The Green Man

Midsummer rises... and cool green light filters between the trees. It drifts in dappled layers to a forest floor of ancient memories of those that have gone before. Silence envelopes me, holding me in arms of tranquility. My footfalls make no sound as I wander over centuries of dreams and dances. I am mesmerized, cocooned within the heart of the wildwood. A breeze trembles through the highest leaves, lingers with a whisper of voices long forgotten. I am drawn deeper. I sense myself leaving one world and entering another. World reality becomes obscure, recedes and pan pipes sing a haunting song. A hundred eyes watch me. Shadows skip and light glimmers. Gossamer feet pitter and patter. Wings flutter. I have entered the unknown, long-forgotten realm.A silver birch shivers, her green tresses rustle, wary – resentful - of the human presence.
My feet carry me forward and I advance towards the trunk of a venerable oak. Its craggy armour of grey is decorated with treebeard and lichen, elemental partners in the battle and dance of life.
This is my journey. My midsummer rising.
I wrap my arms around Old Man Oak, draw myself to his timeless bulk. Deep within, his heart beats, old as the stars, slow and steady. I sense him watching me, feeling me. I know I am an interloper, know I have to earn respect. All I have to give is love... I let it flow in waves from me – some small pittance to make up for things done by others to all his kind in so many places both near and far. The love pulsates from me into the heart of the tree – and he radiates it back, his energy connecting with mine. I rest my cheek against his side - close my eyes to sense him better.
Grandfather Oak, I have come home.
His voice, thick with age, rumbles within him.
Yes, child…home.
Yes.
All place is home. We are…home.
Yes.
Hard world your kind has created.
I’m sorry.
Humans advance without thought.
I know.
Sorrow.
Forgive us, we are unthinking.
I know. But we endure…always endure. Ancient wisdom knows.
A blackbird flutters and scuffles in the undergrowth. My eyes spring open.
Glossy creature, it watches me, head cocked to one side, bright eyes of obsidian glinting. It warbles - a syrupy note. It hops towards me, pauses, calls out, a clear, crystalline voice.
And then I sense him. He has been watching…peering through the trunks of his beloved trees. Edging ever closer, curious, unafraid…master of all he surveys.
I know you’re there. I am awed, my inner voice trembles.
He chuckles, remains unrevealed. But I feel his eyes upon me, appraising me.
Grandfather Oak speaks to him but I cannot catch the words. It is an ancient language that I and my kind of long since forgotten.
The blackbird chirrups. I have been asked a question.
Yes, I like it here. I find my peace here. I would remain forever…
I sense his smile. He is pleased I find rest and joy within his domain.
Midsummer is rising, the dryads are impatient, eager to weave and dance and play. He must go, so many to see, so much to do. Summer is in full glory. He is in his prime. I know this, feel it… I am remembering the primordial tongue…
Come again. Soon. I would speak with you, see more of you.
I will, and thank you.
I have been welcomed, embraced and now I must go. This is not my world, not now, not yet…
The blackbird twitters at me, his voice full of cheek and laughter. The way, the way, he sings, I will show you the way.
I pause, one lingering hand on the face of Grandfather Oak - my goodbye.
I turn as if in a dream but the spell is breaking. Reality beckons as voices shout in the distance. A jet rumbles overhead. They are poles apart these worlds, yet intrinsically interconnected.
Yes, I hear him say, remember that. We are always here, will always be here. Take that with you as our gift. And come again…
I hear him laugh, his voice echoing in the woods, drifting away, the merry glee of the dryads follows him - and midsummer rises
I know I have been blessed – or bewitched.

(Green Man image... courtesy of a Google image search.)

This is not the dream...

