We are in Centreparcs Woburn, this week, in a small log cabin.
Now, outside the bedroom window, is a small muntjac deer stripping leaves from a tree, its head tipped back exposing its vulnerable white throat, long tongue deftly plucking the leaves away. When the deer spies me, it freezes and nods its head up and down. I’ve fed it a few berries this morning - we are friends.
The family are mucking around in the living room. There is a lot of giggling going on against a backdrop of middle class, British accents from the black and white movie on the TV.
In two days we will leave here, and the gentle peace of the forest - the nurturing space we’ve shared with the forest creatures will be left behind. It is that bittersweet feeling of enjoying a place you are in and at the same time, regretting what will be lost when you leave.
If I hold onto that feeling for too long, I might forget to enjoy being here right now. It wouldn’t be the first time - Forgetting to Enjoy Being Here Now. It’s a reality I’ve carried with me throughout most of my life.
The last time I felt this plugged into my reality was in primary school.
It’s one of those memories that will never leave me, imprinted deep into the fabric of this body.
I remember being in the playground - about age 8, staring intently at my hand.
I recall staring at the shape of my knobbly fingers, the greenish blue veins set into brown skin. I wondered what it would be like if all humans had two heads and four or six arms - how we would all think it perfectly normal. Our reality would be shaped by X number of heads and Y number of arms and not so much by the colour of our skin.
Time slowed as I stood transfixed in contemplation of my hand and this huge existential thought about race that I did not understand at the time. The world no longer existed, the playground faded away. All I could see was my hand - a disembodied body part.
In this many times I have relived this moment since childhood, I have begun to recognise the experience as my one true moment of deep meditation and focus. One I have never ever replicated though I have tried.
The magic of the moment was perhaps captured by my innocent, inquisitive mind not rushing the thought process or dismissing it as ‘silly’ or ‘fantastical’.
If I am honest, I cannot recreate that moment because hard as I might, my inner critic jumps in and throttles any hopes of meandering, free thoughts.
[SIDE NOTE: I hate that bloody inner critic.She’s a nosy bitch and I’ve told her to piss off several times during this holiday. She’s trying to peer over my shoulder now, but I’ve tugged up my hood and I’m ignoring her.]
We haven’t been in the forest long, but I feel calm and grounded amongst all these trees and wildlife. The childlike me wants to run off into the forest and stay like some middle-aged-1930’s-Snow White, mesmerising the woodland creatures into instant adoration. Failing this, a box of blueberries and a bag of monkey nuts seems to suffice.
This small connection with the wild feels good and is something my heart leans into. I wonder if this is because I miss our sweet dog, Likey, so much?
It has only been six weeks since he left us and the wound is still a ragged thing. Having other animals around us - choosing to come to us, choosing to trust us, feels special.
The positive effects of being so close to nature is undeniable.
I find myself keeping watch at the window for cottontail bunnies, timid movements of tiny muntjac deer amongst the bushes, the vibrant flash of green tits against wood clad lodge walls, smart squirrels who wait until we return from our excursions expecting another feast of monkey nuts, witness small scarlet butterflies settle on nearby leaves.
Creatures close enough for me to capture their image in my mind and on camera. Close enough to absorb their peaceful energies. Close enough to close the gap between wild and tame. Close enough for me to miss my puppy’s gentle snores as he slept, his paws pestering me to play.
Grief rolls in my belly and my chest aches.
I take a deep breath to remind me again to BE HERE NOW.
It is a regular practice - reminding myself that he is no longer here and that we still are.
That is the price of loss. That is the beauty of living.
The sadness does not disappear as birdsong washes over me once more and sunshine slides through the cottontail clouds.
When we leave, I wonder how I will take this wildness with me.
