After work bimble into the green, green woods...

 On Tuesday I had to decompress somewhat. I am currently having a very tight schedule, and it starts to wear me out a bit, but it´s all my fault really. And what to do? RIGHT! Get out of town and simply have some rest for my soul. It always works. The sun was not exactly shining, but glaring with a strange and milky light, and alongside a grain field I trod my path into the green twilight looming ahead.

 The grass was growing wildly, and on the banks of the nearly unintelligible path grew plantain, woundwort, chamomile, common yarrow, sorrel and many more. I could have filled my pack, but there is still so much left from last year that I do not need any at the moment. So I simply stopped and took in the lovely colours and the air of a flourishing nature, even if this year seems to be a bad one for the harvest.

 I have thought about telling you of the properties of those plants again, but I thought about it and came to aconclusion: So much we do is just because someone or something has properties and is good for this or that. I have done so in other posts, and you can refer to those, but I realized I simply wanted not to forget the beauty behind it all. The beauty of the plant itself, just growing there and being there, not for me, but just being.

 I am grateful that the woods are there, the flowers grow, and the deer chant in the twilight. I am grateful for the fox, and for the hare. Just because they are. Of course, I love to find something, and I like to have a tea, or find a bone for a knife handle, or even some antler. I would hunt for food, of course, and maybe some day I can afford a hunting license and a decent gun, or maybe, when all breaks down, use a sling, spear and bow and arrow. I practice their use after all.  But that´s not all. Everything being is not being there exclusively for our use. We can make use from it, but we have to learn, and especially western civilization has to, that there is a very delicate balance in it all. This can have a soothing effect; we are not the centre of the universe. We are beings like the deer, like fox and hare and bird, a part of it all, and maybe we could still fulfill our part. Of course, we are the most aggressive raptor on earth, but even we could still have a place.

 Deeper into the woods I went, and stillness came over me with every step I took, with the sound of the songs of birds, of creek and stream and the gentle rustling of the wind in the leaves.

 Beside the stream I sat on a rock and simply listened to the song of the water, the voice that constantly murmurs without a message I could understand, but tales it told nonetheless from and of the circles of life and death, of rebirth and growing. Of tales of fancy and imagination as well as of life and death, of fights and defeats and survival. Above me flew my friend, the bussard, and uttered his cries that are so full of yearning and hunger, not only the concrete hunger, but also a sensation of flight and gravity, of force and power, and freedom in the playing of the forces. The creek sang its song of the water, and the earth thrummed with a deep sonore hum that few can hear, but the song of the soil is there, if you live and listen intently. Then some day you might hear it and listen in awe... and there will be nothing gained or lost by it, but being.

When my bimble came towards an end, I found this gift not given from a friend that is not a friend.

And home I went, into the enmeshments and involvements that harass our everyday life, but with a deep breath thrumming in me.

Just being alive.