soft breeze caresses the leaves.

Two owls squabble

under an orange moon

as I savour the silky night.

Nights like this belong to other places.

Reluctantly I return indoors.

The owls sing me to sleep.

Forest Bathing

At a conference,

head bursting with ideas.

Talks about nature and wellbeing,

beauty, emotions,

the benefit of mindful ‘forest bathing’,

the importance of nature connections.

Invigorating subjects

dried up by windowless rooms,

air conditioning,

artificial lighting

and too many strangers.

–

Break time and I escape

into a bookshop.

Funny how I always end up in one of these

when the urban world becomes too much.

My shoulders drop as I cross the threshold,

calm among wood

pulped and pressed into pages,

the ghosts of trees.

A forest of paper and words,

and silence.

I feel at home

I don’t read them, just soak in the cathedral-like atmosphere

and refrain from buying another expensive notebook.

I feel the benefit of a kind of forest bathing,

a tenuous connection to nature

until I can get back to the real thing.

A click of the shutter

I don’t have a waterproof camera

and my phone was wrapped in plastic, safe in a drybag,

for emergencies only.

And so I had no photos to share

to say I was there,

to try to convey the meaning of a moment.

But how often does a photograph really do that?

After all, there are other senses than sight.

–

So.

Bank holiday monday,

Coniston Water

the end of a scorching weekend.

Paddling south (first time in my canoe this year)

away from the crowds,

my arms remember how good it feels,

burn of working muscle

taking me further from the voices and barbecue smoke.

–

Past open water swimmers towing orange floats

who stop for a chat in the middle of the lake

unfazed by the deeps,

complaining of the cold water.

Past moored boats, and pine tree promentaries,

shingle beaches overhung with oaks,

until, at the south end of the lake

as yellow reeds narrow to reveal the start of a river,

I turn around to head back north and see

spread before me the calm lake

bordered by woods in the first flush of spring green,

low bracken-covered hills glowing

in the early evening sunshine,

the Coniston fells beyond, blue and slightly misty.

–

That is the moment I would have pressed the shutter.

But could that photograph record

the pleasant ache of shoulders and arms,

the gentle forward motion of the canoe,

the sound of water lapping,

a mind quietened to contentment?

–

One moment, containing

a sense of returning, of welcome,

a glimpse of childhood,

a farewell to winter,

and the seed of all the summers to come.

This is how it ends

Here, in this woodland,

a burial among the

emerging leaves

and birdsong,

reminding me that

life can be beautiful

and terrifying,

unfair and wonderful.

Don’t choose the winding path

of fear through life.

We all reach the same place,

eventually.

But lighter steps

and love

and kindness

make the journey easier.

This is how it ends

for us all,

surrounded by sorrow,

and love.

Everyday insights

Gripped by anxiety,

a looming hospital appointment,

I failed to notice the world outside

where the blackbird continued to sit on her nest in the rain,

and despite my unawareness

the symphony of spring carried on.

–

Then suddenly, I realized.

Anxiety again.

Welcome.

I don’t have to fight you any more

I just have to relax.

We are not separate,

you are not something to be held at bay

by techniques and force of mind.

You are a response to a situation,

my response.

–

Forgive me.

You have always been the frightened child

I pushed away.

Now you are welcome to rest here

until we both feel safe again.

–

A queen bee stopped on a flower, unnoticed,

unmoved by my revelation

as I wiped away a tear,

but I will remember.