Night descends in swathes of velvet. Darkness wraps inky arms around trees and houses, and creeps into nooks and crannies. Silence falls.
I am alone. He is away. I should be safe. I am tucked away behind six foot walls and gates. The garden is studded with invisible beams to foil the unwary intruder. The security gates which guard all the doors are locked. The doors are bolted, the windows are shut their burglar bars protecting them. The LEDs on the security system gleam with eyes that are ever-vigilant. Yes, I should be safe.
I switch off the lights and am cocooned by a sea of black. I like the night. I feel safe in the dark – unseeing and unseen. Stillness washes over me and I sleep.
My subconscious awakens, taps into the collective unconscious. It weaves dreams of trouble and torment. My sleep becomes restless. I toss and turn. My shoulders tighten, ride up to my ears. My gut, the emotional heart of me, gurgles in trepidation. My body breaks out into the clammy sweat of a cold night.
I awaken, ears alert. Outside all is quiet. Something thuds in the roof. I jerk. I run through the security checklist in my mind, remind myself that my neighbours – near and far – patrol the streets every hour of the night. I sense my angels around me, protecting me – as they have always done.
I fall into an uneasy sleep and again my subconscious encounters the collective unconscious. We are all one. We are all afraid. It is how we live. Muggings, rapes, murders, armed robberies, beatings, knifings, road rage, drug and alcohol abuse, child abuse, animal abuse, corruption, deceit… This is a society that bubbles with aggression, violence and fear. It touches everyone in some way.

Dawn rises and the first robin starts to sing, his warble of pure honey flooding the beginning of a new day. The rose-tipped fingers of daybreak stretch into the blue of heaven and the touch the granite face of the mountain with kisses of pink radiance. The guinea fowl with their strident calls advance along the road. Outside my window a squirrel chatters.
I awake – stiff, aching and unsettled. I stretch and do what we all do – our only way of coping – I bury my head in the sand – try to pretend things are not what they seem. Try to believe everything is different. My subconscious together with the collective unconscious prays that maybe one day it will be.


This is not the dream for which the great Madiba fought. This is not the liberation for which thousands of freedom fighters struggled. As I listened to our great elder statesman, the father of a nation, Neslon Rolihlahla Mandela, speaking in London at the unveiling of his statue in Parliament Square, I wondered where it had all gone so horribly wrong. This is not the dream…

(Images used in this post... courtesy of Google image searches.)

New Forest Memories

Born Free

Treebeard and Moss

Tree Tales

Gracious Silver Birch

Oak Story

Mother and Child

Pine Sentries

Calshot

Meeting Mr Despicable Opinion

I’m often left pondering the nature of humanity and no more so when encountering conflict. What is it about some people that leads them to assume that they know you, understand your motives and are entitled for form an opinion on the basis of no knowledge whatsoever – and then attack you?

I recall being sent to a Stephen Covey course, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, many years ago. The one habit that struck me most was “Seek first to understand and then to be understood”. What is so remarkable about this habit is its ability to defuse conflict situations - would that more people put it into practice. But it strikes me this sort of approach is not in the nature of humans who would sooner shoot first and ask questions later.

So here’s the scene: a meeting in a breezy seminar room to discuss all things “trees”.

The matter is a contentious one. The trees are not indigenous. Yet they provide local communities, particularly impoverished ones, with much needed recreational shade. Others enjoy the plantations for walking, dog walking, horse riding, mountain biking, picnicking and barbequing. And, it should be said, that of the entire National Park that runs through the middle of the city, these pine plantations form only two percent. True, the indigenous vegetation is under threat and much of it has already been destroyed by urban development – along with the indigenous peoples who were wiped out by the original Dutch settlers way back in the 1600’s... But now, in an era of “biodiversity crisis” and after years of slumber, local botanists have finally decided to pop up and bellow loudly. I have no issue with this – but it’s the how of the matter that irks me.

