Shelter
Seeking the company of birds and trees
The way to the wood is as winding as it is long. There are arable fields to cross and flower-filled meadows to lure and distract before you get to it, high up on a hill. Hiking up from the valley my lungs burn as I mentally cross off all the remaining contour lines on the memorised map inside my head. It’s steep but worth it, especially at this time of year when the narrow footpaths become portals made of hawthorn, cow parsley and stippled light. I hope that my hay fever forgives me later, as I dip my head into a clump of flowers and take a deep breath.
Inside the wood, the light is lower and the temperature is cooler. It’s another realm altogether. The only sounds I can hear are the chiff chaffs and jackdaws. They have a lot to say today and I am happy to listen. There’s barely anyone around, which suits me fine. I like having the woods to myself and seek out secret glades with only the tracks of a muntjac deer as evidence that I’m wandering sufficiently far enough from other wood walkers.
Storm felled trees create bridges over muddy paths, a clamber worth making on a day with the wrong footwear. I don’t care how obstacle-ridden it is, like a compass arrow searching for north I need to get to my spot.
Finally, space to breathe. I mentally take my mask off and just for one afternoon I can begin to feel myself again.
Just for a while I can forget how difficult it feels interacting with other humans, trying to find my way through each confusing encounter. The social rules that relentlessly need translating and the jarring sensation of recognising words but not the intent behind them is enraging. And there is no regulation to this rage ripping through me. I want to shout at the world to just FUCK OFF, in bold, red capitals over and over until I can no longer speak and my voice box spews the bloody colour that I feel.
But the trees are kind. I can leave this less palatable and less lovable side of myself safely with the woods. Only the oaks and rowans bear witness to this circumstance and I can feel the blissful non-judgement that only non-humans can provide. Here in this place nothing is being asked of me.
As I sit, depositing my feelings and dark thoughts into the soil, my anger turns to embers and I silently ask the earth to turn them into something good and life giving. A transmutation of feelings into compost; something useful that might help to grow a sapling or a fern.
In this spot, I am close to a profusion of bluebells. I don’t fully notice them until I feel calmer. Then again, perhaps that is what has calmed me. I’m not quite sure, but their presence is medicinal; the blue soothing the red and cooling the heat of my emotions. I don’t think I will ever tire of their beauty.
In the back of my mind I remember that it’s Beltane season, a fire festival of purification and protection celebrated by the Celts of the British Isles on the full moon of May. It means something quite different now compared to our ancestors, not least because we have other means of sustenance, not just agriculture. Yet the original observance of Beltane as a purification and protection ritual for livestock, crops and humans still feels symbolically relevant to me. How potent to purge and clear some of the internal obstacles that might be stopping us from moving through life. And how benevolent to offer ourselves a protection ritual, even if it’s only a few encouraging words that we can read when we need it.
I feel temporarily transformed as I gather myself together and set off again. I offer a quiet prayer of thanks to the birds and boughs for keeping me safe in my time of need. Since I arrived in the wood, a nuthatch has joined the tree-top chatter and claimed my attention. Spring is a seduction of the senses and I’m grateful for the all-encompassing yet fleeting respite it brings.
If you feel similarly challenged, I have written about my autistic experience in these other posts:
