Stories that we find in the park

#003 What is the world whispering to us, and how can we listen?

Yesterday morning I walked loops around my local park before work. It is not a big park, with a post that tells you how many laps you need to run to complete a mile. Two laps, or if I’m up early enough, three, is not a big trek, but enough to set me up well for the day. The park is a place where I can find easy comfort, surrounded by nature, friendly dog walkers, and if I’m late, familiar families on their way to school. It is a place that usually allows my mind and body to sink into a different pace, the slow rhythm of my steps acting like a soothing walking meditation most days. It is a place full of poetry, and stories, and life.

There are old trees, mostly tall and coniferous around the edge, providing pine cones that make great fire starters, and large oaks and the like, dotted around the central green space (Tree identification is not my forte, so imagine a range of healthy deciduous trees. Go wild with them!). These provide space for the squirrels and birds, and host tiny mushrooms in the bark grooves after the rain. I’m sure there’s a fancy name for them but I’m not great at fungi identification either… I prefer to think of them as umbrellas to keep the tree fairies dry.

The humans are well cared for too, with plentiful benches offering a place to rest, and a community cafe selling homemade cakes, though currently closed for the winter and a refurb. A play area with giant sand pit and wooden equipment nicely contains, I mean entertains, the little children in one corner of the park, and another corner houses the thatched bandstand, and what I think of as a Japanese meditation garden. At the other end stands the much awaited, newly refurbished, already graffiti painted toilet block. The final corner at that end is home to the more visible of the town’s two lawn bowling greens. I love stopping on my way past to watch a game in flow, and often say thank you to the members as they deadhead the flowers. Their lawns are constantly edged with a rainbow of colour in the tidy flowerbeds (I’m a bit better at identifying flowers, and recognise snapdragons, pansies, dahlia, hellebores, and daffodils!) . The rest of the park has a brilliant team of its own, and has invested time and money, particularly in the rose beds, in recent years. There is a large greenhouse and composting area, and some animal art carved into the tree trunks. You can perhaps get a feel of why I like walking there so much.

A partner of the past thoughtfully asked the park gardeners for the name of the purple roses that I admired so much, so he could buy them for my own garden. They still make me smile when they bloom, and I whisper a thank you to him every summer. The variety? I want to say Rhapsody in Blue... But maybe ask the gardeners to be sure!

On my meander yesterday I was not enjoying all these wonderful things, too distracted by a rumbling of thoughts in my mind. I tried to practice mindfulness, noticing the feel of my feet on the hard path, and allowing my attention to spread up my body. I could feel it working, the energy filling me up with life and bringing me back to the present. I was nearing a big oak tree, and as I walked closer, was struck by its familiar comfort, and large canopy branches.

I fell out of my head and back into winter.

No matter what troubles were rumbling around my head, suddenly I was in front of a tree which has stood in that spot for well over a hundred years. This is the wonderful thing about nature, its constant reminder that whatever trajectory we are on, it has been there before, and is always a circle that we come back to. My laps around the park bring me back to myself, and nature brings us back to winter.

I didn’t think of it then, but writing this memory down brings my attention to a song that keeps popping into my mind at the moment-

There is a season, turn turn turn

and a time to every purpose under heaven.

Pete Seeger

There is a season. And a purpose, though we might not know it. Yet.

In my first post I made reference to the seasons of our lives not always being in sync with the seasons of nature, but sometimes they really are. Winter is a time for slowing down, taking rest, recuperating, letting go of what no longer serves us, conserving energy, all to be ready for the life filled spring. I can see it everywhere. The trees are naked, the stems of the hydrangea, roses and fuchsia bushes in my garden look almost black, rather than the healthy green they will become again. A small cluster of snowdrops, narcissi, and aconites are starting to poke out, but I fear they are pushing too early. I want to warn them not to hurry out of their rest before the frosts have finished. But all this reflection came later.

During the walk my mind was persistent, and kept pulling me out of my body and into it. Rumble rumble rumble, it went. I know that it does this, entirely convinced that it is being helpful, wanting me to be prepared, to feel better, to think things through as much as I can. It has no idea how much energy it is wasting, and doesn’t mean to be so tricky!

The world found a magical way to assist, with the unassailable power of seagulls.

