Blurred Edges

I read a page or two of Naomi Klein’s book This Changes Everything,
then need to look at a leaf, a puddle, a poem, and take a walk to regain my place- sense in the landscape.
With practice it does become easier, the deep release I can feel in my limbs, forehead, fingertips, and edges of eyes but one can still be surprised by missed connections, flying thoughts and drifting worries.
I am often light but ageing helpfully draws me lower, not just in my bones, now with osteoporosis, but with lessening expectation, of world, of self, and more vulnerability, more attention, more abstract delight. I am coming back to feeling Laura, tears arise nearly as often as smiles.
aches and wonder play like rain on water
The effort is repaid by my gradual undoing, the loosening of the edges, the acceptance of being part of it all and wanting that, wanting not to be other, just part with edges blurred.
I want to moss myself
let what is growing outside
grow on and through
till I am claimed and fleshed
as the earth my body is
To look for edges and blur them
like the hard chalk line being watered and spread
I want my edges to do that in every breath, in every meeting
shift breath shift meet shift breath
‘ see with the eyes of compassion, listening to others – getting merely beyond expressing ourselves – is the distinguishing feature of the empathic mode’
‘whereas what we need …is an art whose subtext is balance and attunement’
from The Reenchantment of Art Suzi Gablik
from  The Secret Knowledge of Water  Craig Childs
‘This room, I whispered. Remember this room.
It seemed to be the end of the cave. Water welled slowly from below. The surface quieted from my swimming until my light sank right down, no ripples in the way. About every forty seconds a bead of water fell from the ceiling, dotting a circle into the pool. Each drip was so widely spaced that the silence between them had weight. Then the weight broke with the next startling drip.
The drip seemed to remember too, something that would fall every day, every year in consummate, unstirred darkness. The ripples would spread unnoticed like those of a star pulsing at the far edge of a galaxy. I whispered so I would remember it.
I watched radiating circles disappear before the next drip fell. Then I held my breath.’
-As I am writing this out, sitting in the turret,I hear the Castle guide in the next room.
‘This is the priest’s room.’
“There is where the priest lived’, he is pointing to the turret in which I am sitting, behind the closed door unnoticed.
‘This is a Renaissance fireplace.’
‘Does it feel chilly?’
‘This is where in 1710 the Gray Lady died…’
The voices go on and I sit surrounded by human history as well as the natural history I am relating to.
Always I move back and forth -Maybe there are ways to re-weave them both, at least I can attempt my own.
I was going to continue writing out that passage about the hidden well but that interruption feels fitting, just like the other book I have with me.
‘ Barney wished he was at the bottom of the pit. And the ground gave way.’ A childhood favourite, Stig of the Dump by Clive King, sends me falling into chalk pit and rubbish, unknown friend and history  and fantasy alive together.
Having just picked up the bricolage, the roman tile fragments from Jo the archaeologist  who was sent on his passion by that same book, I feel my own personal ‘tumbling’ happening as I mix the old tile with the tile from my roof and word them with my own chant:
 field pit trench ditch field-drain trackway wood flint.
All edges seem to be tipping over each other, so I will hold my breath.
Then breathe again
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