Yesterday afternoon I drove down to the local beach at Bulverhythe for a run, but as I started out, quickly realised I just didn’t have the energy. I decided to make the most of being there anyway and instead had a slow, mindful walk, to enjoy watching the sea and the wildlife. So glad I did.
I stood on some barnacled rocks by the shoreline, and witnessed a slow stream of 20-30 swallows fly across my vision, from West to East, over the space of several minutes. No doubt they were on their way to gathering together ready for their migration South, feeding on insects along the way to garner strength before the mammoth journey.
Having basked in this unexpected display, I looked down and there were at least a dozen turnstones mooching around on the rocks, just a few feet away from me, completely unperturbed by my presence.
Turnstone at Bulverhythe (taken in 2022)
As I jogged slowly back to the car, I wondered afterwards why the swallows were travelling East before heading South. Perhaps they somehow ‘knew’ the Channel crossing is shorter from along the coast towards Dover?
The day before, walking down to our local woods, I was treated to the sight of numerous House Martins circling high overhead – another sign of preparation for mass migration. I rarely see House Martins round this way, so I guess they must have been congregating from quite a wide radius.
And a few weeks ago, in Hastings Country Park, I was thrilled to see a small flock of Yellow Wagtails, also likely to have been assembling for a southbound exodus. It was only the second time I’ve definitively seen a Yellow Wagtail, so a real treat.
Yellow Wagtails, Hastings Country Park, 8/9/24
Autumn is many wonderful things, including a time of natural endings, of letting go, and embracing necessary change.
Being a witness to the miracle of migration feels like a marvellous privilege.
And these experiences, these close encounters with seasonal rhythms, fill me with a sense of excited awe, anticipation, of being swept up into something incredible, of endless possibilities. I love Summer – I’m always sad to leave it behind – but as Autumn gets into full swing, I find that Nature provides plenty new nourishment for my soul.
In my last post, Synchronicity, I wrote about a healing encounter with a rare butterfly.
This time a therapeutic moment with some more commonplace butterflies…
I’d dropped my daughter off for a church youth camp in a small field at the wonderful retreat centre Ashburnham Place last Friday (23rd Aug), feeling completely frazzled at the end of a frantic working week.
Whilst there, I had the opportunity for a brief wander around the grounds.
Strolling through a meadowy bank next to one of the lakes, I discovered a number of small butterflies and moths beginning to roost down for the evening. The more I looked, the more butterflies I realised were there, settling atop flower stalks in the late afternoon sun – the ‘golden hour’ – perfectly poised for a photo shoot.
Common Blue (although, like most butterfly species, not so common these days)
I only really had time to capture images of two individuals – this Common Blue and Small Copper – but the difference that half-hour walk made to my mind and soul was phenomenal.
From frazzled to refreshed.
From overwhelmed to contented.
Small Copper
“Solvitur ambulando”, as the Latin saying goes, or “Walking solves everything”.
These nature walks are, for me, a holistic mix of prayer, contemplation, mindfulness, immersion in Nature and Spirit, and more.
And the photography, as a cherished, creative hobby, brings an added element of playfulness.
John Muir, the Scottish-American naturalist, famously said: “Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where Nature may heal and cheer and give strength to body and soul alike.”
As I reflected on that Friday afternoon walk, it struck me that strolls like this one fulfil all those elements in one combined moment. Play and pray. We easily forget, in a productivity-focused world, the importance of play to our mental health and wellbeing.
Enjoying the sights of nature not only with the naked eye but also through the joyful creativity of my camera lens, no doubt played its part in stimulating my parasympathetic nervous system, bringing calm to my anxious mind and body. As does writing these words.
Another view of the same Small Copper
Play and pray.
As I walked and prayed, I also revelled in the knowledge of Ashburnham’s rich and broad spiritual history, a ‘holy’ place saturated with prayer and contemplation, as I connected in my heart with the many thousands of people who have visited this centre with its exquisite grounds in search of fresh connection with the Divine. And I enjoyed that sense of spiritual oneness, thus enhancing my own prayer.
