Hawthorne and Oak
Collecting words. In rows of white, a puff of pink…
Hello dear ones, has the week been kind to you?
It’s been frozen hands and goosebumps here for five days
On Friday afternoon the faintest whisper of a warm breeze ruffled the thousands of umbels of tiny white flowers on pignut and cow parsley lining the lanes carrying with it hope for a weekend minus the shivering but as I type this, too early on a Saturday morning because I am woken by a loose shutter banging against stone walls, I know my hope has false application. I wish I was wrong…
The hill has not been still for too many days, neither has it been quiet - neither has there been a remedy for a deep and necessary physical desire to slow down, to be calm . April is rolling at super high speed - like a high speed train screaming through the station, intolerably noisy, leaving nothing but a chilled, dusty vacuous space in its wake.
I have written little - my apologies - the phrases formed but took their shape from the cruel wind and were not for printing, they wait for an injection of sunshine or mist or kindness.
Above all kindness!
And yet, still, I rise each morning with an optimists heart in the hope that the day will be bright, that I will open my shutters to let dancing golden rays of early sunshine loose across my table, catching dust mites in a light that will tell me the wind and mood have changed direction.
“Trees, for example, carry the memory of rainfall. In their rings we read ancient weather—storms, sunlight, and temperatures, the growing seasons of centuries. A forest shares a history, which each tree remembers even after it has been felled.”
― Anne Michaels
Sad is the sound in the trees.
Violent winds have whipped too fast through the woodland, aged trees have suffered, young leaves have suffered. This after a few days of warm, tantalising us into thinking we are safe. thinking they were safe. Too many have fallen, I have listened to their anguish, their sighs, their sudden, crashing silence; an ancient oak, old enough to tell all the stories of America, so Monsieur tells me, home to thousands of tiny families, whose branches have touched more clouds than I could watch drift by in a lifetime. It’s limbs, now, lay distorted and broken. I try not to think of the many nests that may have been hidden within branches, how many tiny unborn birds lay quiet and cold in their palest blue or white speckled shells scattered among spring flowers. I hold tight to the thought that they are worthy, at least, of a floral burial in buttercups and daisies.
Monsieur is the owner of the château, usually his conversation is limited to a polite or more often impolite hello. As I walked the lane yesterday evening - trying to collect words that make me smile - I see him standing by his old tractor surveying what I believe to be another fallen tree - another old gentleman breathed its last breath - I hesitate before continuing, not wishing to be obliged into human conversation but he sees me and I feel bound by neighbourly kindness to continue. I offer a polite ‘bonjour’ as I attempt to pass without inviting anything more than the same in reply. Alas, Monsieur is evidently in need of a vent and I am surprised by the almost absurdly animated conversation that follows, it lasts far longer than I wish, far longer than ever before, long enough for me to realise the chain lying now harmless behind his tractor was used to pull the tree down. Seeing my stricken look he smiles, explaining about stag beetle larvae and how the tree was dangerous.
I say nothing, I cannot and not enjoying the silence he begins his habitual grumble of the injustice to having worked all his life for so little return - a popular and much shouted about subject amongst the retired farmers here, probably everywhere.
‘C'est honteux l'argent qu'ils me donnent, ils ne sont que corrompus et malhonnêtes’ he shouts at me. (It’s shameful the money they give me, they are nothing but corrupt and dishonest’).
I dread the mention of ‘la retraite’, I dread being shouted at as if I am the guilty party. I cannot change the system we both live in.
The conversation moves on to his mother, an adorable lady of Italian origin, who I had the very great pleasure of meeting - sadly only one time - in her vast kitchen which had everything one would imagine a château kitchen to have. The gigantic old range by which she stood stirring a marmite, hummed quietly, a gentle giant compared to my own temperamental, smoke billowing mini monster and the most heavenly, sweet scent of elderflower and gooseberry filled the air that I’ve never managed to replicate but will never forget.
He reminisces with a sadness that tugs at my heart, a realisation that perhaps he has one too, though he's given me no sign of it in the past. And then, just as I am correcting all my earlier, seemingly mistaken assumptions about his character, he turns to look at the row of trees still standing and says,
‘Je suppose qu'ils devront tous être abattus maintenant, une fois l'un d'eux tombé, les autres suivront rapidement...’ (I suppose they will all have to be felled now, once one is down, the others will quickly follow...)
I have no words respectful enough to say in reply, turning away I am blinded by wind and tears…
Crowds of clouds gather while we are talking, manifesting their strong protest of even the tiniest patch of blue as they charge unchecked across the hill. An invasion of slate grey that matches my mood. I cannot imagine that stretch of the lane without the old oaks standing guard, my heart feels as heavy as the sky. I try to recall the words of Herman Hesse as I wander onwards but fail and have to look them up…
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
Trees are sanctuaries… How can I possibly convey this importance to someone who should already know?
I hold out my meagre collection of words to blow away in the wind. They haven’t made me smile.
A puff of pink…
Nature gives us, our eyes, our senses, many moments of astonishment; a feather balanced on a blade of grass, a field of cornflowers or poppies or both, the dulcet, paradisiacal songs of golden oriole in June, the first warm breezes of spring and, a rogue pink Hawthorne nestled amongst a row of frothy white.
I know of such a place; a liminal place, hidden half way between highest outcrop and valley river is a hedge, rambling, unkempt, if I step through the trailing curtain of raspberry ripple pink I believe I will find quiet and magic and words…
Dreams gather - pink puffs of poetry - letters on a gentle breath
Wherever you are, I wish you all a peaceful rest of your day - with love
I have written little over the last days and read less…
who writes Fearless Green - I love her title name - has added me to her directory of Substack nature writers, and that really makes me smile!Thank you Rebecca - for your important work and for considering me worthy!
Your phrases and imagery always make me feel, and often smile, but today maybe more teary. We have an old stodgy tree felling neighbor too and we’ve shed too many tears to count as he turns trunks into cash. I appreciate the moment where your neighbor’s beating heart was revealed, I felt hopeful, even for our own, but then to hear that he had only just begun?! I fear I may grind my teeth tonight as I sleep. May their souls someday be redeemed and their domination leveled alongside those buttercups and baby birds. 🤍
Beautiful! I'm sorry you didn't find the words you needed for a smile, but you touched some hearts with your writing and that is always a lovely thing. Your pictures, lovely as they are, have a dreamy, ethereal look to them, which really goes with the tone of your whole post. Very well done!! XO