10th November
Coastal air is calling. I step through the dunes at Findhorn, the grasses are waving gently in the soft and light air. The sound waves from the ocean now reach me with their full force. This is a place I want to be at this very moment.
I head onto the sand bank, walking as far as I can along until salt water is surrounding me. The tide is coming back, the sun shifts in the scudding clouds and for a moment the ground glows. I can feel the ripples of hard sand through my thin-soled boots, shaped by the water. Not solid, not liquid. Walking backwards I am followed by the water, gently moving me to a place of safety (and dry feet).
In the shallows I am met with iridescent pools, water carefully resisting wind. Atmosphere reflected into the ground below and there are mirrors everywhere. The sky moves, the sea moves, I stay still.
A flash of cobalt blue on a mussel shell electrifies the soft water. Ripples radiate outwards. Even the hollow husks of what once was can diffuse energy here. The ions are different, I am told.
17th November
I gaze out of the window at the exploded mountain top of Ben Arthur. I’m yet to transport myself to the other side of the glass. I am inward feeling today. I wonder what the others are feeling as they reach its summit. It is snowing up there, in its own cloud, in its own otherworldly microcosm.
At sea level, Loch Long has surged repeatedly in recent storms, bringing bladderwrack onto the tarmac, and litter. Enough to fill a boat, speckled across the waterline. Beautiful trees adorned with plastic pipes and wrappers long bleached of their identity. But everyone knows their identity; they are human made, and human disposed.
The beauty comes with the golden oak leaves floating on the still loch surface. They are abundant. They are resilient. They are saving the day for this troubled soul.
It should feel surreal to be encased within a beautiful landscape with such a disarray of waste at my feet. It doesn’t, it is a familiar tale of waste. Wasted objects, wasted time and wasted gratitude.
20th November
These are my favourite days. When I can walk alone with no need to be anywhere or do anything. And I am decided, today I want to see the Spey in the snow.
The first snows at river level have arrived. I’ve been dreaming vividly lately, and they are dreams that creep into my daily thoughts, consistently laced throughout my movements and desires. Of different lives, past lives? And worlds with no humans. I am a bird. I am tangled in river weed. I am a dusty desert with an eternity of waiting for a small sprout of life to arrive.
These are my thoughts as I walk onto the crunchy snow. “What if?”
In the snow, the colours that remain are more vivid than ever, and the lime green moss on the spruce is vibrant now it is not competing with the other greens of the forest. The rowans are still there, waiting.
I know where I am heading, and stepping out onto the riverside my breath is taken in cold and light. The water is dark and my body tingles. It is everything I hoped for.
Snow capped stones in the river, orange bracken and waving grasses. Gently ebbing pools and icy torrents. Small birds flitting in the trees, silhouetted. I shield my eyes, then close them. My lungs take the cold air fully. What a life.
I follow my route along the water, and the waving weed feels like déjà vu. It brings warmth to the scene, it shows me the water is hospitable, it shows me it is free, and maybe I can belong here.
My mind empties slowly on the way home. I feel tired and my toes are cold. My cheeks are burning. I’m glad of it all.
28th November
The freezing fog came through the night and the world woke to utter stillness, I feel like I am holding my breath. I am not myself today; the Earth is shining and is light and wonderful, yet I am ensnared by a heaviness. I watch the light move through the day, brief moments outside and the cold air that usually feels so good to me, feels sharp and cruel. The sky becomes heavy nearing the early dusk, threatening snow.
The day has felt long but mostly in darkness, candles flicker and I can’t see the dust in the house anymore. I scold myself; “This is our northern winter, this is what is necessary.” I take my vitamin D. Follow the routines, live and move and try not to slow to a stop. Wash and mend, and cook and slice, read and sing in the kitchen alone. I find the moments to feed my soul with art and wonder. And then I think I am no longer looking out into nature, but nature is there looking in at me. Like an animal locked away. And all I want in the world is the walls to crumble. To be absorbed by it all.
Leave a Reply