365 Ways With Words

Butterfly Heart

In the river’s course scoured deep through summer torrents, beneath the canopy and beyond the screen of bamboo, upon the bend where the afternoon light settles before the sun falls below the crest of the mountains above, the scene is played. The butterfly rests, its wings open, quiet, alone, in Lepidoptera meditation. 

The existence of one life amongst a myriad of forms is nothing unusual, even one so bright. And in this present, in this capture of time and place, the butterfly is at once without need and without being needed; it feels the satisfaction of hourless eternity, the successful connections of a billion genetic computations, the generous confluence of a sympathetic location with benevolent season, and can only be content.

It neither trusts, nor is cautious. Without a grasp, the hand reaches to support this moment of significance. And without a worry, the butterfly is at ease within the palm and on the fingertips. She dances, she stops, she turns, she closes her wings then reopens: there is no fear in the communication, for an open soul receives without hindrance or demand.

This is enough for both butterfly and hand. The gentle occasion over, the hand replaces her again to rest on to the warm rock face, safe within the glow of a golden sunbeam. Separated, each is happy with the exchange of time and consideration, fully respectful of the other. Of such honoured connections, there are precious few. They are the devout unions of separate souls.

Jewels In The Forest

三寶

I Take Refuge in the Buddha

I Take Refuge in the Dhamma

I Take Refuge in the Sangha

The Three Jewels are both metaphorical and literal: they are an appropriate metaphor for an approach to something precious that cannot be seen or sensed, and they are also literal in that they represent a cherished set of life experiences encountered by millions of people that often call themselves Buddhist. In this short essay I will attempt to concentrate on the former metaphorical interpretation because I believe the Jewels in the Forest of the country park can be seen in a similar vein. However, before so doing I must firstly draw attention to the literal.

As a thoughtful visitor walking through the Sai Kung Country Park it may be difficult to identify any certain specialness with regard to the place that cannot be sensed directly through pretty views or luscious smells, etc. And as a species we regularly identify specialness through the use of sensory language, i.e. we are sometimes moved to express poetry about the ‘sense’ or ‘feel’ of a place. I am no stranger to the ‘feelings’ aroused by living in the Country Park itself, but as a species we are generally sensory-driven and have simply grown to understand and readily use this sort of language as our understanding, and to even sometimes use it quite well.

However, I believe the experience of the Jewel of the place of the Sai Kung Country Park goes beyond the physical or sensually-identified. I will explain what I mean by this later.

The literal sense of place in the Country Park is obvious to see:

• The hills are beautiful at any time of year; the foliage and flora are to be adored in their intricacy and simplicity, the many fauna a constant source of visual wonder and curiosity,
• The multitude of birds are at their most obvious in the morning in terms of that which can heard, just before any human traffic dominates,
• As one approaches the park the air changes its fragrance from the polluted city to that of bouquets, deep resins and moulds – any visitor encountering wild cows or pigs on their path will no doubt be aware of the intense smells such animals can exude,
• As far as taste and touch are concerned, most Hong Kongers are cautious about what is picked up with their hands, but the soil is really very good and some leaves have the texture of the richest velvet. Although I am sure I should not recommend the stream water for drinking, I nevertheless find it sweet and pure.

It is easy to present a picture that conveys the Park’s obvious beauty. However, the language describing the ‘sense’ of place in the Country Park –however good that language may be– does not, I believe, truly convey what is present in this wild and relatively remote locale in Hong Kong.

I think the ancients had a fairly good grasp of this concept because they were thoroughly immersed in the natural world: they worked with it in their everyday lives, were inspired to be creative in reflection of it growing and rotting around them, were fed by it and, indeed, often lived or died because of it. It was a source of richness and disaster, feast and famine, devotion and fear. For them, identifying a ‘sense’ of place went, therefore, far beyond merely observing (much as we might do with our cameras on an afternoon’s hike around Wong Shek). It is with much sadness that the last and very elderly generation with a direct connection with this concept passes from the Country Park. They will, of course, remain in concert with their surroundings in the strategically placed tombs on the hills: They lived it and they will remain part of it.

For those that are left, I think it is still possible to identify the hidden Jewel of the Forest: It is in that which is as much seen as unseen. The strong trees and vibrant flowers, the streams of clear water, the granite boulders and crumbling earth, the silent butterflies and rambling porcupines are also clearly the residents of this domain, and they are easy to celebrate. But one can better get a sense of what else is here only through the passing of time. I would argue that to understand this place one has to ‘live it’ – perhaps the most common way to identify with any place.

