This is a place where people greet each other when they meet. I think it is an expression of big nature. People become humble and remember where they come from. That’s the effect this forest has on me.
“We walked always in beauty, it seemed to me. We walked and looked about, or stood and looked. Sometimes, less often, we would sit down. We did not often speak. The place spoke for us and was a kind of speech. We spoke to each other in the things we saw.”
Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
Not hoary hair or heavy care can still my wild desire
To race across the uplands, over Memory’s tender turf,
And dive out of my sorrows in the dogwood’s bloomy surf.
O blue were violets in our youth, and blue were April skies,
And blue the early song-bird’s wings, but bluer were the eyes
That, in that land of long ago, looked thro’ the window pane,
And saw the tulips nod to us amid the slanting rain,
Where all the dusk was glowing with our ruddy cottage fire,
When the gold was on the willow, and the purple on the brier.
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
The ducats of the dandelions have paid old Winter’s hire,
And sent him shuffling northward in garb of tattered snow;
White-tasseled birches after him their balmy odors throw.
Carousing in the bramble brake the brown bees, boozing, sip,
And up the river’s cataracts the shining salmon slip.
The schoolboy’s spirit leaveth him upon the weary seat,
And over loamy furrows leaps, with lightsome heart, to greet
The chipmunk on the mossy wall, the bullfrog in the mire,
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier.
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
He whistles the cantata of the blackbird’s noisy choir,
And all the murmurous music of a manumitted stream
Sings soft around his naked feet, where shallow ripples gleam,
As if the loops of crystal wherein the lad doth wade
Had threaded through the lilies of some Paradise arcade,
And little laughing angels had tucked their tunics high,
To plash across its limpid shoals before it left the sky;
And still it lilts the melody of lute, and harp, and lyre,
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier.
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
It may be sin to say it, but I fear that I shall tire
Of heaven’s eternal summer, and sometimes I will yearn
To see across the greening swale, a budding maple burn.
My soul can ne’er be satisfied where sweet Spring never hath
Her way along the mountain side or by the meadow path,
Where kingcups never catch the sun, or bluebells mock the sky,
Or trout beneath the foam-wreaths hide, or bass jump at the fly,
And, in some homesick moment, for a furlough I’ll inquire,
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier.
By Robert Mcintyre
When have you last sought shelter from the rain under a tree in the forest?
Standing there when raindrops are falling on withered leaves and the scent of rain fills and enriches the air you breathe.
I did that a few days ago when the sun and rain in turn were stars on a beautiful March day.
“I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets. It has given me blessed release from care and worry and the troubled thinking of our modern day. It has been a return to the primitive and the peaceful. Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and benumbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail; and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me – I am happy.”
By Hamlin Garland, McClure’s, February 1899
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
A Light Exists in Spring by Emily Dickinson
I went to the forest to find the beautiful horses at Sandskreds Soe, the horse in this post is from my hike in December.
Nevertheless the hike was stunning with the light that gleamed in lakes and hills, grasses and trees
Det lykkedes mig ikke at finde de smukke heste ved Sandskreds Sø, hesten i dette indlæg er fra min vandretur i december.
Ikke desto mindre var vandreturen fantastisk med lyset, der skinnede i søer og bakker, græs og træer.
_______________________________________________
God tur pas på hinanden, og husk madpakken ❤
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
‘Do not stand at my grave and weep’
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
There’s a sunrise and a sunset every single day, and they’re absolutely free.
Don’t miss so many of them.
By Jo Walton
______________________________
Rigtig dejlig vinterferie, og pas godt på hinanden ❤
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Poem by Robert Frost
Høsten er én af mine favorit årstider. Naturen bugner af frodighed. Æbler, pærer, blommer, bær og meget andet.
Hindbær og brombær er helt fantastiske med deres saft og sødme. Nu har jeg også fundet blåbær. Blåbær i Bøllemosen. Det er svært at lyve sig fra blåbær.
