On Respite
I attended a mindful photography retreat in Scotland late last year. It was an unusually soft autumn; golden foliage still lingered in the woodlands — and, unfortunately, midges in the bracken. I arrived carrying work-related pressures, quite stressed after the effort of getting there.
Over the course of ten days, those stresses gradually dissipated. Each day I walked through forests, seeking the path less trodden (often by leaving the path altogether and moving up onto the hillsides). The walking became a form of moving meditation, and my images shifted too, from cold and dark to warm and gentle.
One morning I walked from Aberfeldy, crossing the river and climbing into the hills on the far side of the valley. Through a narrow gap in the hedgerow — just wide enough to catch my trousers — and into the woods beyond.
After an hour or two, I sat in the understorey for a sandwich and coffee from my flask. The late morning was mild. I lay back and looked up into the golden canopy.
Fifteen minutes later, I opened my eyes.
I had gently dozed off.
The woods were still. The light unchanged.
For a moment, nothing seemed urgent.
Still forest —
sleeping through
falling leaves
