After work bimble through the woods

 My work is constantly stressing me out, and thusly I am always grateful for the ability to just hitch the bus afterwards and just disappear into the thicket. The woods keep me sane, even if a passers- by would maybe not exactly agree;-). I just took my pack, and, taking off the shirt and the tie, taking off my shoes to feel the earth, I ventured into a valley that has a rare quality: It is a deep crevice in the ground, crossed by few hiking paths, and silent and solitary. Seldom do I meet Humans there, and if this is the case, those few are of a better quality. It is a realm where the fairy tales still thrive and prosper apart from the mayhem that is our so - called everyday life.

 The woods are full of roe and sika deer, wild rams, wild pigs, owls, buzzards, of hare and fox and predators. Their tracks are everywhere, and I tread carefully and respectfully when I cross them.

 Those are the halls most beloved to my heart, better than a king´s palace are the pillars of the trees, vibrant with bird songs and the breeze in the soft treetops.

 Over wood and stone and yonder hill I tread and listen to the maagical song of the water.

 Got resin? I took some home for concoctions, for treating wood and illness alike.

 Across the runes written by the tracks of deer and ram, of hare and fox, that tell wild and wayward stories of the hunt and the feast.

 The sun was shining, and in the distance I heard some rustling noises, and, carefully not to make too much noise myself, I threaded along the creek.

Under those green, green leaves I walked, breathing the balsamic air.

 Everywhere where the unmistakable signs of wildlife.

 Everywhere there were the sounds of a life alien  to modern man, a life that is great enough for me to be a part of, a thread in a web weaved by  a gentle hand that needs no names and no agnition, but mere existence.

 Into the hazel grove I went...

 ...drew out a circle, and had a cuppa woods;-).

 Yummy...

 All too soon the hours had passed.

 Across paths seldom trodden that felt like I trod the stairs of time I went back into the world.

And at the frontier... where the veil is thinner...


colour.

The raven´s day...

 Yesterday I simply wanted to get out of the city, and thus I took the bus to the hills. When I was just seated, someone called my name, and who stood there? Harald, the guy who taught me the very beginnings of the real side of the craft. He corrected my scrollwork, showed me many projects, and last but not least showed me how to forge-weld the steel. Once we worked together in a museum, where we both fared not too well. I was mobbed out, and he was kept low. An accomplished craftsman, all he was told to do was ridiculous work. If he did a good job, he was yelled at. It´s not my opinion alone, it was also stated in an article in the Hephaistos, a blacksmith´s magazine where the museum was called the "Phantasialand der geknechteten Handwerker" (event park of enslaved craftsmen). Anyway, Harald had a hard time, and was sick for a long time, and I put a lot of energy into him which ultimately lead to a break in our relationship, for I could not help him in any other way. I respect him, for he managed to get a hold on his problems. We had a chat of old times together and a cuppa coffee, and he showed me a striker knife he made from chainsaw chain damascus after a drawing I made long ago. By the way, the writing are hieratic runes I developed long ago... as a writing version of the carved Futhark rune forms. The knife he made is not exactly the one on the sketch, but I like it nonetheless. have to do it myself soemtime soon! We talked a bit longer about this and that, about dreams and pains and plans on life, and then I went on my merry way. I hope Harald will continue on the great path he is on, and I hope we can do this again sometime. Maybe we will meet in the smithy, where this guy simply belongs, and it´s my turn now to give something back.

 The hills called loudly. Winter is still restinging heavily upon the snow-ravaged-land, but spring is already on the way. The sun shone, not warm yet, but sun it was.

 Into those snowy woods I went, still in winterly, deadly silence... but this silence was broken by the tweeting of some birds already fluttering around and calling to the sky for spring to come.

 Dark it rests still, the cloak of the ancient, ice-cold lord, but the golden bough is sprouting already. Everywhere plant´s hips were sprouting, and there was an atmosphere of a violent breakthrough in spite of all the ice.

 The creek was singing aloud under the veil of ice that still covers its waters.

 Towards the lake I came, that lake I passed along so many times, where I passed my childhood and the days of my youth, and as often as I have seen it, so many faces did it bear. Never did it look the same, and the older I get, the more I see it with a sense of awe. I have never travelled far, have not seen many countries, but I have seen the worlds within the world, the multiplying faces of nature that never get to any end, that spring forth with violent vigour...;-)(alliteration is fun).

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And as I walked on, the trail besides the lake, I came to the hillside of the birch grove I like so much, deep in thought and in a sense of wonder, and I bowed towards the four places of the wind and the law of the universe, and to the spirits, and the forces of the land, when in the distance I heard two raven croak, and it was a hair-rousing experience, in a good sense of the word. Oh, I remember, and I think, and thus Huginn and Muninn might fly within my soul...

 I sat there, on top of the hill, and time passed, or not, and I meditated on past and the flow of time, on the burden of the years and the dance of youth within my step that´s springy still, but nearing old age with every stride.

 I drank a cuppa tea, and let the sun sink, sink lower still...

And through the twilit woods I made my way home.

Of deep woods, of rock and stone and ruin and rain-thoughts on woodslore

The magic troll says I´m a junkie. ;-)

And she´s right.

I simply felt that urge to visit the giant´s gate cave again, which is quite a peculiar and inspiring place for me. It is a strong place with a vibrant atmosphere I have never experienced the like before, and, trust me, I have been to some peculiar places in my time. Submerged deep in the woods, the roots of strong and ancient trees seem to grow right into the soil, which seems to pulsate under bare feet. The sun is a faint jewel emebedded in a green sky. Leaves are dancing in a gentle breeze, and the air smells of the strong and bread-like scent of Earth undisturbed by man, even if it is not.

