Tag: connected living

Hope

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This time of year always feels turbulent. The transition from winter to spring doesn’t seem to happen in a gentle cascade or a glorious burst of green, but it swings quite violently between the two seasons. A day of sun and warmth reminds me of the vibrancy of spring. The promise of summer is almost ripe in the scent of cut grass and delicate blossoms. I have been content in the dark embrace of winter but a switch suddenly flicks in my body, a seasonal thermostat that now longs for days of sun-warmed skin and bare foot on damp grass. 

The next day brings storms and minus temperatures. And this goes on for a month or more. Every year I repeat with silent amusement “ne’er cast a clout ‘til May is out”, while my body protests at the wild fluctuations in temperature. In March, I find this turbulence amusing. The trickster energy of the weather toys with us and our human expectations of neatly defined seasons. By mid-April, I become frustrated. I long for the return of winter, feeling safer in the reliable dark and cold. The distant idea of summer and the long light of the days feels too far away and the backwards/forwards feels too chaotic to trust. 

To alleviate the frustration, I walk the same path each morning, threading my way in repetitive circles, creating lines in the dew-heavy grass, stopping to twang the wire fence, or rub my face on the mossy bough of an ancient crab apple tree. This walk-weaving gives my days some kind of wild structure and meaning in the face of seasonal, global and personal turbulence. 

Each day brings new beauty and fresh perspectives. I remind myself of how some things are gradually, gently shifting despite the daily elemental turmoil. The lambs pronk in the fields. I see the first line of ducklings following their mum. Siskins, redpolls and goldfinches join the blue tits and nuthatches on the feeders. Sweet cicely, garlic-mustard and dandelion begin to green the hedgerows. My chives are prolific; they seem to have boldly ignored the weather. Bluebells cloak the woodland floors in a sea of fallen sky. The dawn chorus echoes through valleys and cuckoos arrive to steal a space in another bird’s well-made nest. 

And so, mid-May arrives, and still the temperatures are swinging wildly, rain showers blast through and my winter woollens are not yet retired to the wardrobe. There have been glimpses of warmer times: a stolen afternoon in the sun, gathering shells and driftwood on a cherished beach, and a bone-achingly cold swim in the sea off the coast of south-west Scotland. A reminder of what is waiting around the seasonal corner. A glimmer of hope. 

Entangled

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Intimate confessions and reflections from a connected life

I miss him most strongly when I’m by the sea, listening to fiddle music. When I’m in a place we’ve shared together. I feel sad for myself because we don’t share a life together anymore. I’m sad for him for the same reason. I’m sad for the world that won’t get to share Us. I tell myself it’s ok to miss people. It’s ok to grieve. It’s what makes us soft, vulnerable, feeling animals. It’s what keeps us open. 

My social life has become more virtual over the past year. I’ve noticed I spend more time on my phone. This is how I ‘connect’. I rarely see my friends as they are spread far and wide. Sometimes this suits me; it’s easier to keep boundaries online. Perhaps it’s because I’ve just not had the time to establish my own rhythms but I can feel so jangled by other people’s energy and the franticness of modern lives. But I can’t deny my animal need; I miss the intimacy of real connection with humans. Hugging, a shared smile, laughter, the feel of warm skin next to my own. There is a space in me, a longing that isn’t fulfilled by solitude. 

When I’m by myself I reflect on what modern life is all about. About the pursuit of success. What does success even look like? If it’s having a partner, a family and a house, then I’ve failed. By the standards of our culture I am largely obsolete. What am I contributing to society? Maybe more than I know. By choosing not to follow the usual paths. It isn’t at all easy. It’s like swimming against the tide at times. I’m so porous, so susceptible to being pulled back into the modern drama. It feels like an addiction, like slipping back to an unhealthy abusive relationship. There’s a feeling of never getting anywhere. What am I moving towards? What am I moving away from? The days ebb and flow into one another, each bringing new questions, but rarely ever any answers. 

