If You Have Ever Gone To The Woods With Me…

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
singing.

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

There is an art to wandering

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

The Magic Fairy Land

Have you ever been out in field and woodland, by streams and lakes, by a tree all in blossom or a hedgerow laden with berries – and just felt sure that you were not alone?
That’s how Teresa Moorey introduce her book: The Fairy Bible.
I’m tempted to read the book because I feel deeply happy to live in a place much alike.
In these days the hawthorn blossoms on the field, Hvidtjørnesletten and makes an unforgettable impression on all beings.

I have been out there several times this week to experience the atmosphere once again.
One evening the field was kind of sacred. The scent of blossoming hawthorn was intoxicating and the quiet soothing sounds from the animals made the place magical.
The deer moved imperceptible between the hawthorns while they graze.
People seemed affected and stood still or spread a blanket just to sit and be in the present. They were lowering their voice and that might have been because of the fairies.

They were afraid to scare them away.
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

‘A Fairy Song’ by William Shakespeare

Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane
At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way
Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,
Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,
Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;
And childhood, seeming still most busy, took
His little rake; with cunning side-long look,
Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.
Now, too, on melancholy’s idle dreams
Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees,
Quiet and dark; for through the thick wove trees
Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams
The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray
Thro’ tall, green, silent woods and ruins gray.

‘Sweet Was The Walk’ by William Wordsworth
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Fairy Bible by Teresa Moorey