We see trees. What more do we need? Maira Kalman Here is 2019. The new beginning is a special time of the year. Darker days are good news for nerds and introverts allowing us maximum time to read and journal. I've been mooching about with spider diagrams and wanting to . . .
Today I make a slow start. The deep winter is here. January brings, at last, the space I've been longing for. 2017 stretches out ahead, silently for now. Illness has contributed to lower energy than usual but when I look into the fields I sense some common ground. There is a quiet . . .
The maple tree, a present from my Dad, has always struggled with the prevailing south westerlies. Trees in Ireland are bent over towards the east, from gales blowing up from the Atlantic. This elegant maple has always been out of place in our wild and lazy couple of acres, home . . .
It's late, the sun is filtering through the forest, pouring deep honey gold onto the path ahead. The quality and colour of light transforms everything. In the clearing a group of wise old trees stand in our path, disturbing the earth as their roots burrow to the surface. Camping forces you out . . .
What if you followed every inkling, hunch or hint at a possible good idea? If you stretched your legs out beyond your comfort zone? If you trusted that these inklings would become their own story? On the misty drive through South Kilkenny, nothing to see, hidden landscapes. Favourite fields . . .
Did you ever wrap your arms around a felled giant and get up close and personal with it's roots and heart? The wooden body feels so strong, there are new buds on the tips of it's branches but the torn roots are dry. This Beech tree will never come into leaf again. So many . . .
Clinging on in the storm The storm hit hard and I was in the thick of it swerving back and forth in 150k gusts. Finally reaching the warren of back roads nearest home, it dawned on me; I was crazy to be out in this weather! Of the many possible routes, three . . .
I am on the move and missing those walks on the lane. From life on the road, the midlands of Ireland open like a golden tablecloth waiting to be laid for Spring. Crumpled, layered, deep. The dark trees are silhouettes now, solid and strong. They open conversations with the . . .
When the rain rolls in from the western Atlantic we can be enveloped for days. The greyness hangs over the . . .
While I am standing beneath this Sycamore, besotted with its golden glow, leaves are passing away in front of my eyes. A little death is taking place as each one turns, decays and falls. Autumn and it's peaceful slowing brings the inevitable truth to mind. The wrinkling up of my smily . . .