I've been reading this book called Wildwood: A Journey through Trees by Roger Deakin, and it is one of the most suprisingly peace-inducing books I have ever read!
The whole book is literally about trees.. stories about forests, birds, fields, streams, cicadas, wood-loving people.. Hard to describe, but it's amazing. Beautiful things, beautiful places. So calmly descriptive; gently reflective. Little forays into an alternate reality with all the time in the world to watch a rook, or bluebells grow. It's funny, even just carrying it around gives a touch of stillness inside. (yes I admit it, I'm weird like that).
Here's a taste-test for you:
"Why do I sleep outdoors? Because of the sound of the random dripping of rain off the maples or ash trees over the roof of the railay wagon, or the hopping of a bird on the wet felt of the roof, or the percussion of a twig against the stell stove-chimney. Out there, I hear the yawn of the wind in the trees along Cowpasture Lane. I feel in touch with the elements in a way I never do indoors.
Sleeping one time in Burgate Wood on the moated island of the old hall, I put my cheek against the loam and the cool ground ivy. When I closed my eyes I saw the iceberg depths of the wood's root-world. Walking there, picking my way through the trees, I had thought of it as perpendicular until I lay down and entered the ground-world. This is the part of a wood that only reveals itself occasionally after a big storm, when the trees have keeled over and the roots are thrown suddenly upright, clutching earth and stones.
How deep do roots go?"
I usually finish prac just before the sun sets, and it's been nice catching glimpses of it as I ride home, the rapidly cooling air whipping at my throat, crunching over red and yellowed leaves, the light drawing shadows long and blushing-colouring the streets and trees. It's nice that autumn comes, even in town - amongst the brick buildings sheafs of powerlines, stretches of grimy bitumen, howling cars. Nice to notice it.
The whole book is literally about trees.. stories about forests, birds, fields, streams, cicadas, wood-loving people.. Hard to describe, but it's amazing. Beautiful things, beautiful places. So calmly descriptive; gently reflective. Little forays into an alternate reality with all the time in the world to watch a rook, or bluebells grow. It's funny, even just carrying it around gives a touch of stillness inside. (yes I admit it, I'm weird like that).
Here's a taste-test for you:
"Why do I sleep outdoors? Because of the sound of the random dripping of rain off the maples or ash trees over the roof of the railay wagon, or the hopping of a bird on the wet felt of the roof, or the percussion of a twig against the stell stove-chimney. Out there, I hear the yawn of the wind in the trees along Cowpasture Lane. I feel in touch with the elements in a way I never do indoors.
Sleeping one time in Burgate Wood on the moated island of the old hall, I put my cheek against the loam and the cool ground ivy. When I closed my eyes I saw the iceberg depths of the wood's root-world. Walking there, picking my way through the trees, I had thought of it as perpendicular until I lay down and entered the ground-world. This is the part of a wood that only reveals itself occasionally after a big storm, when the trees have keeled over and the roots are thrown suddenly upright, clutching earth and stones.
How deep do roots go?"
I usually finish prac just before the sun sets, and it's been nice catching glimpses of it as I ride home, the rapidly cooling air whipping at my throat, crunching over red and yellowed leaves, the light drawing shadows long and blushing-colouring the streets and trees. It's nice that autumn comes, even in town - amongst the brick buildings sheafs of powerlines, stretches of grimy bitumen, howling cars. Nice to notice it.
