The Start of Something

The other day, I was in a wood so beautiful I almost lost my way.

The water is black, not with shadows but with depth, and a steady flow tumbles over limestone. The sun is low. A bright carpet of yellow caresses the earth and, for a moment, everything is where it needs to be.

Except for one thing. Time.

Untethered and unstoppable.

In this perfect place, the world spins in a kaleidoscope of neon brights. The snap of my shutter. Trip-trap. Almost does it. A kind of peacefulness floats and eddies and swirls in the air. With a sniff, I breathe in a heady sense of freedom but my oxygen, this life-blood, will escape,  even if it is in the form of a long sigh that I try to make endless like the perpetual flow of a stream. If only this feeling of contentment might rest in my hand like a warm smooth stone of reassuring weight then I could tuck it into my pocket, a lucky talisman to carry with me on my journey, whatever might happen, wherever I may go, but is that wanting too much? All around me in this wood there are only leaves, a hundred thousand leaves, and like all the infinite moments of time, they shift like one being into something infinitesimally beyond my reach.

Paths are elusive in the glory of what might be but forced to look for what once was, I feel my way forwards. Beside a footbridge, a mother and daughter stand close, heads tilted towards each other. A smile warms their lips and they listen to my story and hear how I search for a signpost, a three-way signpost. Yes, they say, seemingly unsurprised, and with a guiding hand on my arm, the mother points to a stream on my map. They include me in their nod and see me strike out in a true direction, back over the narrow, rickety footbridge to where I first saw them, mirroring each other’s posture. I wave goodbye, warmed by their happiness.

And then it is my turn. An anxious dog owner spirals in ever-decreasing circles and the ghosts of the path are written in the tightness of her smile: the yell of a labourer, the thud of an axe hitting a tree, the smell of burning charcoal, the sting of smoke. Her eyes smart and when she asks for my help I lift her up in the palm of my hand and I set her high on the banks.

Arrows of light lift fallen leaves. All is bright and held in time. I shall return here to this place where everything is illuminated but for now I must be gone.

WM Blog Mayfield Woods leaf © Deirdre Huston



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