That afternoon I discovered a newly installed information post that places the Beatitudes, and a reflection on Jesus’ bias towards the poor and disempowered, in a small woodland clearing overlooked by towering beech trees.
I love how the people at Ashburnham decided to situate the heart of Jesus’ teaching in these woodlands, within a circle of trees. A perfect reflection of how the wisdom of the Christ was birthed in his own wanders in the wild hills of ancient Galilee and Judea, as he no doubt toyed prayerfully and playfully with words that would form his message to the world.
If you ever get the opportunity to visit Ashburnham Place, I thoroughly recommend it – including a cream tea at the Orangery!
Nature is, of course, our great Healer. Probably because we are Nature.
What happened to me on Saturday 13th July this year is a wonderful example of this, and of Synchronicity, as described by Carl Jung. More details below…
For quite a while I’ve been struggling with frequent periods of intense anxiety, which sometimes tips over into symptoms of depression.
On this particular day I was experiencing some unusually low feelings and was mulling over the apparent pointlessness of everything – which is not my normal self – as I walked with my camera and dog through one of the open fields of St Helen’s Woods, here in Hastings.
As usual I was on the lookout for wildlife to photograph, when I saw an orangey butterfly winging its way towards me. But instead of flying past, it proceeded to land right on my T-shirt, over my stomach.
It opened its wings for about two seconds, revealing its identity, before flying off again. A Large Tortoiseshell!
I’m not sure I can get across the momentousness of this moment, but I’ll try.
When I was a child delving into butterfly books and dreaming of seeing the rarities pictured there, like the Purple Emperor or Camberwell Beauty, the Large Tortoiseshell was already endangered – the stuff of lepidopterists’ fantasies; later to become sadly extinct in Britain.
In more recent years, through both reintroduction and migration, the Large Tortoiseshell has been making a comeback in England, but still remains a rare and extra-special sighting for anyone into butterflies.
The encounter was too brief, and the butterfly too close (despite camera in hand), to get a photo. I was left simultaneously gutted not to have been able to photograph it and elated over this lifetime first sighting. The excitement was immense.
But to be honest, the latter far outweighed the former.
PHOTO CREDIT: WILLIAM MALPAS (taken from BBC article referenced below)
(As a rare exception, I’m using a photo here that’s not my own. Full credit above.)
For a split-second, during that momentary meeting, it felt like a dream. I worked out recently that I was eight when my enthralment with butterflies was ignited – that’s 50 years ago – and have literally dreamt of seeing rarities, so I knew what I was seeing. But after the event, I couldn’t help but doubt myself. Could it really have been a Large Tortoiseshell? I later learned that LTs are known to have been breeding in Hastings in the last two years. If I needed any confirmation, that was it.
Back to Jung (1875-1961)…
I stand with the esteemed psychologist and psychotherapist in his controversial theory of Synchronicity, whereby everyday events and phenomena that we encounter may be external manifestations of our internal processes. Jung, with a Christian background and pluralistic interest in multiple expressions of faith, had a distinctly spiritual outlook which didn’t always go down so well with his associates who preferred a solely observable, measurable and rationalistic approach.
It’s not uncommon for people, of any faith or even none, to interpret the world around us in a similar way to Jung – finding meaning in the things that happen to us and around us. Although we know that, by the laws of probability, coincidences will inevitably happen, there are some coincidences that seem so significant as to make us sit up and take notice – occurrences that just seem to shout (or whisper) a deeper message to us.
And to me, that seems quite rational. (Christians sometimes refer to these as “God-incidences”.)
In my case, the meaning I found in the extraordinary episode went something like this:
In my low state, experiencing a sense of hopelessness, the Divine (aka God) connected with me through this lifetime first sighting of a rare butterfly, reassuring me of their ongoing Presence.
I think the significance of the fact that this unexpected friend made literal, physical contact with me, cannot be over-emphasised. This once-in-a-lifetime butterfly “chose” to land on me in my time of depression!
Connection or re-connection is, I would argue, what Life is all about.
