The Woodland Painting

Today I share a piece of writing from almost ten years ago to the day. As a family we were staying in a tiny wooden cabin deep in the woods near Carcassonne, France. After months on the road travelling around Southern Portugal and Spain in our van, it was a time of stillness and deeper reflection into living a simpler life within nature. I called this piece of writing: 

The Woodland Painting

There is a cabin in the woods where at night the shadows of trees swaying against a moonlit sky can be seen from every direction. 

There is no need for curtains because people are few so from the bed, one can lie down and simply watch for endless minutes as darkened trunks spread their arms out across one, two, three… four windows, otherwise empty against a wide sky. 

To be on that bed is to be at the centre of a woodland painting. To open the window and fall asleep to the sound of owls is to be at the heart of a woodland scene. 

And so, here my body rests; for a month, maybe two, which makes my heart silently sing for this wandering soul is always gladdened to find a place where the desire to stay, is stronger than the desire to go.

By day we work in the woods as a family. The dampened earth of this new land—so very different from the dry dust of where we have just been—moulds itself around my hands and I feel a sensation of rootedness, of land, that is not completely unfamiliar. A mixture of decaying and glistening leaves encase my booted feet and my fingernails sink deep into the wet moss that has spread around trunks of oak. As I carefully stack wood there is an echo, a thud that comforts despite giving the illusion of hollowness. 

Then something makes me stop. 

I stand and look upwards at the tallness all around me. There is a breeze running through the branches and leaves that sends a shiver down my spine. I wonder what the trees are telling me…I am sure it is something achingly tender and wise, and for a moment I do nothing but listen. I do nothing but try and allow the rustling to enter my very being so that I become part of the forest.

There is no beach here and the only sunshine is that which I grasp at hungrily as it passes over us and across down the valley. There are not many people… but there is comfort in just being here, there is tenderness to be found in the care of horses and I am happy because here, in this painting, I see that we all have something new to learn, explore and experience amidst the warm hues of a woodland winter.

So, I place another log on the fire, I look out of the window a little longer, I write another thought in my notebook, and I feel comforted in the knowledge that these wandering feet can rest… for a short while.