The buzzard that fell from the sky

Through the darkening autumn woods I broke in a feeble attempt to free myself from leaden time. Was it when or thence or just last week that I went out again? The winds were singing in a violent wind, and within the wind there was a space, and within this space there was a nest, and within this nest a secret curled, unfurled like a wisp of smoke upon the wind. A cry sounds in the woods by mystery enchanted, but was it real?

Those are just the same woods I visited so often and so long a time I have spent under the trees, alien to my kind.

And an aetherical scent, a smell upon a secret stench arises, musk and shadow from the rich, dark soil.

Onwards it led, the trail unseen, and scent and sight and sound  did guide me through the maze of trees.

What was that cry, a cry unheard, or was it real? What was that rustling in the leaves? Is this a dream or just an essay about things that were and things that are?

Insanity is the poet´s bridge. Damnation is a canyon on either side, and like a knife, and like its edge is the shallow arch above the abyss. What was that dream, the cry unheard, so wild above? Is this a sprite, or that white bird of dusk I have seen so often before a storm?

Thus grow the trees and from their seed of seeds firmly they tread their root into the ground, deeper, deeper, even when autumn passed and winterstorm comes.

Death is reigning, and from his hand the secret still unfurls like a mossy carpet. Deeper into the rich and musky soil I go to agnize the cry of mycel and sky; the lament of the land.

The song of a lunatic is this, but it is bane to love a poet, to fight a poet, to be a poet, and deeper, deeper still into halls unseen, into a dream forlorn, an oath and a spell. I go. I walk the pathway on and on, under a leaden sky, on a flight from a world well trodden into a hidden place.  

The buzzard that fell from the sky,

The dying fruit of the ever-prospering mycel,

The fallen tree still sprouts beside the well, all sing the song-the lament of the land.

Fly well, my spirit, my buzzard that fell from the sky, fly high amongst the song of life. Of death we sing, but is it truth? Is it dream or fancy?

The golden light now goes to rest behind the woods, the unending realm and the treaty of being.

Sleep well, behind  the doors of midnight, my friend, and sing your cry into the dream.

And far beyond the sinking sun I see the path untrodden;

and far behind the sinking sun the silver bridge arises to realms afar beyond the yonder, to times where the trail was straight and true.

Fly well, my song, along the road of dreams.

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.

Much needed ride into the frosty hills, a pensive mood - and quite a loot....;-)

 So, Easter monday came, and nothing to do, and a bit of a depression. Yes, I did not feel too well, but instead of hiding in my attic under a stale-smelling blanket;-) I put on the riding garbs and made a flask of tea and packed some food. The weather was damn cold again (can anyone please call the plumber to repair that gulf stream? Or the heating specialist?*ggg*), but the winter sun of spring was shining brightly, an event that did not happen that often in the last months, and I did some singletrail hammering that did a lot to pin a huge grin on my face, and then made for the bigger hills to take in some scenery.

 On top of the hill it was have a cuppa and some taking in the scenery. The sun was glaring brightly, and I took it in like a sunflower;-). Despite the cold, everywhere were birds fluttering. I met a couple of roe deer, a hedgehog going slowly along across my path, looking at me thoughtfully and the going on on his own business;-), not panicking in the least (I stopped and paused, of course, for I was in no hurry;-)), a buzzard was flying alongside me, and a red kite circling over the ground of a field, not twenty metres away from me. This felt simply great...

 Atop of that hill, it was a bit more humble, however. I sat and drank my tea, when a huge racket going on in the distance alerted me that humans were approaching. They made a right ruckus simply conversing with each other, and, as they came by on the trail some fifteen minutes (!) later, we had a nice chat. They were not even some half-mad ghetto kids, but an elderly couple, nicely dressed. They greeted me and we had a bit of a conversation, about the weather and this and that, and I told them about my encounters with the various animals. I nearly laughed my head off when they wondered why it might be they did not see a single wild animal at all! And then they wondered a bit more why I had a laughing fit and I had to laugh until I choked. Might be they considered me a bit strange afterwards;-) but it was just so comical!

