~

Here in Morvern on the Ardtornish Estate you can find some of Scotland’s beautiful remnant oakwoods. These are now known as Atlantic Temperate Rainforests, and are among the best remaining stands along the western seaboard. On my journey’s to and from Lochaline, I have passed by these oakwoods, making a mental note to find a moment to visit. Two days ago was that moment. Midsummer’s morning sunshine called me outwards towards the old oaks.

I jumped in the camper and headed out. Of course, with camera in hand and a vehicle to drive, it was not a surprise that I pulled off the road before getting to my final destination. A stunning meadow full of wild flowers and a single beautiful oak, set against the backdrop of the hills beyond, had caught my eye.

Back in the van and heading for the oakwoods now, I began to ponder some of the many stories I have encountered of the oak. The Irish Ogham1 word for oak is duir, which shares its root with the old Irish word for door. It is perhaps no surprise then that the ancient druids engaged in ceremony in large oak groves. Doorways to the other side perhaps? The word "druid" derives from the Latin druis (pl.druidae), which was borrowed from the Gaulish word *druwits. Linguists break this Proto-Celtic word down into two parts.

1. Dru, which stems from the Proto-Indo-European root *dóru, and means "tree" or "oak".

2. Wid, which comes from the Proto-Indo-European root *weyd-, meaning "to know" or "to see"

Together they may translate to ‘Oak Knower’ or ‘The Knower of Trees’ or ‘Strong Seer.’

The oak is anthropogenic because it is at the root of many creation stories from ancient traditions. The oak is also often seen as the tree of life. It is also closely related to the image of the tree as a regenerating element. The oak tree's acorns have inspired many wisdom teachings and even psychology. James Hillman, who founded the archetypal psychology movement of the 1970s, put forth The Acorn Theory2 as part of what he saw as the Soul's Code. He believed that every person contained within them the potential to become a unique, fully evolved human being, just as an acorn has within itself the potential to become a mighty oak tree.3

Throughout the major cultures of Europe people have held the oak tree in high esteem. To the Greeks, Romans, Celts, Slavs and Teutonic tribes the oak was foremost amongst venerated trees. In each case associated with the supreme god in their pantheon, oak being sacred to Zeus, Jupiter, Dagda, Perun and Thor, respectively. Each of these gods also had dominion over rain, thunder and lightning. It is no coincidence that oak trees are more prone to lightning strikes than many other trees. This is because of the tree’s high water content and the fact that they are frequently the tallest living things in the landscape.4

Carrying these stories of the oak, I turned off the road to park up and caught a glimpse of water as I crossed the road bridge pre turn. I parked and walked back to the road to look over the bridge and down into the waters of the river Aline. It was well worth it. As I was focusing on the water shadow rock combination, something fell into the still part of the river and created a wonderful ripple circle. I clicked the shutter and the ripple that had caught me was now met in the catching.

Once the ripples had wiggled their way out into the world I shot a couple more reflections. This is my favourite from those.

Now to the woods. I walked along the road a few hundred feet and then stepped across the boundary into the oakwoods. High summer has just peaked and the Oak King is now making way for the Holly King5. The woodlands are as green as green could be. I felt a deep sense of quiet as I stepped in. The light was gorgeous and I spent a good while just being with these magnificent oaks before sensing what I might shoot. Here is my selection for you to enjoy.

As I wandered with my camera in that present moment kind of trance that making photographs can often bring me to in the bosom of nature, I found myself meeting the river again a mile or so along the trail. The temperature cooled a little as I approached the water, swishing and slipping my way down a bracken filled slope with the tinkling melody of the river in flow bathing me in sound.

I sat by the edge. I looked. I listened.

And, of course, I saw the full spectrum of nature’s creative beauty. She was in a painterly mood.

I sat in contemplation with a warm heart, appreciating the silence for what it is and cannot always be.

Tomorrow I will be on the road again, heading for Strath Farrer and a week long gathering of Gaels exploring our culture, decolonisation, land connection, keening, music and of course the craic. From there i will return to Lochaline to collect Anne and we will head to the Southern end of Scotland for a wedding before continuing down across the border into England for my annual visit with a van full of drums to Stainsby Festival.6

This is a place close to my heart and I have worked there facilitating drum circles on both days of the weekend gathering since 1999. I am excited for Anne to meet my extended family there and for them to meet her. We will then come back up across the border for the remainder of Gala week in Morvern before going South again for Pagan Camp7 where we will manage the Wiston Lodge venue for the gathering.

