– day 18 of a 21-day creative retreat
(if you enjoy my writing you can buy me a coffee here – thank you so much xxxx)
March 22nd 2025
SEEDED
Clouds have brought the sky down low, blurring the tops of the trees with their ambiguous hues. The trees look cold, huddling together to try and keep out the misty fingers. We are high-up, so the low cloud here is probably high in the rest of the world. The clouds are passing straight in front of my eyes as I look out of the window. They are hurrying somewhere else.
I could never tire of this view of the Deskry Glen. Its stillness. Its foreverness. Despite being a forever view it does not feel busy like my view at home – my garden, where I see, up close, the small things going about their daily life – the birds, the bees, the flies and falling leaves, seeds and dust trying to hitch a ride on a current of air to who-knows-where. I can see the small things here at Clashnettie too, if I look hard and focus in. But here there is always a pull to look further and further. Past the grasses and mosses and wooded islands, past the winding pathway of the Deskry water, past the soaring buzzards and tumbling lapwings, to the distance, where the rest of the world exists. I think it is this pull that takes me away from my internal view. As I spend time looking at forever, the deep-set and long-formed gullies and ridges of my inner landscape begin to relax and unfold. No longer under my piercing scrutiny they can find space. But, as I come to the end of this 21-day retreat, I feel a gentle call to start looking inside again. Maybe the view I find will be a little different from before?
I am feeling the possibility that a tiny seed has tumbled onto some earth. Is it barren earth? I am unsure, but earth it is. And now I must provide this seed with the environment to see if it will germinate and grow – some sunshine and water, some vital nutrients, protection from the slugs and snails and birds, and space so that it doesn’t get crowded, overshadowed or trampled upon.
While I have been writing, the cloud has lifted its misty cloak from the trees across the glen revealing their stark end-of-winter beauty, crowned by the purple-black heather that lines the hillside a little above them. They have space to breathe again, no longer invaded. Maybe that’s the same for me.