There are long associations in folklore between butterflies (and birds) and divine messengers or angels. With their colourful wings, captivating beauty, and their miraculous metamorphosis serving as an archetype of transformation, it’s easy to see why.
While not equating butterflies with angelic beings, like Jesus and the biblical prophets I do see the whole natural world as “supernaturally natural”, with glimpses of the Divine visible, and whispers audible, to a lesser or greater extent by those with eyes to see and ears to hear.
In my spiritual worldview (something like Jung’s, with a Christian base and an open mind), the Large Tortoiseshell meeting served as a sign that God, the eternal I Am, who is Love, is still with me, still reconciling all things, still turning all things to good.
That, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “All will be well, and all will be well and all manner of thing shall be well”.
For me, Nature is an expression and extension of the Divine. Immersing ourselves in Nature is to immerse ourselves in God, thereby connecting with ourselves, healing and wholeness in the process.
Anxiety-wise, I may not be out of the woods yet – pun intended! – but things are looking up and moments like this give me hope.
Less than three weeks after that encounter in St Helen’s Woods, this article was published by the BBC:
in which conservationist William Malpas speaks of his incredulity at his first sighting of a Large Tortoiseshell in 2022. Malpas poignantly mentions that it happened at a particularly difficult time, having just lost a close friend.
Inspired by a guided meditation* on the humble dandelion and my recent purchase of a macro lens, I decided to dig out my tripod and try taking some close-up photos of this very familiar, highly successful and much-loved wildflower.
I say “much-loved” – of course, it has been and still is regarded as a weed by many. But even amongst gardeners, there’s growing recognition of its importance as an attractor of bees and other pollinators, helping to bring life to other, more “wanted” plants.
In fact, dandelions are positively good for lawns, as their wide-spreading roots loosen hard-packed soil, aerate the earth and help reduce erosion.
The deep taproot pulls nutrients such as calcium from deep in the soil and makes them available to other plants. While some people think they’re a lawn killer, dandelions actually fertilize the grass.**
And before the invention of lawns some time in the 20th Century, dandelions were lauded for their leaves and golden blossoms as a bounty of food, medicine and magic. Gardeners would even weed out the grass to make room for the dandelions!
The original French “dent de lion” was named after lions because their lion-toothed leaves healed so many ailments, and to this day, herbalists hail the dandelion as the perfect plant medicine. Amongst other properties, it’s a gentle diuretic that provides nutrients and helps the digestive system function at peak efficiency.
Each plant produces around 3000 seeds in its lifetime!
Dandelion ‘clocks’ remain an eternal source of joy to children – and many adults like me – as their wispy seeds waft away in the breeze, entrancing wide eyes of wonder.
These seeds remind me of the chimney brushes in Mary Poppins!
God, the Universe and Nature have given us so much, for our bodies, hearts and souls, that we have neglected and even destroyed – at our own peril, especially here in the West – some of which is literally right at our feet. I hope humanity can find a way to start restoring our ancient relationship with Nature and therefore with God and ourselves.
*Meditation by Anna Robinson on the Nomad podcast (subscriber content).
**Some of this material is taken from: Ten Things You Might Not Know About Dandelions, with thanks. If you’d like to know more, do take a look at this informative and delightful article.
On a recent family trip to Ireland, top of my to-do list was a visit to the semi-ruined Muckross Abbey, a Franciscan friary renowned for the magnificent yew tree that stands in the centre of the building, spreading her maternal branches caressingly over the cloisters.
The tree is reckoned to be about 400 years old, although some estimate its origin to be as far back as the founding of the Abbey itself, around 1340.
Even going by conservative estimates, the yew is universally recognised and revered as one of Ireland’s oldest trees.
I love the theory that the Abbey might actually have been built around the already-growing tree.
Whichever came first – the Abbey or the yew – the deliberate placement of the tree at the heart of monastic life is a perfect expression of Franciscan spirituality, which integrates faith in God with a close connection to nature, following not only the way of St Francis but also that of Jesus.