Then Cornwall and a visit to my mam calls us followed by a visit to Anne’s mam in Sheffield and then, finally, back to Lochaline. As you can tell, we are going to be very very busy these next 6 weeks and so interaction here will be intermittent at best. Apologies for the posts I have not caught up on yet ( They are in a saved folder and will be visited).

Wishing you all the summertime of your heart’s desires. See you on the other side.

3

Hedge Mystic

The Celtic Month of Duir, The Oak

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3 years ago · 30 likes · 2 comments

7

Danica Boyce at Enthusiastica

PAGAN CAMP ☀️ July 27-30 at Wiston Lodge in Scotland

Hello, Today I have the great pleasure to announce something I’ve been dreaming of, in one form or another, my whole life…

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6 months ago · 13 likes · Danica Boyce

Museguided

The Problem with Finding Yourself

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2 months ago · 116 likes · 69 comments · Tamara

For me, right now, here in the Highlands with my love, our attention is on mountains and forests, foxgloves, butterflies and lochans ( Yes we did swim in it)

The good news for you is I generally have a camera with me. Today is a home day and I have managed to squeeze in a wee piece to let you glimpse the beauty here.

I may be gone but you are not forgotten.

Enjoy the lyrics to a well known song round sung these parts whilst you browse the pictures ( Audio at the bottom if you wish to listen too)

In truth the heather is not yet blooming here but it was the song “Wild Mountain Thyme” we sang atop the mountains yesterday.

Oh, the summertime has come, And the trees are sweetly blooming

And the wild mountain thyme, Grows around the blooming heather

Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we’ll all go together, To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather, Will ye go, lassie, go?

I will build my love a bower, By yon cool crystal fountain

And round it I will pile, All the wild flowers o’ the mountain

Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we’ll all go together, To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather, Will ye go, lassie, go?

I will range through the wilds,And the deep glens sae dreary

And return wi’ their spoils,To the bower o’ my dearie

Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we’ll all go together, To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather, Will ye go, lassie, go?

If my true love she’ll not come, Then I’ll surely find another

To pull wild mountain thyme, All around the blooming heather

Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we’ll all go together, To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather, Will ye go, lassie, go?

The joys of living in an off grid cabin in the woods are occasional offset by having to interact with the great wide world outside. There are no spaces close by to park a van. So a wheelbarrow and bungee cords are employed to get drums from the shed next to the cabin across the meadow to the waiting van. ( 200 metres in the rain with a full barrow, 200 metres back with an empty one).

I can get 3 drums in a wheelbarrow and one on my back. I took 30 drums and 30 bits of hand percussion, which fitted into 2 bags. I clearly had to make more than one trip to the van to load up and of course the same to unload at the end of the gig. Please note that I am not complaining. Moving the drums like this is a kind of meditation. A slow journey that sets me up for the gig. I even wrote a poem about the wheelbarrow and the drums. I am wondering about including it here. I will however continue to write whilst I wonder because I actually meant this piece to be about the rain.

So once my herculean labours were complete I lit a fire in the cabin because it is a rule when it rains, even if it is summer. Rain=Fire. I sat in the warm glow for a while and stared at the rain on the window. I was fiddling with a camera and playing with some settings and so I took a couple of test shots.

I loved them and I decided right there and then to go out in the rain. Soon I was suitably clothed and camera’d up and off I set. The Foxgloves are just starting to appear. Slowly this year and not in their usual spot yet. I do hope they come to visit there. If they do you will get to see what I have seen every summer here for 17 years.

For now though, a few isolated Foxgloves in the rain will have to suffice. Think of this as an appetiser. All being well there will be Forests of them soon.

In between foxglove shots there were plenty of other wet wonders to see.

The rain adds a vibrancy to the green summer here and I was happily splashing in puddles on my way back to the toasty fire warmed cabin. Happy daays.

As for the wheelbarrow poem, I think it can wait for another day. Don’t you?