Another couple came around just some few minutes later, middle aged and dressed up well, but more suited for a stroll in the park than an outing into the hills. They greeted me and complained about the state the trails were in... during our little chat it became apparent that they were a bankster couple and were not amused that they payed so much money for taxes and still the woods were not planed with asphalt and concrete. When they were gone, I spared a thought and prayed to every god and goddess I had ever heard of for a dandelion pest in the city and those people never to become so rich and powerful that they could live out their innermost feelings. Other than that, I wished them that they could see what I had just seen, but I guess that´s a wish that could never be granted.

 I had just calmed down drinking my tea, however, when another elderly lady came around. She approached quite silently, and was smiling the whole time. She did not fumble her cellphone, had no hightech walking poles, her walking shoes were well used, and her smock was a bit battered, and she had an ancient walking stick plastered with brass stickers from the places she had been, and piece of vividly coloured cloth tied to the handle I recognized as a bit strange. She too greeted me and we chatted. In fact, she asked me about my wooden cup and if I made it myself. I had to negate that (shame!;-) Have to get that birchwood burr ready I have in the making since three years...;-)), but we had a very great conversation. She told me where she had been and what she had seen that day, and I traded my stories as well, and then we went on talking a good hour or so away and I learned that the brightly coloured piece of cloth was a Tibetan goodluck charm, and she had done her share of hikes in her life. She shared some herblore and trail stories with me and all in all it was a great encounter. We parted as strangers as we met, but it was simply good to meet.

When she had gone, I finished my tea in a pensive mood. There is a good variety of people in the woods, but, for the most part, they should know more what they do. So many people just seem to think they own the woods for good and can behave there like they never would in their own living room. But that´s a misconception, and a grave one at that. But on the other hand it could be so simple. Being silent, enjoying the silence and paying the due respect, like that elderly lady did. She had fun, too, but a different kind of it. Ah, yes, I know, I  came there by mountainbike, and mountainbikers do not have the best of all reputations; and I am no stranger to some hardcore riding myself. And yes, I freely admit, that I have left skid marks on trails that did not deserve it, and built ramps, and the like. But all in all I can say the skid marks came by accident, and it was that or get injured. The ramps I built were in a city wood that was full of special waste and ghetto litter anyway or on a ground devised to the purpose, or I removed them after having my fun. I am no saint, though, but I guess I have been a bit more thoughtful than many. My bike, generally is a means to get places, and I generally follow the DIMB / IMBA trail rules and the common sense of trail etiquette. It pays off, as might be obvious. I just hope more people would learn to love the woods like they deserve it, and out of this love most certainly respect would grow. But people are not taught to love. They are taught to hate, to buy, to fear and to desire. They suffer due to this, so many suffer so much they would not be able to bear it if not for the many ways to distract their minds. They are constantly occupied to keep their minds, and more importantly their hearts and souls from recognizing that there is something thoroughly wrong. They have hundreds of facebook friends, but noone to tend to the wounds of their heart, the scars that we all carry within ourselves. Not all are due to the "evil" in society. In fact we are the ones that make up this society every day. We are all responsible, and we do not need an enemy scheme other than ourselves.

And it is just so simple. We just have to do less, not more. We could do honest work and a job that suits us. We do not need more money than we need. We could enjoy a good meal made by ourselves out of ingredients we trust, not some industrial special waste that consists mainly of chemicals. We could grow part of our food ourselves, and believe me, you can do this even on a balcony. And that´s most important: To enjoy that food actually. Not to make some political statement with it. Really loving the taste, really tasting it in fact. I once made an experiment; I chewed an industrial "system gastronomy" cheeseburger thoroughly. I chewed each bite seventeen times. I nearly threw up. All´s good when you swallow it whole or chew it two or three times. If you really want to taste it, you have a problem. tastes like a mixture of medicinal cough syrup, stale cookies and bad meat. You have to compare it to a real beef burger to find out.

We can even make many things, and enjoy them even more for their shortcomings. We could repair the goods we damaged a bit more and love them for what they are. And if we are in the woods, we could enjoy them as well as for what they are. The woods, plain and simple. And not make some politcal statement of it either, even though that might sound a bit ridiculous in the context, for this is exactly what I am doing with this post. Yes, I know. But I never said I was perfect... I just want to learn to enjoy the woods for what they are, and always more so. I am just hungry for life. Real life, not a parody or some surrogate activity.
 

When I fell into the mind trap, I contemplated for a long time;-), but then I simply moved my lame butt on to get some real living... and there it was... that old  high plain with a crystal sky above, and apart from the wind, utter silence. Wonderful.