As mentioned, the last generation is nearly gone. And when they are finally extinct they will take with them the intimate knowledge of the herbs and cures, the secret paths of the animals, the laborious efforts incumbent with the old rice fields high up in the valleys which once fed them year on year and which are now nearly enveloped back into the leafy hillsides, or in the identification of valleys through which water flowed longest through the year. Their old distinctiveness was complete, yet also tested. Each year tearful sons and daughters left to settle elsewhere because rural lives were often too tough and the human presence had to be balanced with what could be provided by their environment. Others’ ambitions outstretched the closed beauty of the valleys, beaches and bays.

What is left by the human residents from those many years ago looks old – if it can be seen at all. Some villages remain alive and thrive, albeit with novelty foreign residents and may become dormitories for those working in the city. Those villages without roads but with access to the sea teeter towards oblivion. Other places are gone altogether and forever, their access difficult, their names on a map their only voice.

And this, perhaps, is the substance of the matter, where the literal becomes subsumed by the metaphor: as a voice. Long after people have gone and their absence is no longer noticed and their impact subsumed, their voice remains – one that was once sung but is quiet and active only in spirit. Perhaps the people joined with the continuing song of the land in which they lived, and perhaps they strove against it, but the voices still echo across the trees and in the sandy soil. These voices change with the seasons, as they do with the weather and the activity of those who now live under the region’s protection. This subtle song is rhythmic and powerful, imminent and sudden, silent and calm, repetitive and irritating, constant and beguiling. The song is the experience of man and animal, tree and bird, fish and insect, of sky and land. Together they are the jewels of understanding that mean all are united for better or worse. Each element is a beautiful jewel that makes up a magnificent whole living thing beyond comprehension and within which we can live in harmony.

So to conclude, although there are many beautiful things to be sensed in the Country Park, the Jewels in the Forest are largely instinctual and must be understood metaphorically. They are like voices individually spoken that together make up a beautiful jewelled song. Live long enough within it and you may also take refuge.

Fragments From a Journal

Glastonbury Tor 20/07/99

Peculiarly mundane, but incredibly special: the very nature of that which is mystical or supernatural in any way. Yet therein lies its attraction. And down the wobbly road lies the quizzical Youth Hostel – a veneer of Swiss Chalet beside a cow-grazed orchard. Quiet it is not, but the oak, beech and sycamore shake their leafy language over the dime grove. A dirty sky brooms over the Mendips and the tiles and the ubiquitous patchwork. Only on the Tor did the landscape come to life.

Millenia of water, forest and more water flattened good pasture. From the drains now emptying into the Severn the hand of men determine the island charm that is no more. For beyond my imaginations, the past is swept far away. The Avalon I climbed to see was lost in a jumble of colloquial Italian and heavy rucksacks. The peace of the scene was pinched by closed eyes in peace themselves. And down below, ever down below, the tumbling circus is in town telling us all how it is.

Yet there it is, upon the crest, over looking it all – not a master or mistress, more a slave to us. It cannot hide, so it remains our badge of hope. Mercilessly we drain our needs as we come and go. The strong and weak – we come and go. The untidy and the curious seek those answers in a scene of delicious landscape. For there is nothing to which one can compare this individuality, this shape and function. After all, no one lives there but King Arthur.

So I'm glad it wasn't sunny (as I'm thankful there was no rain). The chill of Englishness met the delicate nature of a conundrum. And in my clumsy foolishness I sought a path to the top with everyone else. And I saw what we all saw and then came back down again.

Getting There 05/08/99

It was not the length of the journey but the underlying inevitability that made the journey. And yet, despite the dull Englishness, the sharp grinding of gears, the unknown destination and the monotony of my own thoughts, I nevertheless expected to be somewhere. Anywhere.

Why should I embark upon a journey such as this? The distance was unknown. Only my heart was hoping to go: catharsis of vacation, exorcism of 51 weeks.

But I had the chance to go South. And, even though I yearn to head North, this is where my heart is now. And, even more, I would run and jump at the chance to be there.

Squally Assurances

                                        Raindrops compete for proximity

                                        Within the dewy confines of the shirt

                                        Altogether drip-trip double, the neck runs

                                        Pounded from above the lime tree-lined pathway

                                        The park’s sodden grassland gives way to quickmarsh

                                        Each milk coffee puddle churns to a bubble-popped sea

 

                                        In deeply thunderous rolls, away on the field-tops

                                        Jumping tears sound upon the river’s smoothness raised

                                        Down from heaven the tiller’s shift drops your storm

                                        This way now; be wet, and in the wetter shivers realise

                                        That Olympus hears all, but answers few, less so with favour

 

                                        They all pass, they move on, and they dry

                                        Grasses in green, thick oak velvet,

                                        As needful for it from drop-tipped fronds

                                        To the clutched grip-sure roots,

                                        These squally assurances allow the nameless and the named

                                        The power of a tomorrow, in rains today

Summer Rains

Tin hats on, the rains begin

The beguiling soft drips spatter arms

Awashed windscreens to come,

Theirs is the premon; fortune calling card

Sound out, in street sizzle, alarm for the washing

Such will cajole more tipgrowth in the lawn

 