I have a bunch of poems in my drafts folder. Some are new and some are older pieces being re-worked. This particular poem continues to spiral around me, asking to be sat with in a different way, nudging a new line or two into form and letting others go.

I used to think of this of this as an origin poem but it is a shapeshiting proposition in truth.

Here is the latest iteration.

~

i get to write with the authority of the broken

it lends a glissade of authenticity to what lives in the crevices

~

numbed by ghosts of neglect and abandoned by my first pen

i bled my early poems onto internment’s damp and mossy walls

~

fingering that crimson scrawl as dead spider-foot scribbles

painting a cloak of acceptability, a flourish of skin as chimera

~

there i learned to unstitch the lips of my incremental refusals

imbibing the void and plying my sacrificial howling art

~

hoping for a sign that the maker of those poems was alive and well-

beyond the mask-made-mirage of a soul invisible

~

truth is

there is a poet

~

it’s not me though

~

this dreamt up stream of consciousness which i pen 

i

   do

         not

                own

i am not really here

~

just a rizla paper away from being-

Damoclesed a thousand times

~

the wound singing itself

infinite spirals

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Songwriters: Paul Mccartney / John Lennon

After spending a morning of awe in the presence of ‘The Mother Tree’ at Ormiston, Anne and I had setoff for the layby where we had parked the car. As is our wont, we wandered off the route and found ourselves walking along a road that had, on our left side, remnants of the old walled gardens still in place and some delightful old stone buildings which had been converted to modern accommodations and somehow woven into the older architecture. Across the road from there was a beautiful wooded glade with a small burn running through its green heart.

As lovely as the buildings were, they were marked as private property and in all honesty the woodland’s gravity was a greater pull. We crossed the road and looked for a way down the steep bank. There wasn’t one and so we stayed on this way until it met another, larger road and we took a right, crossed a bridge and found a pathway into the woodland, we on the other side of the burn now. As we entered, we were met by two blackbirds. Three or four steps later we had encountered two more. This pattern continued the whole time we were there. Either we were being followed by the same two or the woods was awash with Blackbirds. And so it was that we named the woods.

Our hearts we already fully open after our awe filled Yew encounter and this song-filled green paradise just elevated things all over again. There is a kind of grace to be to be found in the presence of a lover in a place like this. Knowing smiles and glances. Gentle touches here and there. Laughter and awe in a delighted dance.

We clambered here and there and got mud on our shoes and our fingers too. I spied a wave of Foxgloves and we looked t find a pathway towards them that created as little disturbance to the wild flowers underfoot as possible. Anne was ahead of me and I stopped to snap the delicious digitalis.

And then a cry of discovery and a call for me to come quickly, as if the thing she had found might evaporate. Her childlike wonder fresh as it was all those moons ago when discovering things was new. It was of course bone. It’s a thing. We find skulls, antlers, jawbones…..or perhaps, they find us? This one we were not sure of. Two large incisors front and centre. Maybe a large rat?A rabbit or stoat? In the end we discovered that it was a hare. Fully intact and now, in the bone-yard with the deer and fox and rams outside our home in the highlands. Our diversion had brought us closer to the burn and it seemed as if the glade were shimmering now. Magic was afoot.

We crossed over and began to slip and slide our way up the opposite bank. Upon reaching higher ground we exited the woodland to find ourselves not as far along the road we came in on as we had thought and so back down the slope we went, happy to be immersed in the deep green once more.

We followed the burn a while and then spied a spot that needed closer inspection. Trees growing from stone. Over the burn again we went once more, already in a place where time had taken a holiday and there was just a shining unfolding moment to be with. More slipping and sliding. The rocks and the trees had us in their thrall.

Hopefully you can see why.

With grumbling tummies and smiles a mile wide we left our Blackbird Wood and headed home to eat and remember. What a day!

I mention this because recently a friend was clearing out her dad’s studio. He was a keen photographer and printer and there was a lot of kit to sort. She called me and asked if I was interested or knew anyone who might be. I went to have a look. You never know right? Along with a whole set of darkroom equipment for developing and printing bt black and white and colour photos there were a few old cameras to view. One of them was a Pentax Me-Super. It is still a thing of beauty.

