HANNA'S WALK

The Hour of Death

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
John Milton

Belief in our mortality, the sense that we are eventually going to crack up and be extinguished like the flame of a candle, I say, is a gloriously fine thing. It makes us sober; it makes us a little sad; and many of us it makes poetic. But above all, it makes it possible for us to make up our mind and arrange to live sensibly, truthfully and always with a sense of our own limitations. It gives us peace also, because true peace of mind comes from accepting the worst.
Deprived of immortality, the proposition of living becomes a simple proposition. It is this: that we human beings have a limited span of life to live on this earth, rarely more than seventy years, and that therefore we have to arrange our lives so that we may live as happily as we can under a given set of circumstances. … It made us therefore, cling to life─the life of the instinct and the life of senses─on the belief that, as we are all animals, we can be truly happy only when all our normal instincts are satisfied normally. This applies to the enjoyment of life in all its aspects.
A sad poetic touch is added to this intense love of life by the realization that this life we have is essentially mortal. For if this earthly existence is all we have, we must try the harder to enjoy it while it lasts. A vague hope of immortality detracts from our wholehearted enjoyment of this earthly existence.
Lin Yutang, The Importance of Living.

This was a great afternoon walk on Femsølyng a part of Rude Skov.
We didn’t catch the car before the thunder broke loose. Afterwards there was torrential rain.
What about the cows? Do they seek shelter under the trees and expose themselves to lightning?
Well, there wasn’t enough space in the car!

I always think of Johan Thomas Lundbye’s paintings of cows and landscape. This is a Study sheet from 1844 by Lundbye.

Johan Thomas Lundbye (1818-1848), Studieblad fra Vognserup. Studier af koeer og af to faarehoveder samt af staaende malkepige og en roegter, 1844-09-02


A Poem is a walk

These grazing meadows are in the middle of a large wooded area.
It is an inexhaustible source of different walks.
The landscape has repeatedly been exposed to different influences of ice age, leaving a highly hilly landscape according to Danish standards. Hurray for diversity ❤

With the first step, the number of shapes the walk might take is infinite, but then the walk begins to define itself as it goes along, though freedom remains total with each step: any tempting side road can be turned into an impulse, or any wild patch of woods can be explored. The pattern of the walk is to come true, is to be recognized, discovered.
A.R. Ammons

Naturvandring.blog

Twinkling stars on the horizon,
the eternal song from an embracing blue sea.
The smell of sand and sea
salt on my skin and lips.
Tales from the birds of the sea,
disturbed by clattering cups
and the fragrance of coffee.
That’s my childhood memories
and the day of tomorrow.
Hanna

A fleck of foam on the shining sand,
Left by the ebbing sea,
But richer than man may understand
In magic and mystery–
Transient bubbles rainbow-bright,
Myriad-hued and strange,
Tremble and throb in the noonday light,
Flower and flush and change.

A million tides have come and gone,
Great gales of autumn and spring,
A million summoning moons have shone
To bring to birth this thing–
A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand
By the wave of an outgoing sea,
With all the colour of Faeryland,
Wonder and mystery.
Teresa Hooley

Lighthearted Birds

On my walk towards the sea today, I heard the skylark and the lapwing. The larks song was persistent, and suddenly it flew quite close to me. I think the bird was frolicsome 🙂
All the birds were busy. Buzzards gathered, and rose on thermals while their screams mingled with ravens and crows.
On my way home I even heard the yellow hammer.

March! March! March! They are coming
In troops to the tune of the wind.
Redheaded woodpeckers drumming,
Gold – crested thrushes behind;
Sparrows in brown jackets, hopping
Past every gateway and door;
Finches, with crimson caps, stopping
Just where they stopped before.
March! March! March! They are slipping
Into their places at last. . .
Literature white lily buds, dripping
Under the showers that fall fast;
Buttercups, violets, roses;
Snowdrop and bluebell and pink,
Throng upon throng of sweet posies
Bending the dewdrops to drink.
March! March! March! They will hurry
Forth at the wild bugle sound,
Blossoms and birds in a flurry,
Fluttering all over the ground.
Shake out your flags, birch and willow!
Shake out your red tassels, larch!
Grass blades, up from your earth – pillow.
Hear who is calling you. . . March.

Lucy Larcom, March

It began to snow in the evening. The snow blocked the view. The world went white. At the same time came the silence. The kind of silence that is almost audible. The silence that gets us to relax and put the world to a halt.
The morning came and the world was new. The forest was stunningly beautiful. The sun’s warming drew thick white lines against the azure sky when cascades of snow had to let go of their hold in the tall pines in the forest. Everywhere I could hear unexpected sounds as if there were thousands of animals set loose among the trees. But it was the snow that was visiting and did much ado about itself.

Rude Skov, Rudersdal Kommune

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