Weaving My World

Lying in the willow dome I look at the intertwined branches that have woven together over the years.  I am emerging from the cloud of deep loss I find myself feeling lost and afraid. As I looked at the web of branches above me it occurs to me that my life is woven in a similar way. Branches from neighbouring trees intertwine and overlap. My love for healing, music, writing and nature have created friendships which overlap and intertwine, one connection leading on to many others.  I have built a life, created connections, structure and boundaries, giving me a feeling of safety.

I am protective of my willow dome. I worry about it during storms, fearing I will wake one day to find it ravaged and destroyed. I know that life is fragile, that things can change in a heartbeat. Some branches have died and they snap in the winds and fall away. The structure endures as others grow stronger, taking their place.

Inside I sit, gently embraced by roots below and by branches above, inside this egg-shaped tree, this womb that I have co-created. It’s a friendly place, a nurturing, nourishing space with a welcoming door, fringed with green. The floor is dry and brown, carpeted with last year’s leaves, dappled with sunlight. The sides are perforated with a myriad of views, like an ever-changing stained glass window. Down low are greens of every hue and texture. Above are shards of blue from palest pastel to deep-sea azure, pink, peach and purple of sunrise and sunset. Occasionally red breast of robin can be spied through a tiny window, curiously watching and being watched, as I sit in my tree and he in his.

Tonight I have the green tang of peppermint tea, purple iris, glimpsed across the lawn through a green edged triangle, orange blanket, purple striped socks, journal on my knee. Wood pigeons call, cows settle down for the night, sheep bleat at overgrown lambs. Housemartins chatter through flight training which continues into dusk as night moths rise.

I sit within the embrace of nature, strong but flexible, open but protective. A safe space to lie down and be vulnerable, to just be, without purpose or agenda.



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