An Easter Benediction
Renewal; rejuvenation; rebirth; reintegration; return.
Wandering on the flanks of my local mountain, traversing the weary bog, I find hidden cloisters of native forest, aggregating around apposite geological formations, hiding from the gnawing teeth of the ubiquitous deer. These places seem dull, dun brown from a distance, but inside the fullness of their obtaining is obvious. Moss cascades down cliffs and flows along oak limbs in epiphytic glory. Lichenous surfaces differentiate the scene, ancient rockslides are frozen mid-tumult, swathed in verdancy.
The gates to Narnia
These pockets may be an acre in size, the limits of their interior announced in advance by the encroaching fionnán, a coarse mountain grass. They are old places; here live the biggest holly trees I have ever seen, not the characterful waifs populating the hedgerows, but gentle behemoths reaching implacably skywards. The holly has become my favourite tree, endeared to me by its native presence in this region, its quiet persistence in clinging onto craggy outcrops or sneaking up serendipitously between some large oaks. The forest below by the lake is called Cullentra, in Irish Cuilleantra, Holly-shore.
I spy some turkeytail mushrooms growing on the underside of a decaying length of birch. I recently read of their immune-boosting effects when imbibed, so I feel it’s appropriate to align with these small synchronicities and pick a few to bring home. I am now officially a mushroom forager…the Rubicon has been crossed, there is no going back!
Turkeytail, Trametes versicolour
This short piece has dwelled, unwritten, in my mind for a couple of weeks. I’m learning that in writing, like in many things, the key is to begin. You must light the touchpaper. Too often I await the spontaneous ignition of the smouldering ash in the mind. Perhaps by casting up a flare we can orient ourselves, and see ahead.
At home I let the mushrooms dry on a windowsill for a day, then make a tea, or a tisane to be technical. My immune system invigorated, I exult in self-approbation. The real truth, though, is the connection between walking the land, foraging a wild being, bringing it home, showing it to my kids and accepting the nourishment. I didn’t need to do this; this was a voluntary, wilful excursion where I opened myself to what would be shown to me. An openly felt emotion always asserts the possibility of reciprocity; reverence comes when you truly drop your barriers.
A carpet of wood anemone, signifying ancient woodland