I left with the Pentax along with an old Miranda DX-3 and a Centon K1000. Being familiar with the Pentax In loaded up a film ( HP5 of course) and went out to play. There were some winding on issues with the camera and so I only got something like 12 exposures from the 36 possible. Slightly frustrating. I meddled a bit with the mechanism, shot another roll and got closer to 25 from 36. Still occasionally the wind on function was iffy. So all in all 37 shots from two rolls. As it was a camera test I was not concerned. If I can’t get this to work properly I might go buy another Me Super. Maybe.

I enjoyed going out and shooting film and I of course made some rookie errors with exposures. Of the 37 shots I took, about 1/3rd were massively underexposed in areas, most likely from not adjusting my exposures for the darker areas and relying too heavily on the pentax’s built in light meter. It has been 54 years!!

Some of shots though were pleasantly surprising. As a test of the camera and with a possible 72 shots available, ending up with 27 useable shots given the mechanical issues and the starting all over errors, was fine. If I get to shoot with a full working camera next time ( not sure about the Miranda or the Centon) and some good reminders now in my experience bag, then I would expect more from myself.

I am and always have been a happy amateur when it comes to photography and so I was delighted that I had actually managed to get a few decent shots after so long away form the manual film world. I am keen to give the Miranda and the Centon a whirl and I am going to take a note book to log exposure info just in case I do shoot more film.

Will I go back to film full time? Probably not and I am currently having lots of fun using old film lenses on my digital olympus, which meets a lot of my needs. Will I shoot film occasionally for fun? Most likely yes and I am already looking at medium format cameras on ebay.

So, to the pictures I took. Here’s the best of em and a few that could have been better.

~

i don’t know how we get there most of the time

(sometimes it’s obvious)

but i love it when we do

~

when we be

when we do

when we be

when we do be do be do, right?

~

it becomes a flow

there is nowhere else to inhabit

the needle has dropped

the spiral has us in it’s spin

and we fall into that groove

easy as off a log

~

syncopated-beat related-ululated-concentrated-connect-i-cated

pure

~

musical

~

essence

the spirit of it all

~

time disappears

we disappear

all that is left

is soul

~

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I first encountered The Ormiston Yew in an online article back in 2010. I have always had an interest in trees and this particular Yew is one of my favourites to visit.

The Yew is a sacred tree on these lands of Alba and known to the druids in pre christian times as a symbol for death and rebirth. In Ireland the county of Mayo (Maigh Eo) translates to Plains of Yew Trees and was once home to the largest yew tree forest in the known world.

My first visit to this amazing tree ended with me unable to find the location, despite dropping in to the Yew Tree cafe to ask for directions. No one there knew, or if they did, they were not telling. My second visit got me closer, but not to the prize, which I walked straight past without knowing it was what I was looking for. I though it was a giant Yew bush and continued my walk in search of the great tree.

The third visit was my lucky one. As I walked past the giant bush I spied a small opening. A wee tree tunnel if you like and so I stooped and walked through. Into another world. This is that world, as best as I can ‘catch’it. I have been back to the tree many times since and my most recent visit was just days ago.

This is a layering Yew. Its branches spread out umbrella like and eventually find their way back to Earth. As these branches grow outward and touch the damp soil, they naturally take root and burrow horizontally before sending up new vertical stems. You can see them at the edges of the shot above. The giant bush I had walked past was a series of these vertical stems rising up from the earth in an almost protective guard. Once inside the protective ring, the feeling is like being in a Yew Cathedral. The girth of the main tree, which I call ‘The Mother Tree’ ( The main tree is female but some of the stems are male), is almost 23 foot.

Opposite the mother is a smaller female and between them they create an underworld that is above ground. Simply one of the most stunning trees and spaces I have ever encountered.

I have been promising Anne that I would take her to see this tree since we met last September. A few days ago she got her wish. We drove from the cabin to the outskirts of Edinburgh, having had to swap out our campervan ( rear brake work became imminent) for a smaller car, and parked up in a layby that is so easy to drive by if you do not know where to go. Here began the walk.

The road in from the layby, along a verdant avenue, is stunning.

The old ruins of Ormiston Hall are like something you expect to find in an Indiana Jones movie. Of course we had to explore!