My position is simply this: We live in a time of global warming in a city that already enjoys temperatures of plus 30 degrees Celsius in summer. It is a Mediterranean climate and the little shade there is, is much valued. Moreover, the plantations act as something of a green lung in a polluted environment – and of course, provide that valuable recreational shade. They have also come to form part of the city’s cultural landscape. The other critical point is that throughout my fight for the trees (accepting that plantations are a form of agriculture and the trees are regularly harvested) I have wanted to provide a voice for those who were given no voice – namely, those from “previously disadvantaged communities”. To this end I have, over several Sundays, conducted interviews amongst these people as they’ve picnicked in the shade of the pines. What struck and distressed me was the level of disempowerment voiced - the simmering resentment and hostility towards an authority who never consulted them – as in the bad old days and so now…

So in the meeting of all interested and affected parties yesterday I raised just that point and pointed out that the group of predominantly white faces sitting around the table was hardly representative of the majority of the city’s inhabitants, particularly those who live in dusty, treeless communities.

And so from stage right enters Mr Despicable Opinion.

I’ve been hearing about Old Despicable for the past few months, but having never met the man formed no opinion of my own. It is, I believe, a little unreasonable to accept others’ judgement without study of the subject oneself…

From the moment I closed my mouth, having made my plea, I felt something or someone’s energy directed at me - and it was not a well-meaning energy. It was resentful, bitter, angry… I ignored it, told myself I was imagining it…

The meeting over, I stood outside the seminar room in conversation with a friend. A man of about 60 with white grey hair stalked towards me. His body radiated contained aggression and he locked eyes with me as he began to speak. His the voice was measured - baiting a trap.

“Did you tell those picnickers the trees were going?” Despicable Opinion asked.

I knew where this was coming from. He was hoping I’d say yes – and nothing else.

So I said, “Yes, I did - but I also told them the picnic site would be moved and pointed out the proposed new picnic area.”

Foiled.

He tried again.

“Did you give a time frame?”

“No, I didn’t, I don’t know the time frame.”

My friend butted in. “It’s imminent – we’ve just been told that in the meeting.”

Despicable glowered at me. “I want you to know that what you’ve done is despicable!”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” I said.

“You had no right to speak to those people! I’ve been speaking to those people. I know what’s right for them! You had no right. Your actions are despicable. Despicable!”

He was frothing and plumes of blue smoke billowed from his ears.

“As I said, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Thank you for letting me be entitled to my opinion!” he snarled and spun on his heel in a huff.

“My pleasure,” I said to his retreating back, “it is after all only an opinion.”

And so it is - just an opinion – of a man who knows nothing about me or my motives. Who has no clue how I conducted my surveys or the spirit in which it was done. The opinion of a man used to bullying others so he can have his own way.

We are complete strangers yet he chose to go to war because he felt threatened. And he made an assumption. And you know what they say about the word “assume” – ass u me. Nobody wins.

But Mr Despicable Opinion is not alone in the position he takes – it is the position of many an insecure person feeling threatened. You see, Old Despicable hates the pines. He wants to preserve the indigenous vegetation – scrubby grey bush – at all costs. It’s a noble view but it is unbalanced because biodiversity is not just about plants, it’s about people too. Biodiversity is about ecosystems and, whether one likes it or not, us humans are very much an integral part of those systems. Perhaps the next thing for Mr Opinion to argue is the removal of all humans from this part of the world too. That is, after all, the logical conclusion of his position. Now, I wonder what the opinion of others would be on that…

(Image used in this post... courtesy of a Google image search.)

Angelic Encounters

It should be safe to take a walk. But not here. Not anymore. Not for a while…
I remember…