“Ræk tungen ud” kommanderede hytteværten strengt en gang oppe i Tafjordfjella i Norge, og alle lo, fordi den mørkeblå tunge var et uigenkaldeligt bevis.
Høsttid er forberedelse og træning til fjeldet. Det er nu, fjeldet er bedst.
Myggene har vanskelige tider, blåbærris står over alt. Ved moser og fjeldsøer findes multebær, nordmændenes livret.
To Autumn
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.”
John Keats
Bird song can not be heard, only a duck breaks the silence, while it frightened flutters across the pond. A dense fog muffles the sound and blurs the detail.
I have walked here summer and winter.
Devoutly I pry the door open to No. 40, to the courtyard with the workshops, on a freezing cold winter day, where the only sound is the flowing water from the pond.
Small bells ring softly when the water breaks brittle ice floes loose in the dark creek and the White-throated Dipper sits quietly and shiver.
Now the summer is here. Flowering hawthorn, lilacs and blackthorn are intrusive with their scent and save memories of this day for neat orderly pictures in my memory.
Fragrances, related unimpeded to our experiences. Spring flowers are insistent with their fresh delicate sweet fragrance. The scents have direct access to our minds and intensify our perception of the present.
Enjoy nature and explore the small paths or climb a hill and ‘Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees’, so beautifully expressed by John Muir
I was born to catch dragons in their dens
And pick flowers
To tell tales and laugh away the morning
To drift and dream like a lazy stream
And walk barefoot across sunshine days.
I was born to find goblins in their caves
And chase moonlight
To see shadows and seek hidden rivers
To hear the rain fall on dry leaves
And chat a bit with death across foggy nights…
Sunshine Days and Foggy Nights by James Kavanaugh
Fuglesangen var forstummet, kun en and brød stilheden, mens den forskrækket baskede hen over dammen. En tæt tåge dæmpede lydene og slørede alle detaljer.
Jeg har vandret i Rådvad sommer og vinter.
Andægtigt har jeg lirket døren op til nr. 40, til gården med de arbejdende værksteder en iskold vinterdag, hvor den eneste lyd var vandet fra Rådvad Dam. Små klokker ringede sagte, når strømmen rev sprøde isflager løs i den mørke å, og vandstæren sad helt stille og skuttede sig.
Nu er det sommer. Blomstrende syrener, tjørn og slåen trænger sig på med deres duft og arkiverer minder om denne dag i velordnede billeder i min hukommelse.
Dufte, relaterer uhindret til vores oplevelser. Forårsblomsterne er insisterende, med deres friske fine søde duft. Duftene har direkte adgang til vores sind og intensiverer vores opfattelse af nuet.
Søg ud i naturen og få en fantastisk oplevelse.
Den sidste uges tid er jeg flere gange stødt på disse linier udgivet af Herman Hesse’s forlægger.
Jeg holder meget af poesi, og heldigvis er der hele tiden nye spændende oplevelser blandt mine dejlige medbloggere. Tak for det.
“When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.
A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.” Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte” Goodreads
“Bäume sind für Hermann Hesse Sinnbilder, die sich mit Erinnerungen verbinden, Symbole der Vergänglichkeit und Wiedergeburt, aber auch »allen Wachstums, allen triebhaften, naturhaften Lebens, aller Sorglosigkeit und geilen Fruchtbarkeit«. Sie sind für ihn Spiegel der Jahreszeiten, der Landschaften und Umweltbedingungen ihres Standorts. In ihren Jahresringen und Verwachsungen erkennt man »allen Kampf, alles Leid, alle Krankheit, alles Glück und Gedeihen«. Und ihre Gegenwart kann ungeheuerlich tröstlich sein: »Wenn wir traurig sind und das Leben nicht mehr gut ertragen können, dann kann ein Baum zu uns sprechen: Sei still! Sei still! Sieh mich an! Leben ist nicht leicht, Leben ist nicht schwer. … Heimat ist nicht da oder dort. Heimat ist in dir drinnen, oder nirgends” http://www.suhrkamp.de
HANNA'S WALK 
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