Just along the road from the ruins is a path that runs right alongside the giant ‘Yew Bush.’ I asked Anne to close her eyes and held her hand as she crouched to get through the tunnel. At the point where she could stand I let go and told her to keep her eyes closed so I could move out of the way. Then I said ‘Open Them.’ She walked into the space with eyes of pure wonder. She loved it. She is in the next picture. It offers scale, both physical and spiritual.

So we were there. We took our time to be with the tree and to connect into this ancient space. Please take a few moments of your own now and enjoy a small selection of ‘The Mother Tree’ from a few different perspectives.

As well as this incredible ancestor there are other Yews on the land roundabouts. I had never visited in the month of June before, so I was keen to see how they looked at this time of the year. I was not disappointed.

Anne is very immersive when it comes to the outdoors and likes nothing better than slipping into a freezing cold loch, crawling into a cave or sitting in a Yew root ball. She could not see me taking this.

An ‘accidental’ long exposure shot followed which created a totally psychedelic image. After Anne crawled out I showed her this shot and she just looked at me and grinned. Did something happen in her Yew den? The English Yew or Taxus baccata contains the toxic alkaloid taxane, Taxine B that directly antagonises cardiac myocyte calcium and sodium channels, causing a cardiotoxic increase in cytoplasmic calcium. In plain English this means eating any part of the tree, leaves, berries or roots can be fatal.

There are folkloric tales of mystery schools attached to the Yew and stories of Druids and hallucinogenic experiences. On hot days Taxine is emitted as a gas from the Yew which is claimed, anecdotally, to have the power to shift human consciousness. Hmm!

So we were almost done visiting The Mother Tree and we had a woodland elsewhere to visit ( which will be posted up as a photo story soon) but there was one more tree to see………and a beauty she was.

Finally we set off for the layby and our wee car, stopping once more to to say goodbye to Mamma.

Here is part 2 of the stroll.

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Here is the pre walk ( two shots in the cabin to test the light) and then the rest of the stroll, photo by photo. I shot just over the equivalent of a roll of film in 2 hours.

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~

skeining grease-wool, stretched deep from within my throat

fashioning words from gut born string, an ancestral yawp

~

do you think that these are coiled letters before you?

do you think there is an end to this ball of inked shame?

~

i have been knotting and scouring this since before my time

and still it comes, sheathed in bile and old elastic memories

~

borne in a sliver, between two maidens, it comes black-

twisted and plying those twin hell’s, weaving heavy dreams

~

bleeding becomes being, a beetling of psyche’s imperfections

and in the end, the entire fabric, a soufflon perforated cloth.

~

There are a large number of terms in this piece which you would find in a glossary of weaving terms. Just saying.

Originally written for a ‘tales of the unexpected’ prompt in a Poetry class I attended some 10 years ago. This is a darkly humorous (imho) ‘Unexpected Birthday Card’.

Each line is an American Sentence. The “American Sentence” is a 17-syllable sentence form of poetry, inspired by the Japanese haiku, invented by Allen Ginsberg. It consists of a single sentence (or phrase) with 17 syllables, unlike the haiku’s three-line structure of 5-7-5 syllables.

~

a nest of snakes for you as a bouquet to plant in your cracked disgust
a garland of dead weeds for the barren wasteland you dare call a heart
a string of fuck-me-nots to remind you of what will never happen
wrapped up with a bow made of gut string stretched to breaking point
birthday sentences. gifting you a prison made of dark skies and hell.

~

~

brokenheartedness.

fuel for my gratitude.

how else would I know what I held,

if it did not break?

~

this is not something to recover from.

it is something to inherit.

~

my c.v. does not list my accomplishments.

it is the weather on my face.

a collection of experiences i survived,

was blessed by.

not with sage.

not with a shame-man’s drum.

just blood.

blod.

know the root.

know your root.

~

if economic and personal growth

are your metrics,

my diminishment will invert you.

~

make me invisible.

~

then,

when you have need of me,

you won’t be able to see me,

standing right here.

~

~

What came first? The map or the fence?

Once cartographic lines, now architecture,

crossing fields here at the edge of the welt,

where yield is not a concern.

~

plants push up against the barbed wire.

those imagined lines made concrete,

bring whispers of a warning,

if you have the right kind of ears.

~

a slicing of the land is never warranted.

here it is that I ply my craft,

village outlier, once revered as elder,

now shunned by those who pray -

for the demarcation of earth and sky.