I wondered what part the tree might have played in the monks’ spiritual life. No doubt a tangible sign of God’s immanent presence in Creation. Perhaps also a reminder of the tree (cross) on which their Saviour died.
How amazing it would be to have trees growing in the centre of our churches today (if it didn’t threaten the buildings’ foundations and void insurance policies!) – or to find other ways of keeping connections with nature at the heart of our faith communities.
Muckross Abbey sits within Killarney National Park, an outstandingly picturesque, expansive and wild mountainous area – again, no doubt an intentional move to immerse a life of faith into the life of Nature on the edges of civilisation.
This deer stayed nicely still for me
Above and below are some of the photos I took of other areas of the National Park, which I think give some sense of the wild beauty of the area.
Torc Waterfalls (complete with drops of rain on the camera lens!Hooded crows
Our visit to Muckross Abbey turned out to be briefer than we’d hoped. Nevertheless, to witness this icon of Franciscan spirituality fulfilled my expectations of inspiration and aesthetic brilliance.
The late afternoon April sun streaming through the narrow windows made parts of the tree and surrounding cloisters appear wondrously luminescent
It was a mixed-weather day: kind of warm, compared with the weather we’ve had recently. Kind of cool. Warm enough to bring out a few insects, though sadly not a single butterfly in sight.
White-tailed Bumblebee on White Deadnettle
Some kind of hoverfly, maybe?
Cloudy, with just a hint of drizzle at times, but mostly dry.
Kestrel against a very grey sky!
This mute swan was one of my first pictures of the walk, near Winchelsea Station, and probably my favourite photo of the day, the mixed skies highlighting the swan’s elegant white and orange against a mosaic backdrop of green shades.
A few of the many Spring flowers now emerging in force:
Sallow blossom
Alkanet
Comfrey
Herb RobertSo good to see Hawthorn blossom now starting to adorn our paths
I think Gorka enjoyed the walk too, even if he did need a good hose-down when we got home!
And finally, some Spring too-cuteness to end this post with:
Having walked part of the 1066 Country Walk[1] (1066CW) here in East Sussex last year, I decided I’d try and cover the rest during 2024 – a bit at a time. The route, which weaves through green Wealden countryside associated with the Norman Conquest, isn’t actually that long. When I was younger, I’d have ‘conquered’ it in two days, but I’m learning to slow down, partly out of necessity, partly out of choice.
On a very wet morning of 7th Feb, I drove out to the village of Three Oaks, armed with camera and Ordnance Survey map, accompanied by my dog, Gorka, with plans for a 5-mile circular walk, taking in part of the 1066CW. I also planned to listen, later in the walk, to a devotional podcast with Alexander Shaia titled Walking and Awaking – on pilgrimage as a metaphor for life.
Having parked the car, I walked backwards and forwards up and down several paths, trying to find the way, covering over 1.5 muddy miles before I’d even left the village!
Even this rabbit looked pretty soaked
The 1066CW wasn’t as clearly marked as I’d seen in other places. I took another wrong turn further on, and so decided to do an out-and-back walk, as my circular route was going to end up far longer than planned.
I walked as far as Farbanks Henge, which I’d first stumbled across in November from the opposite direction. Hawthorn trees have been planted in the centre of each of the 6 pieces that make up this wonderful wooden sculpture, so in the Spring they’re apparently adorned with pink blossom. I’m looking forward to re-visiting in a couple of months.
Farbanks Henge
My walk from Three Oaks to Farbanks Henge was 3.5 miles, the walk back just 1.5 miles! Such was the extent of the unplanned and unintended detours I took on the way out.
A rather bedraggled looking Gorka on this soggy morning at Farbanks Henge
On the way back I listened to Alexander Shaia speaking of his experiences of leading pilgrimages on the Camino de Santiago.
He explained that “What walking pilgrimage teaches me about the pilgrimage of my life is that I don’t know the answers, that so much of life is about the quality of presence in the midst of uncertainty.