 Besides the trail there was this heap of stones that´s part of a mountainbiker´s ritual. It was Jaykay, a local pioneer of mountainbiking, historian, ornithologist, archaeologist, caveman;-), climber, geocaching pioneer, cruiser rider, bicycle tourist, inventor, engineer, philosopher and much more, that started it, if I am not entirely mistaken... twenty years ago. Each time on a ride we paused there and everyone layed down a stone upon the pile. That´s how it looks now;-).

On I rode, and along the road I came across this loot of spring steel....

More knives and tools to make for free....

I then rode home, content with a ride full of thoughts, and resolves, and purpose, full of encounters, good and bad, with beast and man, and full of real life, that was full with wind and sun and silence and brisk and frisky air.

Some slime-surfing mountainbike ride again

 Yesterday I set out to do some road riding, and as usual, it turned out a bit different. I phoned around with my mates, and it´s funny, but in the last year noone likes to ride with me anymore. It´s that they have no time, other things to do or whatever. No, don´t get me wrong, I believe them. They simply have no time when I have, and I am short on time when they have. Riding alone, then. As I said, I PLANNED to stick to the lane, but it turned out it bored me big style, so I rode out to the hills, and, believe me, I really wanted to stick to the road;-). No, really, I wanted. Turned out the woods called on mightily, and I had some strange encounters again. Now it is December. It´s a warm one over here, okay, with 3-7 degrees, but that should not bring THIS fellow to blossom: Common yarrow (Achillea millefolium,

 in German: Schafgarbe). And not just one herb, but many of them. I was riding on and wondering thoroughly to myself... Then it just bit me and I ventured on to some technical singletrack. No pics, though, don´t want to have hordes of half-mad downhillers;-) building 7m - drops and kickers there:-), plus I had some other things to do. When I rode on, one of the  reasons I still ride happened. It is a psychophysical phenomenon commonly referred to as "flow"  after Mihalyi Cziksentmihalyi, an autotelic experience sharing many parallels to the Japanese Zen term "Satori". Anyway, this is not the space to rant on about this;-), and maybe I get my resolve to complete my scientific work on this topic, which you may read in this place then. But as I was in complete balance, a buzzard started from the side of the trail again (this happens ever so frequently to me, no clue why;-)) and, this was truly weird, flew with me down the trail in a distance of about five metres. It did not rise higher or turned. It just flew with me down that hill, and when the trail turned uphill, it turned away again and cried its cry. Somewhat esoteric experience, if you ask me, but simply good and a beautiful event I do not want to interpret, for it is good as it is. Of course, the bummer would follow soon. On the next downhill I was quite enjoying myself and having some air. Seems I messed up one landing and hit a rock. Hitting a small rock of that size is no problem normally, but I like to run my tyre pressure somewhat low, and this IS a problem with allmountain tyres as I like to run, for downhill tyres just suck on the uphills;-). So it went ffffffffffffffffffffffftBAM, and I got a slab. By that time temps were dropping, and a steady drizzle started. Now I like to be prepared, so it was no problem, I just took out my spare tube and fitted it in, but I guess this is a good example that being prepared may elongate your life. You CAN die of hypothermia, even in those domesticated woods.
It was getting dark, too, so I chose to take the low road (pun intended*g*) home.

When I got home I realized something. I realized I missed this sport. I have done much riding in the last year, but always with an intent. Foraging, commuting, and the like. But it has always been experiences like the one with the buzzard that kept me riding for 27 years now, and this is most of my life. It´s not in being better than anyone. It´s not the material, as it is with others. That may help me get out there. But what really counts is the feeling of flying with the buzzard, of being one with the tiny space of calm within the gates of the wind. Call it a religious craze, or psychological, or whatever. You can have a simple ball with your mates out in the woods. You can have a laugh riding, enjoy the scenery, and whatever. Many reilsh in being better than anyone else, or in having a great bike and riding it, in getting better and all that stuff, and I can relate to that, too.

But it all comes down to that moment in full flight, when the buzzards rises in your soul to fly with the one outside. If you are able to feel this through, you´ll know. And you can´t fit it into words anymore, and you may rant on endlessly and helplessly. This is one reason I despise the hate-preachers as much as I do.

No words, just being.