Side Note: I looked for a suitable seagull audio clip to accompany this story but they were all too relaxing, with lapping waves in the background, which was not the effect I was going for. So for those of you skilled in auditory imagination, let’s try it…

Kaaaaw. Kaaaaw. Kaaw.

Has that grated at your nerves enough? Make it a bit louder, so it really draws your attention, forcing you right out of your head, and instinctively looking up to the sky.

Aaarrrk. Kaaaw. Kaaaaw.

There we go, well done!

Up in the sky were the culprits. Three birds swooping and swirling around each other, high above the grassy park. As I continued to look, something seemed unusual about the bird in the middle. It wasn’t swooping, but flying straight as the others swirled around it, excitedly kaaawing. Aided by them getting larger as they flew nearer, I noticed more differences- longer wings, a long beak, and long body. Graceful, and without hurry, it flew high, over my head, and was gone.

In its place, a blue sky, and the memory of its graceful flight, seen only by me. And now, I hope through our imaginings, also you.

I continued my walk around the park, bursting with wonder, wanting to stop everyone I passed to ask if they’d spotted the heron. But, I reasoned to myself, none of them looked bursting with the joy I felt, so they couldn’t have done. They’d all been on the path on the other side of the park. And what if I told them, and they looked at me strangely? Has that happened to you, where you want to share something beautiful with a stranger and feel a connection, and they look at you as if you are mad,

“Why are you telling me this?!”, they seem to silently say.

“Because you are a fellow human and I was sure you would share in the joy at this thing!.

But they don’t, and you go away feeling disappointed and foolish, and it spoils the thing that was so precious.

I wanted to share the experience with someone I knew would get it, and immediately texted that friend. I asked if she could remember the significance of cranes, both of us familiar with

Dr Sharon Blackie

’s writing about the Old Crane archetype. Both knew it was auspicious, but couldn’t recall or determine quite how, or what she symbolises. My friend said-

‘they live on the edge of lands between this world and spirit, so I think she or he is your protector’

This is exactly what I felt in that moment. Egocentric as it is, the heron seemed to be there just for me. How often are we are allowed to think that? To sink into the moment and own it all for ourselves? And no wonder it is so hard to practice mindfulness, we are socially conditioned not to be mindful… Thinking about what has happened in the past, what might happen in the future, and how we can fix or prolong what is happening in the moment. There was no fixing required, no prolonging the flight, the heron was telling me, gliding through the sky, ignoring the squawking seagulls. I was back in my body, and smiling.

I felt connected to myself, to the heron, to stories of Crane Woman (though not remembering what they were!), to the wonder of our world, and to my friend. She then shared an experience she’d had the day before. A bee had landed on her lips, collecting chocolate residue from them before flying off. I immediately had a beautiful image of her- cross eyed, peering down past her nose, a buzzing loud in her ears, brimming with joy! This was exactly the friend I needed to share that moment with- she got it! And shared her own joyful story with me. Thank you.

So on that magical walk, I received the salve that I needed. I went into my work day smiling, and full of joy. The heron had brought me home to the best parts of myself, with a sense of connectedness to people and things that nurture me.

I think we can have a tendency to look outside ourselves for meaning, often looking for the right answer. I’m starting to recognise that I’ve had it all wrong, and the most important answers come from within us.

I’m in a time of significant change, with lots of endings and beginnings. Some of these are choices I have made, and some of them are not. As I said in my first post, I don’t know what this year will bring, but change is certain. And it has been coming fast, in the form of animal images. A fortnight ago it was an image of a mole, peering out of his home in the ground, afraid of coming out into the light of the world. The following week I was given the image of a mother fox, fiercely defending her cubs, and with the wiles to protect herself. This week I received the heron. Whatever the myths and stories and meanings ascribed to herons and cranes, that heron was showing me everything I needed to know, in its flight. Reminding me that whatever the noise around me, whatever the seagulls are squawking at me to do, I can fly gracefully through the noise, and keep true to my own flight. And even if nobody else ever notices, it is beautiful.

Stories are a powerful way in to finding meaning in our lives, our own purpose under heaven. We need to find the stories that support us and look out for the ways in which the world gently nudges us towards them, acknowledging that it isn’t always easy to listen, and being patient with ourselves.

What is the world gently nudging you towards?

Final Note: Not THE heron, as far as I know, but some I saw on a different walk. They kept on coming until I really listened!

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I’d love to hear from you,

Jo.