Common gorse, which flowers between January and June
When I’m home in my usual life, it has a lot of seeming certitude to it, but when I’m walking in Spain, I never know what’s around the next corner, I never know the terrain, I never know who I’m going to meet, and I love that deep, deep reminder that that really is the truth of life, that we cast our life upon God and that all certitude rests with God.”
A fungus-bedecked, bird-shaped tree trunk against muddy backdrop
Well, my experiences that morning, with unfamiliar footpaths and unexpected diversions, could hardly have fitted any better with those words!
Simultaneously, I’d been reflecting on my ongoing anxieties over life in general and specifically about the new job I’ll be starting next week, after recently leaving a 20-year post.
Not just a new ‘season’. A whole new and unknown territory, with new people along the path and new skills to learn.
Some more of the fungal beauty found along the way
But life is like that. And Shaia’s thoughts on pilgrimage, synchronising with the twists and turns of my walk that day, reminded me of the need to lean into the unknown.
And in that unknown, not to be too concerned about the uncertainty, but to focus on relationality. Building relationship with others, with the Other, with community, and with self.
To focus on Presence. On Being. In my own presence, being conscious of the greater Presence.
Uncertainty is OK – in the bigger context of Presence and Relationality. I’m learning.
One of the clearer signposts along the path
Shaia also mirrors my own experience when he states that, when he’s walking, “because I’m out of my usual day-to-day life, I can see the great questions more easily and I can listen better to Spirit’s voice inside of me.”
There’s a beautiful saying, attributed to St Augustine: Walking solves everything.
Or, in Latin – which I kind of prefer in this case, for its succinctness – Solvitur ambulando.
As with long-distance running, prayer, or the retreat I recently enjoyed, the benefits, lessons learned or sought-after solutions aren’t always found along the way, or even at the destination, but often emerge after the event.
There’s an ancient rhythm and wisdom to walking, which is thankfully being re-discovered in our (I think) increasingly holistic society.
More to come from me on this, hopefully, as we ramble on[2] through the year and I reflect on other sections of the 1066 Country Walk.
A mossy railway footbridge on the 1066 Country Walk
(All photos mine, taken 31st Jan – 1st Feb 2024 in the grounds of Ashburnham Place and the surrounding countryside.)
Pheasant, on the edge of Ashburnham Place
In October, in Nurture of Nature, I wrote about my hope of a transition away from a dysfunctional and difficult (work) environment to a more positive and constructive one.
I’m now in that place of transition. It’s been a tough ride, but here I am now in that space between the old and the new.
Sunset at Ashburnham Place, 1st February
So, when I saw that a retreat titled At The Threshold was being held in exactly this period (between the end of my 20-year job role and the start of a new work challenge/opportunity), at Ashburnham Place (just up the road from me), led by Anna Robinson whose contemplations I already listen to and benefit from, I jumped at the opportunity.
In fact, it sounded like it was designed just for me.
The retreat ran from 30th Jan to 2nd Feb.
Sunset: that liminal space between day and night, 1st February
A threshold is defined as “The means or place of entry. The place or point of beginning…The term comes from the reeds and rushes, thresh, that were thrown on the floor of simple dwellings…. A piece of wood would be installed in the doorway to keep the thresh from falling out of an open door – thus threshold.” (Merriam-Webster)
Bulrushes on the edge of one of Ashburnham’s lakes
We reflected on liminal spaces, between the old and the new, and on the myths and legends surrounding St Brigid, Ireland’s Patroness Saint, who represents the liminal space between worlds and is celebrated on 1st Feb: also the first day of Spring according to the Celtic calendar.
Catkins by one of the lakes
Despite the numerous positive aspects of the retreat, I was experiencing significant emotional struggles following the work situation I’d left behind, and spent the morning of 1st Feb walking in the surrounding countryside instead of participating in the sessions.
Nature is often the best healer.
Goldfinches feeding in a field not far from Ashburnham
Although this date might sound decidedly wintry to many of us, this particular year (in East Sussex at least), the first day of February transpired to be remarkably Spring-like, with sunshine so warm I ended up walking in shirt sleeves for the last couple of miles, carrying my heavy coat.