~

these old hands are gnarled.

lines of time and hard work visible,

as i leaf through my wild brethren,

sensitive to their offerings,

knowing their medicine.

~

I take only what is needed

and bless that act with a naming.

I place these gifts in my hand woven basket of reeds

and I leave offerings of prayer and oats

~

Hawthorn of the May, lady’s mantle, marigold,

elder, nettle and evening primrose,

all received during one evening’s walk,

called by some ill yet to be personified

~

villagers approach, always in the shadows,

to fix their ailments, mend their broken hearts,

or find a salve for their lack of courage.

none will see me in the light of the day.

~

no honouring of the role I play.

scurrying back and forth under veiled cover.

no marking me with the blessings of true sight

or of witness, or of naming me with their words.

~

still, which I am,

i serve them for no gain.

the work calls and i answer.

it is enough.

it should be enough.

~

mother

keeper of the hearth about which you happily sit and place your worldly troubles.

sister

who hears with an open heart your hidden love songs.

daughter

who lifts and lights your soul from the gloom of your own endings.

grandmother

offering you a home where no one else can and standing here like a tree to bring you shade from the glory of the son.

wife

carrier of the weight, birther of the world.

~

But no more. Now I am named.

~

Witch I am.

~

now, sound the bells of the criers of death.

now, men of the cloth, emblazoned by the fire of righteousness.

now, men wild in their fury and slavering at the mouth.

now, brimming with a knowing that is rooted in fear.

now, men erect with a passion for a hanging end.

now, standing up for all that is ‘good and wholesome.’

now, they come in my house.

~

my brethren crowd the fence lines still.

whispering their songs of mycelial root.

unheard amongst all the talk of strangling.

removing the word.

~

waving silently by the fields, my brethren,

they are Solomon’s glory, adorned in life,

preaching an animus that cannot live

within the box-minds of these dead men.

~

now they begin to strangle me with their rope

and afterwards transmute me to to humble Ash.

the crosses which those men now bear blind them

and they cannot see the deepest gift being given.

they have made a prayer of me to the Earth and

i will return. i will be reborn but not in heaven.

~

their hangman’s fire a fertile and luscious beginning

a seeding of brethren anew at the edge

of the uncontainable, uncontrollable wild

~

Witch I am!

~

Notes: The poem began its life as I waited for a broken-down bus to be repaired. At the roadside I saw a fence. On one side, lush green plants and herbs and on the other, grass made by pesticide, greener than green and almost plastic in its colour and form.

The wild and that which aims to control it.

A boundary and a division. A metaphor for two worlds and the possibility of a story. The map or the fence? Which came first ?

~

Witch came first!

~

In August 1612, seven women and two men from the Pendle region in Lancashire, not a million miles from where I was born, were hanged for witchcraft based on evidence given by a nine-year-old girl. Pendle Hill has long since been associated with the Witch. Elizabeth Southerns or Old Demdike, one of the Pendle Seven, was guided by visions of Tibb, her familiar spirit.

~

In the 12th Century, Saint Hildegard von Bingen was known as a cunning woman, a woman of wisdom. Hildegard, a brilliant polymath and composer, healed with herbs and gemstones. She believed in viriditas, the green and animating life force manifest in the natural world, infusing all creation with moisture and vitality. She was a nun, a wife of God. Hildegard was called “Sibyl of the Rhine” and revered for her visions and prophecies.

~

In Scotland, convicted witches were usually strangled to death before their bodies were burned. Scotland has officially apologized to the thousands of people—primarily women—convicted of witchcraft between 1563 and 1736.

The campaign group Witches of Scotland pushed for a posthumous legal pardon. Although a proposed bill was brought forward in the Scottish Parliament in 2022 to clear the names of the convicted, it was ultimately withdrawn in 2023.

~

Every moment is a gift. Every day a new blessing. Every shot with the camera one you could not have taken at any other time, because:

1. It is never the same spot twice.

2. You are never the same photographer twice.

One of my subs recently observed that I had, and I quote, “Made the mundane beautiful” in a series I posted up recently1. I accepted the compliment in the spirit with which it was offered. In truth it was not me. The mundane is already beautiful.

