I gaze out the window to see white swelling sheets and pale lilies. Schubert’s song Winterreisse wraps my head, like the beauty of the natural world which wraps my head in dream.
Rain has washed the moss from the roof, little soft islands of green lie forlornly on the concrete path.
I sat on the dry white shore on North Lewis:
Hand receiving rain, rock brown pink
green gold grey
Hand receiving rain and the tininess of broken things
wind making sand ripples, a vertical tide.
Scooping up salt marsh grass the rising sea feels soft against my ankles, I bend and gather handfuls of water, spread them on my pages, melding water and pen, drawing and being here, standing in the surge of sea, and eagles are above, how grateful am I!
I draw a fish woman, hands growing from arms like feathers.
Sky earth soft flying some spirit birds raspy Raven put them there, blew away their dust, made it air
Notes like clouds
My hands believe
The roar of a distant wave breaking, a woman singing quietly
A bay ringed with song.
Connecting at the Root.
Warm morning, damp morning, I walk through the dark valley at Tremenheere, feeling safe, safe, in amongst the trees’ whispering and the earth’s paws. To come to a wood and feel safe is a good feeling. I am reminded of woods from far away in my youth when at dusk I would feel them asking me to leave with insistence, with force. A young woman then, I had been afraid.
Today I find a tree fallen, captured by the arms of friends, and providing a horse memory; the long round trunk like the neck of some fabulous soil bound steed as I sit and gaze to a horizontal heaven. I ride side-saddle, the skirts are roots, beneath them the source of my story