Female Reed Bunting in the warm February sun, in the same area as the goldfinches (above)
And it wasn’t just the weather that bore early signs of Spring.
These male pheasants were squaring up to each other the way pheasants do – each lowering his head to prove his dominance and claim the territory in preparation for the breeding season.
Snowdrops
Snowdrops, probably mostly cultivated, adorned front gardens and roadsides.
Snowdrops: always one of the first flowers of the new year
I also saw my first ‘proper’ wildflowers of the year: these Lesser celandine and dandelions…
Lesser celandine
…complete with my first hoverfly sighting of the year.
Hoverfly on dandelions
The Winter/Spring sun also prompted the appearance of a Red Admiral – my first butterfly sighting of 2024 (no photo, sadly).
Goldfinch
Seeing two kestrels together seemed unusual. Surely, as lone hunters, a second bird would be unwanted competition. But I was reliably informed by Ashburnham’s resident birder, Christian, that this coupling was yet another clear harbinger of Spring, as creatures everywhere are preparing to breed.
Kestrels on the edge of the grounds
In tune with the Celtic calendar, we found ourselves clearly but somewhat surprisingly (to me, at least) on the threshold of Spring, with all the positive signs of hope and growth that that expectation brings.
On a lighter note, in reference to Noah’s Ark, a friend I made on the retreat joked that all the wildlife at Ashburnham is seen in pairs because it’s a Christian centre. I quipped back that we’ll soon see Steve Carell appear, with a super-long beard.
Long-tailed tit
As another expression of thresholds, Anna led us on two outdoor sessions over sunset / dusk, that liminal space between day and night. The first of these sessions was a silent, deliberately slow walk, watching the subtle changes in hues under cloud-laden skies. A silent, contemplative walk with others was a new and profound experience for me.
The second, on 1st Feb, was spent revelling in a spectacular sunset, brightening our hearts.
Above and below: St Brigid’s Day sunset
Amongst other things, Brigid is known as the patroness saint of midwives. In Celtic imagery, the earth in its transition from Winter into Spring is compared to a womb awaiting the right time to give birth, Brigid symbolising the earth’s midwife.
Anna reminded us that as we move through our own transitional stages of life, it’s often helpful (maybe vital) to have ‘midwives’ – people who support us through those liminal spaces into new beginnings.
More snowdrops (you can’t have too many snowdrop photos!)
As I reflect on my own experiences of the retreat, despite undergoing emotional difficulties, I’m left with many beautiful and positive images and themes etched onto my mind.
For those few days I was part of a gentle-hearted, caring and kind group of spiritually like-minded people – experiencing greater oneness with this temporary community than I have with any group for a long time – and I felt surrounded and sustained by these spiritual midwives.
It occurred to me that this liminal space in my own life, drawing on the midwifery imagery, is perhaps almost bound to involve some birth pains – pains that foreshadow the joy of new beginnings. I’m so grateful for Anna and the others who were there as my own midwives, in the spirit of Brigid.
Primroses
I’m also grateful for the ancient Celtic traditions and spirituality, with its recognition of our inherent connectedness with Nature, that was woven into the retreat – an approach to faith that has long appealed and I intend to explore further, to integrate into my own contemplative practices.
And I look back fondly on my St Brigid’s Day nature walk, with the many heralds of Spring that the day offered and which brought refreshment and nourishment to my soul.
I finish here with one of my favourite photos of the week (just a flock of sheep, but with long, long shadows indicative of the low, low sun of Winter – soon to be Spring!) and some words from John O’Donohue that have ‘emerged’ into – and strongly resonated with – my consciousness more than once already this year, including on the retreat.
For a New Beginning (by John O’Donohue)
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the grey promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
—–
Thank you to Anna Robinson and all those who attended At The Threshold, 30th Jan – 2nd Feb 2024.
I was SO privileged to witness this rapturous display of raptors recently in the South-west of England.