I see that when I take photographs. It is why I do this. My reader saw that beauty too because they were looking with a similar pair of eyes. Not everybody sees things the same though. One man’s beauty…….

As viewers of the world we all carry filters. We think that one thing is beautiful whilst another thing may not be. Is that true? or is that perception? or perhaps a form of deception?

The opening of Shunryu Suzuki’s book ‘Zen Mind, Beginners Mind,’ begins thus:

Later on in the book he quotes the following line, which I have always read as a companion to that first one.

These quotes for me lean into the recognition that everything changes and only the present moment is accessible. Nothing stays the same. Nothing is permanent. Including you, the looker. Including the moment itself.

The concept of impermanence is not only reflected in Buddhist Zen teachings. The Chinese Taoists came up with the I Ching, (The Book of Changes) and the Tao Te Ching (The Book on the Way and Virtue.) I have treasured copies of both and one of my favourite lines from The Tao Te Ching, (Jane English/Gia-Fu-Feng Translation)2 is this:

Food for thought over your morning coffee. One final gallery of the beautiful mundane or is that the mundanely beautiful? Thanks for reading.

I have a lovely digital camera. Here is an arty farty out of focus reflection of it. It is an Olympus OM-D E-M10 Mark II with two standard kit lenses. It has travelled around the world 3 or 4 times with me in the last 7 years. It is getting a bit tired now.

I have been playing around with using some old manual focus film lenses, attached to the Olympus by means of an M42 mount adaptor. The camera has the feel of an old film slr already and with these lenses on, it transports me back in time. My first love in photography was the Pentax Me Super. I acquired another one recently from a friend whose father had passed away and left his camera collection for her to sort. I ran a film through it a couple of weeks back, to test it. I bought two rolls though so now have the second roll loaded and want to do a more conscious shoot. It is black and white film.

A couple of days ago I took the olympus out with a Super Takumar 35mm lens attached with the intention of ‘practising’ for my b&w film shoot. I was essentially pretending I had b&w film in the camera. It does not shoot in b&w and so the images you are about to see were conversions.

I wanted to see what I would shoot. That might sound daft, but because I thought I had b&w film in the camera, my shot selection was hugely different to my usual fare. Take a look at the selection below and please feel free to leave a comment.

I think in essence what I was looking for here were scenes that had contrasts built in. Nothing was black and white but I looked for what would/might show up as contrast. Fascinating exercise and soon I will shoot 36 more exposures on the Pentax.

Watch this space.

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Kelp is married to the tidal dance all along the edges of the sound.

Ancient volcanic basalt is contrasted with sweet yellows and greens.

Blooming orcadian cobalt sky, peers through the early morning mist.

Stillness roars and there is a sense of electric expansiveness in the air.

Magic trembles me a bodily shiver and my breathe leaves on the wind.

Exhaling my concerns, I flow gently into the fullness of this very moment.

A long slow sigh escapes me as a beautiful wish, a prayer to the day.

A peace falls, whispers old names of the land from the soil of the soul.

Being alive is so heartbreakingly beautiful and I sense a loss about me.

Something older than all of it is waiting here at the glistening ocean’s edge.

My sensory soul wraps itself about me as a cloak of angels, and I shudder.

Movement in the water draws my eye to mottled browns, circles and spots.

Ripples form a wake and now, mystery becomes visible, eyes as deep as saucers.

Inky blackness beckoning me to dive in, deeper than ever I have before this now.

Then it is gone, gliding effortlessly and sinking without sound behind the old lava.

I move around the craggy rock, towards the water, only to be stopped dead.

A grip on my heart as I watch her step from that skin into our human realm.

I see the end of my days and know this terrible mischief has my name on it

Ancient mariner’s lore tells that she is mine if that skin I can take from her.

And though her beauty causes an ache that echoes deep in my bones, I ken.

Such loveliness belongs in the ocean and my heart breaks with the knowing of it.

She turns those eyes toward me and then to her skin on the rocks, and hesitates.

I see that her heart is breaking too and I understand she has been watching me.

Watching me since time began. Words are not necessary as she turns my way.

We share a moment that is an eternity, where the language of her sea meets my earth.

I put my hands in my pockets and turn from the beach to walk into a life of solitude.

She steps into her skin for one last time and slips away, to swim through my dreams.