 From the hiding in the thicket, things get a whole new perspective. And, even if you might get the impression that I have now gone completely off my rocker, what with all that natural spirituality stuff you read on my blog, it has nothing to do with human concepts. I give it names. Man has done so since the first caveman roamed the land and cowered in the embrace of the earth, and many a myth has sprung forth from human inspiration. Fertile and virile like the Earth herself, it sprouts forth so many variants of alternative logic. This is wonderful. Misunderstanding that, man fights many wars, and it is all about a name.

 But deep down in the thicket, no names are given. No explanations are given, no answers, but then there are no questions, too. Just life, and the moment. Life of a fertility and a nearly violent energy, that just flows and takes you away into the realm of the green and earthy fire that burns and pulsates beneath your feet.

 In the stronghold of the Earth, your soul dwells naked in the soil. Waves of enery pulsed through my lymphatic system, along the lines of power that I stimulate in my meditative training-but this time without myself having any influence on that, and it felt good. My first impulse being fear, I smiled upon my little intellect that was being so jumpy, and calmed my spirit, and just let it happen. Yes, I am now becoming a part of the soil. Yes, I am now becoming something even more different than before.

And no, you must not feel this to be a bushcrafter. Woodslore is not incorporating this. You must not book in to this kind of spirituality or that to be a decent woodsman. Not at all.

What I found out, however, is, that the more I wander through the woods, and the more kit I make myself, the more I learn, the less I carry. Carrying less, I start focussing on my surroundings more and more. Having this spiritual eye on the world that I have, I open up to things.

 And my spirituality does not exactly have a name. It needs none. For it is mine.

 Recently, without encouraging it, mind you, many people came to me to ask for my spiritual guidance. What am I, your babysitter*ggg*?

 I am no master, and I have a deep suspicion towards people making that claim, for I experience that those are people telling other people what to do, and I suspect for either financial profit or to boost their own tiny ego. I have met the like, and the examples are legion. In the thicket, it does not matter at all what way you choose, as long as you get the problem solved. There are, for instance, many kinds of tinder to light a fire. What works for one condition does not necessarily work for another, but in other cases, it does. There are no masters in the wood, and even the difference between animal and human (is there one in the first place?) is marginal. If you so will, we humans are ill-equipped animals in the best of cases. No claws, no fur, no good hearing or eyesight, bad instincts and the like.

I find it persistently becoming harder to talk about the details of my spirituality, for it has something to do with emotions, psychophysical, psychological and corporeal effects, feelings and intuition. There are many pictures, many myths, but most people want them to feed their ego on them, to be better than someone else. I am not better than anyone. The asset is, deep down in the stronghold of the Earth, I must not. No explanations given, no fighting over names. I sat down and meditated, and let my mind sink deep down into the green twilight that has given me my name I commonly use. Ron said "More Merlin, less macho..." and this appealed a lot to me (boosted my ego*ggg*). Merlin is a message to me, and I really am on a path that seems to be similar (even if I would not dare compare my path to the one of Róf breoth wóden, his Anglo- Saxon title). But I tend to flee the bulk of questionable human companionship more and more in favor of trees and Earth and water. This is a kind of initiative journey, and I am well aware of that. After 20 years of learning, the first ring of the spiral has closed, and I am now on the beginning of a new one. Three will be there for me. I know my death. But I also know my life, and it is wonderful, for the force of the land, for that power I am really becoming addicted to feel sift through my body and letting it go again. It simply is like a gentle and loving touch. Harsh and violent are the ways of man in modern society compared to this touch.

There is also violence in the Earth, but a righteous one. On my travel, however, nothing could be felt about it.

 From below, the sky looks faint. This is the womb where legends and fairy tales are born, and I let loose my racing, raging intellect, to be born from that place also.

As I sat and meditated, I agnized a hare in the heart of the Mother, the moon and the huntress. I saw the fox, and the dragon. I saw the virgin, and the hunter hornéd. Before my hypnagogically entranced eyes, the Siddis appeared. And I let them go. I called upon them and conversed with them, in a way words cannot transport, and then they went on their merry way to make room for the power of the ground. Green fire raged through my loins, my heart and my brow, first filling me with fear again, but I let go the fear, too.

 And from the darkness of my underground womb I stepped out into the light, through the giant´s gate again.

 And I walked through light-enthralled groves.

 But well remebering the power of the earth, I danced a layrinthic dance of light and shadow. Why? Because I simply felt like it;-).

 And, by the way, don´t look so romantic*ggg*: The road in the valley made enough noise to remind me of the world in general!*g*

 Through the tunnel to make for the hills again I went.

And I passed by these ancient stones, the ruins of an ancient watchtower, forgotten in the deep realm of the forest´s green.

 And as I went on my journey, I came across this tree, a mirror of the sky. How come the sky being mirrored in the ground? In the water, in the tree, and in the fire of the sun glinting on the surface?

 The ground was covered with a thick matress of sweet woodruff near the place.

I ventured on towards the Raffenburg, a ruin of an ancient hill fort dating back to the eraly medieval ages.

 I climbed this rock just because I felt like it;-).

 Underneath its foot, again a cavern led into the ground.

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I like the atmosphere around these ancient walls, and Jandark and many others of my friends know that place well. We had many a drink and many a Samhain ritual there, many a laugh and many contemplative talks. I treasure these moments of my life.

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 The clouds were gathering, and the first rain drops stared to fall. It was a warm drizzle at first, and thunder was rolling in the far distance. It was a very special atmosphere, and even if I got soaked through, that did not even matter to me.

 The rain became a right downpour, but it made me feel alive, as I wlked through the woods towards the road to take the bus home.

Of course, the bus ride home was a right culture shock;-).