Firstly, this pair of buzzards circling and sweeping the Autumn currents against the backdrop of a disused quarry:
Buzzards
At the same time, there was a repetitive, coarse call in the background that I didn’t recognise, but which I later found out from an app on my phone was the cry of a raven. It sounded like a warning cry.
Buzzards
Next thing I knew, a peregrine falcon had joined the aerial display, and was bombing the buzzards. It was a terrific sight. Two kinds of raptors at odds with each other against the clear Autumn sky, accompanied by the shrill alarm call of ravens!
Peregrine (top); buzzard (upside-down!)
We’d seen peregrines at this site once before. At that time they were nesting, and we could even see their young on the cliff-face nest, calling out for food. We were gently requested by local birders not to reveal the location on social media, in order to protect this important young family from twitchers and poachers.
Peregrine (left) and buzzard
On this October day it seemed that the buzzards were seen as a threat to the peregrines and ravens. Moving in on their territory. It’s unlikely that any of these birds was nesting at this time of year, so I think the battle was simply a fight over hunting space.
Competition over territory seems to be a common theme in nature – often a necessary fight for survival.
Isn’t it wonderful, then, that humanity has evolved beyond such self-centred territorialism into an altruistic sense of commonality, able to share space with mutual acceptance and respect?
When I first spotted this oak tree growing out of a signpost in Newgate Woods, near my home, it immediately grabbed my attention and I knew there was a blog in the making.
Oak sapling, Newgate Woods, 8th Sept
At first I thought of well-worn sentiments about the resilience of nature. But somehow I knew that wasn’t the thing to write about this time.
Something about ‘oaks of righteousness’ as described by the Jewish prophet Isaiah, perhaps? But that didn’t seem to fit either.
I also wondered about how the acorn that gave rise to the young sapling got there. Did a child deposit it into the signpost? Or maybe a jay or a magpie dropped the acorn there.
“A single jay can plant over 7,500 acorns in four weeks, living up to its Latin name, Garrulus glandarius, ‘the chattering acorn-gatherer’. It is particularly choosy, selecting ripe acorns that are not too small and have not been affected by parasites, those with high calorific value that also – hence the symbiosis – have the best chance of germination.” (Isabella Tree, Wilding, p.121)
But then the message for this blog post became clear.
I suddenly realised that – whatever its beginning – this tree had no hope of survival, with no sustaining soil to speak of, no territory to spread its roots out to.
No nurture = “No future”, as the Sex Pistols bellowed out over the bleak socioeconomic landscape of the late ‘70s.
This is of course true of children – and adults too. None of us can achieve our potential without some healthy ground to encourage our growth. We all need physical, emotional and/or spiritual nurturing at different times of our lives.
Otherwise our gifts and potential may wither and die.
I returned to the sapling a few weeks later and, sure enough, it was brown, withered, cobwebbed and…utterly dead.
The same sapling, Newgate Woods, 8th Oct
No surprises there.
I’ve been in a similar situation where, instead of nurturing and encouraging, the environment has been the opposite – fault-finding, dictatorial, controlling – and I’ve experienced a kind of dying. A mental torment that rendered me almost unable to do the things I normally do well. Instead of being mentally, physically or spiritually nurtured, I was mentally, physically and spiritually drained.
Focussing on doing the things I’m naturally or spiritually gifted at became an exhausting struggle. I became very unwell. As for growth – I found myself wilting like the sapling, rather than growing and fulfilling my potential.
I’m taking steps to move away from that destructive environment to one that is more constructive, and I hope to have some good news soon.
But the sapling episode reminds me not only to find good soil for my own growth, but to take every opportunity to nurture others, whether family members, colleagues, friends’ children, or friends themselves.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the woods, stands this mighty oak and many others, standing strong through the storms of many years, roots outstretched, absorbing nutrients from hundreds of metres around, providing a home for untold numbers of invertebrates, birds and squirrels.
Complete with my photo-bombing dog, Gorka
I hope to not only find life-giving ground for myself but to be that life-giving ground for others, so that they and I can be all we can be, just like this oak.
Spirit of Nature 