Hymn of Pan

I wrote the following poem about five weeks ago but never found the time energy or motivation to type it up.

Hymn of Pan


I am the creeping root that breaks

The concrete crust of roads

I kiss the tiny shoot that becomes

A towering, ancient oak.

I am the song of morning

That greets the rising sun

And with the blackbird’s song at dusk

I sing the world to rest

I am the fierce and cunning weasel

And the timid cowering vole

I am the narrow streamlet

And the raging floods of spring

I know the wild and savage seas

And soft wavelets on the strand

I dance where life is starting

And where it comes to its final end

I am nature’s fiercest defender

And her dearest,  oldest friend

A return to myself

After recent events and changes, I’ve begun to feel as if I am now able to return to my real self, my old way of being. Now that I am not almost paralysed with despair and banging my head against a metaphorical brick wall, I have sensed the start of a returning creativity.

A few nights ago, I began thinking about the novel I began over a year ago which became stalled and unable to progress. The very first inklings of who the people are began to trickle back into my mind and I started to imagine again, to let a story begin to unfold in my mind.

I’ve really missed this. The difficulty is that I am very tired and still rather under the weather emotionally. I can feel my equilibrium returning but even so, I’m not back to balance at all. I had a sleep this afternoon which was extremely welcome, but it did make me notice just how tired I am. Next week I’m back to teaching a full class; this week I have been teaching one-to-one with an adult. It’s been a nice change but it’s if anything more intense emotionally than having a class of kids. The summer season is drawing to an end. Only a few more weeks and the summer school is over. I’ve got work for three weeks in September, then me and my husband have some time off together. Then I don’t know what will happen workwise.

I’m just looking forward to having some time where I can dream and write and dream some more. In the meantime, I am going to try and get some writing done most days when I can fit it in. I managed to get some done today when I woke up.

The fabric of my work universe was ripped from top to bottom last week and we’re all readjusting to a new environment and it’s much better but for me, I need to see the events of the last 18 months (which is how long the work problems have been going on for me ) as food for thought and food for possible stories, and I need to let them sink in deeply and let my unconscious work with them.

It’ll be interesting to see what it makes of them over time. I’ll keep you informed!

Lammas Dream

I woke  this morning after a night of odd dreams, one of which moved me to tears. Last night I had to fetch back my hive of bees after we’d been informed that it was being raided by wasps so we were late back last night and had to get the girls settled in a discreet part of the garden, working by torchlight. I’m mulling over a lot of things right now and am intending to start weaving them into a set of stories when I get a bit of time and energy, but this dream seems to be a part of the inner journey I am taking right now. I’m not going into any more than that as it’d take too long so I’ll give the gist of the central part of the dream.

I am not sure where I was, but it was a bit like one of the great summer fetes we have here in England and I’d wandered off a bit before finding a sort of gazebo or tent with it’s sides up, much like the ones you find at summer fairs and village fetes all over the country. But when I stepped inside it, everything changed. If I said it was decorated with autumn leaves and berries and ripe apples, I’d be damning it with faint praise. It was as though those things had magically just grown there. No flower arranger had had a hand in this; it was beyond beautiful. Branches of all sorts of trees seemed to have woven themselves together, some laden with nuts and berries like hazel and rowan, and others had apples and pears and plums and all sorts of other fruit as well as leaves that were changing colour to their autumn hues. But it was the atmosphere that made me cry with a strange atavistic joy. I’d stepped into the very presence of God, or that’s what it felt like. A deeper peace I can seldom remember experiencing. The scent of fruit flowers, leaves and barks filled the air and there was a profound expectant quiet like the feeling in a church when the last notes of the organ die away leaving a resonance like silver hanging in the air. Apart from me, no one was there. I simply didn’t want to leave. The dream moved on then and other things happened that I must ponder later.

When I finally woke this morning and drank tea, I remembered today is Lammas, the feast of the ripening corn and the harvest. I’d woken with tears of joy and sorrow at leaving that tent of God and now I feel I must seek it again or even create my own corner of it.

Lammas blessings to everyone who reads this.