From Devon mist to tropic deluge

All welcome the clean but the cricketers

It is a thing to be sat through

Or stood beneath a weeping tree

Hearty drops, their bombs ascend the legs,

Full conquest marched—defeated there is no hiding

 

Complete, another Beaufort-pushed ceasefire is done

A one-sided battle forever won

And then the sweet smell of victory—ah, petrichor

Bouquet puddles occupy the vanquisher’s delights

The bouncy castle’s treachery slip

Candidates all for sun-dumped steam

 

Until again the brolly dries

These weapons must be kept at the ready

Bachian stacatto notes pursue the summer’s course

Filling windows with soft fogs, the great indoors

Steel skies drift off, time softly taken

From sea, to sea, vita homines in gratia

The Archeans

Strong winds crossed the plains down from the mountains whipping up little wavelets on the surface of the pond. The inhabitants failed to notice this. The inhabitants failed to notice much at all, other than the regular violent drop in temperature which coincided with the complete absence of any sunlight for six hours in every twenty-three. And this meant only that their activities would temporarily slow or even stop. As their functions were basic and required very little in terms of input other than H₂O and sunlight, this pond life was a brief and slow one, reflecting the microbial capacity for life in terms of elementary respiration, absorption, metabolism, excretion, transportation, reproduction and growth. Their presence obviated the adaptation that had occurred in the relatively distant past, but it had not been seen for countless generations, not since those first, mysterious pioneers were forced onto the surface of a hot and intensely hostile planet.

It must be said that the inhabitants of each pond or lake reacted differently to their particular environment. In pools higher in the poisonous atmosphere the extremes would become almost unliveable and only the hardiest could hang on to life. For some, it was simply too much and the cumulative effect of constantly high daytime UV and intense heat and evaporating water would eliminate these poor brave creatures and so eternally end their unique combinations of DNA.

For others it was easier. Warmer seas allowed for rapid multiplication, particularly at the coastal fringes where waves embraced the gathered Archeans in their strange column-like communities, refreshing them with waters that softened their crimson, greenish and blue forms. A big glowing moon in a cloudless cold night sky bore harsh white streams of light onto shimmering black wavelets. Such was life – the only voice the wind and sea, the only art the creatures’ myriad hues.

Respiration through their thin membranes meant the transfusion of the abundance of atmospheric carbon dioxide necessary for the process. Minerals were suspended in the waters as were the necessary simple proteins and carbohydrate-forming elements. Wastes simply accumulated until the light rains or tidal rushes washed them away, luckily before accumulating to toxic levels.

Transportation took a very long time coming: being generally assisted by micro-currents generated from the wind and sunlight. But there was no need for movement. Only during the heavy rains, when pools overflowed, would some came in and others leave, the remnant mixture becoming at the same time both enriched and depleted. The newly-introduced genes would make their delicate alterations to form, life-cycle, and capacity, mostly for the better. Occasionally a retroactive gene would instil retroactive forms, but DNA being what it is, their genetic strength existed in competition, and would eventually be subsumed.

All during their lifetime an oxygen vapour would emanate from them through tiny bubbles underwater or by freely passing out in drier conditions. Generation after generation would pour more and more, incrementally turning the day sky bluer by imperceptible degrees.

These organisms, whose lives at most spanned days alone, could not perceive their cumulative impact upon their planet. Neither could they have been aware of the multi-trillion genetic permutations which occurred in each reproductive wave; permutations which permitted mutations and others which fixed them. In turn, a world of only one type of creature would inevitably one day allow for two, three and even more, each in their separate zones wherein they thrived and divided and changed again. Droughts, floods, meteoric and even cometary impacts and other cataclysms inevitably killed many, but also prompted and accelerated these changes to newer forms.

The Achaeans may have been the simplest and the first of all forms of life, but they also happened to be the longest surviving. They are mankind’s planet-changing ancestors. What had taken millions of years to achieve, unaided and alone, would be later done in less than two by the largely unseen mechanical processes of their monkey-like descendants, a eon-length natural marvel reduced by mundane economic necessity to measured moments before colonisation and profits.

Living With The Little People

                                        Living with the little people –

                                        All their lives interwoven, for good or ill.

                                        An assortment of perplexing powers and cowardice

                                        Padding around the patrol, skirting the scene of scents

                                        It is mishmash—pot-au-feu—mandala—flesh meld

 

                                        Of skill and sharp point, run and run in double time

                                        Such sport plays havoc, the fat pigeons alift,

                                        Adding play to the squirrel tree,

                                        And down by the shadowbank a fat vole sits

                                        Waits then swims, the musk anew on runs and stone

 

                                        A still life in fur, there’s a campaign voice,

                                        Calling, for any and all, get up – it is the time

                                        The worktop dish may be full, but not right

                                        And I have to go to hunt to prove you wrong

                                        When you bring an empty hand

 

                                        For the day is long, and full of careless sleep:

                                        A stirred footcreak, a sandblasted memory on twitchy limbs,

                                        The combatant worthy, in muzzle-bound bark,

                                        Drink full from empty streams, follow lost in mind.