There’s a gravitational pull towards the unhealthy aspects of western culture, which at times feels like all aspects of it. At a mundane, physical level, the addictive food and diet of a modern culture, saturated in ultra high processed food. Alarmingly some scientists do not even consider this as food because it’s so lacking in nutritional content; it does not satiate us. The ever-increasing and seductive speeds of technology that claim to make our lives easier while exploiting the lives of others in poorer, more vulnerable nations, and destroying ecosystems for materials. The rise in obesity, mental health disorders, chronic disease. The inequity of the economic system. Money, an object we worship, that could offer us a free-flowing generative movement of energy but which has become a symbol of wealth and status, that remains stagnant and lining the pockets of the few, supposedly rich. But what is a true measure of wealth? I believe it is our mental, emotional, physical, spiritual health as individuals, as societies and communities, nations, and as ecosystems. An entwined, mycelial web.

At times I find myself spiralling into a black hole with the weight of all of this. Personal and family troubles, erosion of community, social injustice, ecological and climate breakdown. My grief begins with the rupture of a personal relationship and flows into a lament for the meltdown of the planet. Everything is connected. And that feeling brings some small relief.

I look up from the page. I see my dog curled up on the bed. I hear her softly snoring. The sky has changed; clouds gather over Criffel. The tide has edged closer to shore. The smell of seaweed and salt drifts into the van. And I’m still here. You are still here. We are still here. Entangled. 

The return

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For those who have read my previous journal posts, it may be clear that I enjoy foraging. Foraging has taken on many forms for me, and this continues to grow as I learn more and experience each turning season and visit new places. Foraging extends deeper than a way to fill my belly. Undoubtedly that’s part of it, but foraging has layers. We can forage in different ways- for new skills, for connection, for meaning. 

As someone who lives on the road, foraging is an act that offers me a way to connect with place. Moving around can sometimes feel unsettling, but by noticing the natural surroundings it can help me to feel grounded. To forage I have to use my knowledge and senses, and this means I’m present to the physical space I’m in. I need to interpret what I see. I need to know what type of trees are in the wood, where the water is flowing. I need to be curious and observant. This knowledge I’ve gathered has come largely through experience, from going out with my backpack and basket. 

There’s a sentiment which I believe is attributed to tribal hunter-gatherers, “I’m just taking my spears for a walk”, rather than saying explicitly that you’re off to go hunting. It’s a way of not having any expectations of what you might catch, and quite possibly it’s a way of not jinxing any potential good fortune and not being hubristic. This is a sentiment I like to extend to foraging. I try to carry this in my mind when I’m also carrying my foraging basket. Rather than having this idea that I’m going out to find a particular fungi, or I’ll hit the jackpot with a megaload of bilberries, I say to myself that I’m just taking my basket for a walk. I try to be open to what might appear in my path, and recently, this was something special.

I was taking my basket for a walk in a deciduous woodland in the area of Newton Stewart, Dumfries and Galloway. Of course I had the hope that I might find some kind of fungi, but I wasn’t attached to the outcome. I realised I’d found myself on a deer trail. I could see the obvious signs of a slender path frequented by these beautiful creatures. Within a few heartbeats of this realisation I turned on the path and looked down at an antler on the ground. It was lying a few hoof steps away from a small shallow burn. I felt I was in deer territory and then like a sure sign the antler was there to confirm it. This was one of the unusual and unexpected gifts of taking my basket for a walk. I also happened to find some perfect hedgehog fungi, a small troop of chanterelles and I revisited a precious cluster of horn of plenty to find a couple of fresh ones. I returned with some dinner, and the antler. Even stranger, an hour or so later, in an obscure place in the woods, I met a person that I had met a few years earlier in Cumbria under very different circumstances. It was a serendipitous meeting; perhaps that antler acted like an antenna. 

