so do the animals; hare tracks rushing up down and across, busi-ness during the night i’d never dreamed of, crystal filaments growing inside deer hooves like geodes, a determined marten running along the path – bound longer than a human stride, coming back a criss-cross of black squirrel, feet planted in quadrant.
i only saw the badger in mud but i shall probably sit out and wait for him the next clear night and observe how his paws print out his life alone.
and me, my feet, my heavy boots collecting wet snow, dragging further into heavi-ness. they are a song, a blessing; they are the part of me that regularly touches the ground.
i leave prints like an animal for someone else to find.
“Ordinary in the mythic is not a by word for decency, upstandingness, imagination, compassion, community-mindedness, not at all. That’s exceptional. That’s high currency.
Ordinary in the old tales usually takes the form of the two false-brothers or sisters – fearful, unthinking, mean spirited. That’s the “ordinary” in a folktale. Ordinary can be very cruel, not good Hobbit folk sipping an ale. That’s what needs to be broken through for soul to enter the situation. It’s the malaise that needs to be overcome.
In the old tales it’s the one that bends their head to the Otherly, or the strange, or the outcast that gets led to the water of life and so proves redemptive to culture. I believe Christ did something similar.
Your books matter. Your activism matters. The things that claim purchase on your heart matter. They absolutely do. They are not a whimsy. If we have been wandering in an enchantment then here is an awakening. You are absolutely needed.
There’s nothing “ordinary” about decency, courage under fire, compassion, tenacity, lion-heartedness, and that is what is being called forth in a moment – a deeply mythic moment – like this.”
Been slinking away from world again slinking back to bushes undergrowth trying to imagine life without electronics without screens without invisible connections imagine myself Virginia Woolf Keats Alice Oswald sitting next to flower borders at Kew underneath a tree a quill listening to a nightingale in a cold shed ink pen in hand screwed up papers thrown in corners I often suffer from information overload when caught in the net too many things rolling around electronic overdose it’s all too much I turn off the machine go outside you can write better poetry when you are disconnected from electronic stuff people make money from offering retreats in far-flung isolated places no internet they’ve got the right idea people want it the work of MacGillivray her performance pieces listen to her music read her poetry a woman totally rooted in real-worlds totally connected to surroundings to myths stories to music of witch-crafting to memory to history not part of mechanical publishing industries not got caught up in not connected to but howling slinking away to some bush create a métier all her own too easy to get embroiled in flashy outwardmoving to be retracting inwards become anonymous