The name ‘Tremenheere’ means place of the long stones. From the tall stones of Orkney to Carn Euny I’ve long been entranced by the spirit which emanates from these stones and the lands from which they grow.
Last year I spent some time in the gardens at Tremenheere, making notes and drawings about the alchemical process which plants seem to pass through as they leave the earth which holds them, into the air which caresses them. I sat for hours as if in a spell, watching that place in the earth from where plants – bamboo, tree, succulent, emerged…
“Everything in the natural world is a symbolic footprint of the metaphysical beings whose actions created our world. As with a seed, the potency of an earthly location is wedded to the memory of its origin. The Aborigines called this potency the ‘Dreaming’ of a place, and this Dreaming constitutes the sacrednessof the earth. Only in extraordinary states of consciousness can one be aware of, or attuned to, the inner dreaming of the earth.”
From Voices of the First Day by Robert Lawlor.
Workbook notes made whilst in the garden: A raven calls deeply. Flying northwest, the second follows. A large white butterfly which resembles a small bird lands on a tree. A diminutive magnolia stands prettily alone, I am reminded of my dream of a little girl, a daughter, so bright and lovely. What if the young trees were our children, the elders our fathers, our mothers? How do things – stems, stalks, petals – emerge from the Earth? The change of element, the rich deepness become softer, translucent. In the earth our roots are held firm, in the air we become as dancers, balancing, our fingertips just touching. The ravens next to me … they throw croaks like balls over my head. They keep time with my thoughts. A dog replies to them. White agapanthus bow down. The wind has stroked them.
Yesterday was my first day in the gardens this year. I chose a spot near the top, not far from Michael Chaikin’s sculptures. I found a long stone taking a rest, and I sat there too.
It was March 13th, my parents’ wedding anniversary; they’re not here to remember it anymore….
Workbook notes: A three buzzard sky ; their wings quarter space. Water washes song. Body settles, rock breathes beast strong black colourless transparent
Feeling the beauty of this place rising in me
Come here at dawn, be a bird she said
Absorbing sound, settling more, I change sound to mark
I think, after my first day back here, that many of the drawings may be about sound into smudge, trace, arc; felt sense into hands on paper, open, receiving, moving, birthing black, or orange, green or blue.
The birds here will be my guides. They welcome me.
A good friend said “That’s great that the land spoke to you”.
I’m aiming to spend around half a day each week in the gardens – if you see me drawing, please do come and speak to me!
Second visit on March 22nd 2017.
I’d had a dream of a paint woman, a saint woman, a woman discarded, half dead, dressed in rags; a mummified woman sitting in a hedgerow. I sit beside a pool, I am filled up. I see her clothes wrapping air, her bones not spirit shining, not bone white, not anything but air. Transparent this, this sitting beside a pool where sky rests as a babe in arms, gently rocking. I think of lovers from other lives, of meeting anew in this life, of recognition, of loving again with relief, with emotion.
The slate is soft and warm. The Saint in the hedge is still, and watching me. I turn to the pond, I travel down through layers of sky and pink leaves to Edenic tissues.
I am thinking of how she is curled up in the mud.
your sisters rush