The greenbelt at the end of my road lies on the edge of the motorway linking the suburbs with the city. On one side of the motorway is a dairy farm with a small lake and an old Cape Dutch homestead. On the other side is a river, horse paddocks and the edge of pine plantations which go on to rise halfway up the mountain. The view from the hill looks out over rolling vineyards and towards the towering granite face of the side of Table Mountain. It’s beautiful. A picture of God’s grandeur and verdancy.
My two elderly Golden Retrievers and I liked to walk there.
We walked slowly, SJ with his arthritic bones couldn’t go very fast. B, the older dog, still thought he was three… We reached the top of the hill, paused to admire the view and sniff the scents. It was three in the afternoon. There were no other walkers. Not a good thing. It is wise to be wary when taking a stroll. It is not a time for reflection or meditation. This is South Africa…
I looked around - my eyes followed the path along the riverbank. Two men – about five hundred metres away from me. Black guys. This is not a statement of race. It is one of pragmatism. Most instances of crime are black on black and black on white. They looked up - saw me standing on the hill top. I watched them. They gazed back.
Turn around and go home now. The voice in my ear could not have been any clearer.
But the boys need a walk.
Not here. Not now.
Look, just because they’re black guys doesn’t mean they’re trouble. I don’t want to be another paranoid whitey.
You’re not being paranoid and your race is irrelevant.
I tell you what, I’ll go along a little way and if it doesn’t look good I’ll turn around.
No. Turn around now.
But…
I know you don’t want this to be race issue. But this about your safety. And you aren’t safe. Go back now. Put distance between yourself and them.
I was torn. I knew the voice was right. But I was so conscious of my paranoid whitey label. This is South Africa…
Contrary to every inner prompting I walked on.
As I descended the hill, one guy started to pee. Perhaps it was a call of nature. Perhaps it was a form of territorial behaviour. Perhaps it’s meant to cock a snook at the whitey. This is South Africa… He kept his eyes on me as he peed. Facing me. Defiant. His friend watched me too.
Shit.
Finished, he turned to his friend. The friend nodded, they shook hands and the friend started to run. Towards me. At me. Gaining pace. I should have known. This is South Africa…
“SJ,” I said, “we need to go home. I need you to run, baby, please. Try.” Fear snaked along the leads.
SJ look up at me. He understood.
We turned.
Don’t look back.
Up the hill. B bounding at my side, me dragging SJ. He couldn’t do it. I knew he couldn’t. He tried - so hard.
The guy was gaining on us. SJ was stumbling. My heart pounded. Fear throbbed in my ears.
I should have listened.
SJ tripped, fell onto the path.
The guy was close - maybe a hundred and fifty meters away.
I couldn’t leave my dog. Wouldn’t. I would take my chances.
I dropped to me knees. I stroked SJ’s head. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”
He gazed up at me, despair in his eyes.
The guy raced towards us… and stopped – as though he’d hit a wall.
A look of puzzlement flickered across his face.
He stared at me.
“He’s old,” I murmured, “old man, sore legs.”
He tried to take a step towards us – faltered... His eyes widened. He seemed held - kept back.
He glanced around. His friend was no where to be seen. He looked at us again, confusion flooding his eyes. He muttered something - and took off – dashing towards the freeway.

I have no doubt that my boys and I were protected by an angel. I have never stopped saying thank you. There are greater things in this universe than the criminality of some South Africans…


The telling of this story was prompted by a recent report that a woman narrowly escaped rape whilst walking on the greenbelt...

More hellish days in Mauritius - Part Two

Okay, I promise after this - no more. Clearly I have inadvertently raised some envy and as we know, this is bad. For me and for you. So I will leave you with these last few shots and then say no more.

Wolmar Beach - West Coast

Silheoutted palms - another balmy sunset

Vegetable section of the Quatre Bourne Market

Food Vendors - Quatre Bourne Market

La Bennitier et les Fonds Blancs - a tiny coral island in crystal clear waters

Here endeth the time in paradise.

Mauritius - Another hellish day in paradise... Part One

Chickens and other humans have been known to travel - particularly to places that delight the senses... Enjoy the scenes from a recent holiday. Personally, I'm hoping to go back soon - preferably yesterday.

View from the hotel lobby... It's hell, I know

Mauritian east coast - views over sugar cane plantations

Tree roots snaking along the Black River in the Black River Gorge

Mauritian Tortoise have a slow and languid snack...

Ah, sigh, sunset over the west coast and Wolmar Beach... So endeth a hellish day in paradise.

More tomorrow...