                                        Then surface, to sigh deep, stretch and recover in sleep

 

                                        It behoves the strong armed –

                                        Meet their accomplished routine, the good and ill,

                                        Withal they bring, without damned egos,

                                        To shepherd, a pelaged family on 18 inches and 10 eyes,

                                        We are unconquerable—the legion of leads— ‘til death us do part

May Snow

It's Maytime and the weather is now fine – glorious full sun days that ought to be spent with pleasant company in the park, by the river, at the lido. Of course, most of the poor souls not in further education or enjoying self-employment cannot afford to drop the reins just to enjoy a spot of loitering in public places (unless they throw a 'sicky'). But for the lucky free ones, these days are so good that they really must be enjoyed to the full. Within the parks clusters of merry students have sprung up, each gathered around a guitarist, or some other attractor, a bottle or two of best Moravian red at their disposal. These will be the best days of their life, and should not be begrudged.

Elsewhere in the sun-baked fields and beside the muddy rivers grow the poplars and willows, the hallmarks of the European countryside. Their wispy seeds are taken by the wind and cast in sleety clouds across the landscape, lying like summer snow upon the grass, collecting in vast clumps as drifts. These soft forms – so light – take fairy flight, but find their wafted ways to clothes, hair and nose.

May snow, so far from season, falls like the broken heart, blown left and right by winds beyond its power. Filling the lows of the landscape, it clogs the simpering pathways for a time, but, who knows, perhaps after the deluge it will be gone.

Jackdaws

Peculiar beasts, jackdaws. Their black shine and serious eye betrays a light heart. They swoop, their wings beatless, and dive through brick canyons in jump jet attack formation, yet will play breezy on the wing when gusts and gales take slates from rotten roofs.

The jackdaws of Lynton, the north Devon town that hugs the cliffs overlooking the Bristol Channel, are exciting masters of flight. Mobbing in tight synchronicity, their time aloft is interspersed with prattling landings by chimneys heavy with woodsmoke. "Jack! Jack!" they remark with a deliberate persistance. "Jack! Jack!" they call to each other across the cold, wet winter town. Their hard, squeaky voices have been compared unfavourably with idle chattering; an ancient Greek proverb announces that, "The swans will sing when the jackdaws are silent", meaning that refined and educated people will wait their turn as common folk talk on until quiet ensues.

For much of the year inky coated jackdaws will happily sit with larger crows and rooks – and by the Exmoor coast sometimes even the red legged, red-beaked choughs. Their gregarious nature includes common shared feeding, a form of mutualism, although they take to a rigid social hierarchy by nature. A rather special feature of their predation is that their delight in stolen goods. Common magpies may enjoy the reputation for theft, but jackdaws also take shiny objects and even jewellery to nest.

Although quite keen on garbage, with a sideline in bugs and the odd worm, their main feasts appear to be vegetarian in nature. Whole flocks can descend upon a field of wheat and do great damage. It is precisely because of this that Tudor laws were enacted to keep their numbers down, and they are still some of the few species that can be set in traps.

Shy, unless decidedly urban, jackdaws can mob fierce predators, and take their food from other birds in flight. Fond of a tick or two, they will hitch a ride on bovine or ovines to seek out a choice bloody morcel. They will, themselves, be taken by larger raptors such as falcons.

Sociable birds by inclination, they are thought here in the Czech Republic to be harbingers of conflict should they be heard quarrelling. So, they sit quite happily around the cathedral spires of Olomouc, merry enough to waste time on the wing, contented in their lot for now. With an eye on the situation in Ukraine, may their continued presence be peaceful, as much as they keep it for us.

Binary Stars

                                        Binary Stars, circle and tear, naturally close

                                        Their plasma flung far, far out into the vacuum.

                                        Energy jets of a trillion watts

                                        Devour the space between –

                                        A deafening conflagration of all-consuming heat

 

                                        Beyond the black, the powered night sky,

                                        This Sturm und Drang is absent:

                                        On trouble-free afternoon brows there is no sweat,

                                        Not even a murmur reaches the ear,

                                        Flowers grow in a soft storm-kissed park

 

                                        Without desire these birling suns bestill to numb silence,

                                        Their shine stops without attachment, detachment, attachment...

                                        So they pour within each other, atom by atom,

                                        Delighting in each peaceful drop

                                        Photon shots of delicious ferocity,

                                        A companion system – complete magnetic attraction