I also have an interest in medicinal and therapeutic properties of plants and wild food. I have gathered and made my own tinctures from hawthorn, lemon balm, bilberry, goldenrod, to name a few. It may be that these tinctures have no physiological effect, but it isn’t just about the physical effect and the resulting tincture, it’s about the finding, the gathering, the creating. This is all part of the medicinal properties for me. I believe that this is why GPs are now prescribing walks in nature, because nature is medicine, and it’s where we’re from and where we have become disconnected from. It might sound woo woo or like I’m a tree hugger, but for me being “in nature”- foraging for food, medicine, meaning- is not only healing, it is vital to what makes me human and animal. I feel connected in a way I never will from going into a supermarket or pharmacy. 

On the rare occasion that I return from a walk with an empty basket, I have a calm mind and a satiated spirit. I cannot remember a time when I have returned without seeing or hearing something new; a bird call that I’ve never heard before, or a flower that has never bloomed before me until now. I may not have food for my belly but my soul is content. I return changed in some way. 

Following threads

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This September it’s eight years since I left my job in higher education. I could never have planned the journey I’ve been on since leaving. I just knew in my bones that I had to leave, to move somewhere else, to move in different ways. 

Maybe I had some idea that I might travel in a van someday. I have a vivid memory of sleeping overnight in a VW polo when I was kid, with my parents and brother. I remember standing in a gateway to a field, the sunrise creeping through the hedge, and the golden light pouring over the grass. As well as a strong visual image, it’s a felt memory. I felt content, fulfilled somehow, like nothing else mattered except that moment. Perhaps as an adult I’ve always been trying to get back to that feeling. Perhaps we all are. I think that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing now, choosing to live in this way- stravaiging, wondering and wandering.

I could never have planned all the threads I would follow in the past few years. I’ve never had this idea of what I wanted to do or be in life, a 5-year plan. The threads have been, are, numerous and deep. Some are ancient- spinning on a drop spindle, developing a personal yoga practice, growing vegetables from seed and soil. I’ve realised that I’m quite musical, and I’ve learnt to play whistle and banjo. I never set out to do any of these things, but sometimes strange things present themselves to you, and you give it a try. I now have so many creative threads to follow that at times I lament not having more hands. I fantasise about being the Hindu goddess, Durga, with eight arms. I could knit, spin, play banjo and cook dinner all at the same time. Though that would probably end up being quite messy and confusing- imagine knitting spaghetti while boiling strands of yarn.

At times this journey has felt like an unschooling, a letting go of some of the unhelpful ways, the unhealthy habits. I’ve been choosing what I want to learn, and how I want to learn it, at my own pace, in my way. I’ve read a lot of books, thumbed through many field guides, done a few courses here and there. I’ve experienced life. I’ve found a community in nature, among the feathered and furred beings, the leafy ones, immersed in the salt tang of the sea, in the solitude of self. I’ve had deep relationships with the two-legged beings also, and wonderful and sometimes painful adventures. 

This journey has been led by something beyond the mind, deeper than rational thought and planning. I can’t say what this driving force is. Some might call it soul, or spirit, or following your heart. What it’s called doesn’t really matter, but I think what matters is that it feels right. Allowing my internal compass to guide me is about feeling more than thinking. 

And sometimes it’s all felt too much. I can be flattened by a sense of overwhelm, as though my searching has been frantic, rushed, incoherent. Like the threads I’m following are a tangled ball of wool, or more precisely many, many pieces of yarn from different balls of wool…argh! Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find the path, a clear direction and destination, a point on the map. 

I spoke to a friend about this occasional overwhelm and lack of direction, and she said without hesitation, with a strong conviction and as though it was the most normal thing in the world, “You’re a spider”. She didn’t need to explain it. It felt right. Yes, I’m spinning webs, there is no one path, no one thread; there are many and they are all relevant, all part of me and my journey. 

After that conversation it has felt easier to be me spinning my threads and weaving my web. It feels as though I’m creating something more flexible and resilient, multi-stranded and inherently connected. And as I keep realising in different ways it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. Keep spinning the threads, keep weaving the web. What threads are you spinning?

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Welcome to the journey

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A wee note to welcome you to the stravaig journal.

In the journal, I’ll share glimpses into my journey of creative, connected living while I wander and weave around the British Isles in my humble home-on-wheels. 

Welcome to the journey!

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