Notes:

The poem is an imagined Selkie story.

There are many such stories in Scotland and Ireland and if you are unfamiliar with the genre here are a couple of great places to begin your search.

Watch this movie. You can find the full movie at You Tube for free.

Watch and listen to this incredible reading. In my opinion one of the most impactful poems I have ever heard read. Totally brilliant.

And finally, take a look at this great wee resource from the wonderful web of Tara Brading.

Happy Selkie journey’s folks xx

~

licking

your cold

                          tingling

                          curves

~

i want to melt

your soft

sweet form

~

send ripples

into

                           your

                           raspberry

~

i want to tongue

you down

to your

                         naked

                         wafer

~

nibble

slowly

~

i want 

to devour you

~

savor 

every single

                               sweet

                               sensual

mouthful

~

i want to kiss

goosebumps

into being

~

i want to shiver

with pleasure

as your ice

cold

                               being

                               bites

me

~

there you are, making meaning of this, or not!
i try to imagine you all but there is only ever one.
of you. the smallest audience possible. in-ti-mate.
i wonder about the reflected screen i type into and
remember paper. pen. ink. stains. desks with wells.
did my mind wander differently across those pages?
there, erasure left a mark. a ghost word, a groove in
the leafy canvas. here, delete is final. not even a shadow.
how is that space different to one where a word never
even arrived? space isn’t just space. the space of what was.
the space of what might be. one moves away from me.
the other towards. what lands? what leaves?

i often wonder about the words that do not get written.
jostling for position like sperm on an egg mission. only
one space for one-word at a time. creation begets loss.

that

makes

me

think.

and those words which do not land here,
that pass by only as ghosts to echo onwards,
silently towards infinity. unseen by us. the me
that writes and the you that reads. the two of us.
what of them? are they the spaces between? inverted
poems of no-thing. read by no-one. one word lands.
millions go-free. does the formless have its own order?
ghost readers for ghost writings?


the pen that is not-

finding spaces inside the form

questions arising!

An Emergent Spiral reader left a comment saying that she would love to hear one of my poems being read, and when I offered her a choice, she picked this one, so as to be able to hear the Irish Gaeilge being spoken. So here it is. Enjoy.

these words, this language

colonised lands. let that land!

this language carries empire’s weight

our language was the land.

Tír gan teanga, tír gan anam

Ar Scáth a Chéile a Mhaireann na Daoine

when language and land are interwoven

the sap which bleeds from the birch sings

silence emanates as a mountainous roar

feathers in flight flap prayers above and below

ocean’s cacophonous ensemble lilts

waves whisper their secrets to the shore

here the heron stands on one leg

sublime

being

in the fresh moment and at one

with the soon-to-be-dead fish

a reciprocal dance that bears witness to place

take away our language and we are dumb-

struck for speaking our land in words

tally ho with your bata scóir oppression

may this send you scurrying to the land

and to the mythologies therein

may you build the bridges in that place

between the soil and the soul

and may the dirt on your boots

carry you ever homeward.

The phrases in this poem that are not in English are Gaeilge, Ireland’s indigenous language. They translate as:

Tír gan teanga, tír gan anam A country without a language is a country without a soul. Attributed to Pádraig Pearse, Irish Revolutionary.

Ar Scáth a Chéile a Mhaireann na Daoine In the shelter/shadow of each other, the people live. Traditional saying.

Bata scóir Known as the Tally Stick in English, it was introduced into schools in Ireland in 1831. The stick was used to punish children caught speaking their indigenous language. It was tied around their neck and a notch added for every infringement. At the close of the day they were beaten according to the number of notches collected.

Quotes that might inspire further reading:

“The bogs, rivers, mountains, and shorelines are more than preservers of old myths, bones, and memories. They are energy banks and time sponges, and what is held within them seeks release.”
Manchán Magan, Listen to the Land Speak: A Journey into the Wisdom of What Lies Beneath Us

"Very few critics of modernity/coloniality explore the implications of the colonisation of our relationship with language itself-the wording of the world. Within modernity/coloniality, being is defined by reason and it is the certainty of knowing ( through description/prescription) that anchors the security of being."
Vanessa Machado De Oliveira: Hospicing Modernity: Facing Humanity's Wrongs and the Implications for Social Activism'