🍂 The Language Spoken by the Beckoning Bush
What I heard the leaves speak of when I slowed down to listen
Bush walks in winter have a charm that beckons me out of my warm seat. For someone born in the heat of a Queensland summer, I find it interesting that I am encouraged to get amongst these icy mornings.
Today, the beckoning comes in the form of ice, icing the grass and leaves in water crystals. Their sparkle in the rising sun sings a song I cannot resist. Earlier, on the school and daycare drop-off, the car dashboard read an outside temperature of minus one. The kids and I had gloves, beanies, and big jackets for the drive.
On the bush path now, crunching gravel underfoot, I am transfixed by iced leaves glittering in the sunlight. I am taking photo after photo, spending longer than I should before work (from home) starts. I am under a spell, for this scenery has me feeling all the inner strength and wisdom I doubt in my anxiety. The spell is soon broken as the cold begins to make my hand ache, ungloved to take the photos. I put the camera back in my pocket and my hand into my glove again.
How could I capture all of this in mere text? I want to write about the light reflecting off ice crystals, raying through the tree leaves and reaching within, lighting something within me. I want to capture how light is guiding me back to myself.
I am thinking of this article and smile at the titles of articles about light: Led by Light, Lighting the Path, and Lighting My Way Home. These titles do not capture the self-grounding I am experiencing.
Earlier in the year, I wanted to push myself on these walks to run more. Go further, go faster, get fitter. Go. Go. Go. Yet resistance to this push dissipated as the warmth of summer also faded, making way for Autumn. The way the pushing forward has dissipated has left space for more noticing. The stress has been replaced by a peace that has arisen via the meander in my stroll. Rather than run up the next incline, I pause on a rock and take more in. I walk, pause and take another photo.
Letting go of more to make way for less gives me more, if that makes sense.
Arriving at nature's doorstep helps me embrace the mess of this life. The self that resists the chaos finds a way to surrender here. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves above, drawing my gaze up. The leaves whisper the language of bending to me. 'Bend,' they say, 'bend with life like we do with the wind. You will not be broken, you need not fear it. See how you bend, too.' Bending.
I want my children to be less rushed with less to do. To develop their ears and learn the language of light, ice, and leaves, too. Hmm, that is a better heading: Light, Ice and Leaves, or Listening to Light, Ice and Leaves, or the Language of.
Sometimes, sitting on a rock is the best thing we can do for our hearts, minds, and souls. I look down at the iced gum leaf and smile at how it has adapted. The gum tree, often thought of in the Australian heat, is here adapting to the ice, bending. I crouch down in awe, take another photo and put the gloves back on.
I am here, too. From the heat of an Australian Queensland summer, I am now adapting to thriving in the ice of the Tasmanian winter. I have travelled the country for work and the world for hiking, and now I am a homebody with my young children. At times, it is hard to be so far from what I knew of myself when my new world is constantly changing. Bending.
Awe, in my adaptation. Awe, for this gum leaf. And I am left wondering about the childhood my children will have here amongst this ice, so different to the warm of mine. In my childhood, I was a mermaid. I swam a lot, always diving under and holding my legs together as if they were a tail. I lived in the wonder of the water's surface from the underside. I don't know what childhood looks like here, so we learn about that together. Bending.
I try to photograph this flowered grass as the sun hits it from behind, leaning to the left and right to capture the rays of light in the camera. Something near and something so far away, hardly able to comprehend the distance of the sun lighting and warming us here. All bending together.
And that is enough, isn't it?
To have found the space within the rush of the day for awe, wonder, and pondering.
I have stopped waiting for a time without the rush of these days and found moments to steel myself amongst it. Somedays, not all.
That is enough.
Marvelling at the ice, thinking about how far I have come.
Enough. As I am.
Bending.
Look to the leaves, they will tell you.
'You won't break. You bend like us.'
Bending.
Thanks for joining me on this walk today, Ta.
These are all my photos from this very walk.
The leaves whisper the language of bending to me. 'Bend,' they say, 'bend with life like we do with the wind. You will not be broken, you need not fear it. See how you bend, too.' Bending.
Ta Hiron
My poetry book, Tides of The Journey Within, is my thank-you gift for all subscribers:
I too moved from the Queensland heat to the cold of Tasmania and then back again ☺️. Tasmania is such a lesson in living isn’t it! Even when your fingers are so cold they hurt you’re still transfixed by the beauty 💕.
I love your descriptive language here, Ta....describing the contrast between Qld and Tassie walks in nature. Your photos are wonderful, too. Such a lovely learning for you.....there's no need to hustle or push push push (unfortunately a very modern phenomenon). Much more depth of joy and pleasure and life lessons are experienced by slowing down and paying attention.
You've done so well in this piece, inviting your readers to slow down and be willing to bend, too.....your children are so blessed in their mother. I don't personally enjoy the bushscape as much as a sea scape - but I know Naure in any form pays back our attentiveness with a richer life 💚💛