How I Go to the Woods, by Mary Oliver
Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they
are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.
I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging
the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of
a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses
If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.
This morning I watched the deer
with beautiful lips touching the tips
of the cranberries, setting their hooves down
in the dampness carelessly, isn’t it after all
the carpet of their house, their home, whose roof
is the sky?
Why, then, was I suddenly miserable?
Well, this is nothing much.
This is the heaviness of the body watching the swallows
gliding just under that roof.
This is the wish that the deer would not lift their heads
and leap away, leaving me there alone.
This is the wish to touch their faces, their brown wrists –
to sing some sparking poem into
the folds of their ears.
then walk with them,
over the hills
and over the hills
and into the impossible trees.
This Morning I Watched the Deer, by Mary Oliver
Sometimes I have a heartfelt joy to wander aimlessly.
I didn’t plan this walk. A walk among hawthorns and deers towards the coast of Øresund.
All my worries are left and the only thing that counts is the present moment.
Our brain needs a break so our spirit can live.
There is an art to wandering. If I have a destination, a plan – an objective – I’ve lost the ability to find serendipity. I’ve become too focused, too single-minded. I am on a quest, not a ramble. I search for the Holy Grail of particularity, and miss the chalice freely offered, filled full to overflowing.
by Cathy Johnson, On Becoming Lost
I walk in the hills overlooking the glorious flashing blue Maglesø.
Vines, blackberries, apples and roses present themselves in the most attractive way.
Everywhere there is a lushness and a beauty hidden in these lovely green hills.
The Sealand Alps, a nickname for a beloved glacial landscape.
…Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays…
Summer Sun by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Endvidere kan I se Maglesø klædt i hvidt i danskebjerge.dk’s galleri.