The valley spirit never dies:
It is the woman, primal mother.
Her gateway is the root of heaven and earth.
It is like a veil barely seen.
Use it; it will never fail.
Another cold day. Wind stealing energy. Walking with Maisie, feeling low, thinking about the word ‘valley’ in the verse.
Allowing down. Falling down. Going down to go up, like a ball hitting the ground to gain energy and momentum. A space surrounded by mountains, obstacles.
Finding one’s feet to allow the push of earth to take us up. Actually allowing descent, the lows, not fighting them.
Valley, a metaphor for death.
A surprise realisation of rekindling passion for the Alexander Technique through the Tao. I’ve not taught since messing up my foot.
A fallen tree. Enough roots holding the earth to still grow. Deer prints to the stream.
Resting, holding one of the huge boughs in my arms. Something unexpected. The tree moved on my shoulder easing in the wind, spirals of fluid falling, pulsing, down the branch to the ground. Feeling stunned. The branch seemed too huge to move yet alone to have such a sensitive voice. The feel of a tree. A release through my shoulder to the ground. A burden falling.
And then the green man…
Later, a layer to a large painting – looking for chiaroscuro, depth and warmth. Vandyke brown, alizarin crimson, linseed oil, turps.
Cold hours in the studio absorbed, driven crazy by anatomy. A horse going up to go down. A crown above its head – symbol for these times.
A front hoof striking my leg two winters ago in enthusiasm for hay, a mistake, a dent in the leg, a muscle spiral weakened… and I am sure the cause of the plantar plate in my toe weakening, snapping like a twig.
Words releasing judgment – I am the painter not the painting.