Time to Stop and Stare

We walk very early morning in late spring while it feels as if the rest of the world still sleeps. In our world within the world the Beech leaves are just appearing, small pennies of fresh, furry green, but yet to cast the woodland floor into deep shade. Sunlight streams through chinks in the clouds nudging the tiny flowers on the woodland floor out of their shy slumber.

There is a small stream running at the bottom of the Dell. The husband takes Wilson and the Welsh Whippet for a paddle while I am left to discover a carpet of blue that has just appeared overnight it would seem. At this moment the Bluebell carpet is untouched. There are no marks from human civilization apart from an old discarded wigwam made from thin Beech branches that the Bluebells are considering making their own. There is no sound apart from the soulful morning hymn from the Song Thrush. The imperfections and arguments of the world suddenly seem a distant thought and time stands still. I wonder if I can make myself small enough to share the wigwam with the Bluebells and call it home for a while.

While I sit on a rock in my wigwam and wonder if I’d look good in a bluebell hat I ponder why the Forests and Woods offer such solace and have always invited tales of folklore and enchanted trees.

Is it the silence that allows space for the imagination to run wild? Is it childhood memories of books read at bedtime about an Owl named Owl who lived in a Hundred-acre wood with friends called Tiger and Pooh that provide solace with their gentle, undemanding companionship or romantic adventures told of Men in leather tights living in the trees that offer escapism from 21st-century living.

The last time these woods saw deliveries of the latest must-haves, they were brought by horse-pulled carriages with wooden wheels. The greatest threat of the day (apart from an early death from general hard work) was being robbed by gangs of ‘Highway men’ on horseback, waving a flintlock pistol and relieving you of your leather purses filled with coins of silver and gold. These days the Highway men come in the form of a text.

So perhaps it is exactly that. These old and ancient trees have stood while we have fought on the ground with both arrows and arrows and mobile phones. Their quiet, yet solid presence is totally and utterly indifferent to us. They really don’t care who we are or what we are. They are totally content in their communities, communicating through electric currents deep within the root structures beneath the woodland floor. There is no Political drama that concerns them, they are unmoved by the latest scandal to hit Twitter or shouts from the front of the morning newspapers. I let out a small sigh of relief that they have total disregard for my weekly melodrama over my burgeoning to-do list. All those annoying modern everyday life dramas that I have seemed to have adopted from modern society along the way, and that take up so much time and nervous energy wane here in the woods. I am insignificant. I can just sit and be with no responsibilities for just a while.

I left the Woods that morning feeling calm. My brain had quietened for a moment leaving me with a space to feel creative. The space to just sit and stare giving me time to notice the small details, the important details, the details that inspire me back in the studio.

There was a brief desire to recreate a bluebell carpet and lie amongst it and listen to the birdsong for the afternoon. I did consider fashioning a wigwam from a sheet and my studio table, I did wonder if I could create a carpet of blue from the large number of self-seeded forget-me-nots growing within our gravel drive but reality kicked in and I realized I actually liked the forget-me-nots where they were, minding their own business in the gravel drive and I’d just collect a few stems from where they had grown long and leggy under the hedge, searching for light and focus on that small detail for a while.

I need space and quiet to be creative. Or to at least continue to be creative. Without it, I become easily distracted. I jump from one project to another, completing none.

I also find I get so much inspiration from spending time with other like-minded people. People who are happy to wander a garden in the early morning dew or give a collective gasp over a newly found treasure at an antique brocante. A new vase to fill with garden cuttings or maybe an old elegant urn to arrange loud blowsy tulips in. An afternoon sat under the dappled shade of old trees painting. No deadlines, no briefs, nothing to do for a couple of hours except be alone with your thoughts and dreams and dream of turning the impossible into the possible.

I’m so delighted to be holding and be a part of a few tours and workshops this year that give the opportunity for time just as this. I’ll be in Provence with my lovely friend Sharon Santoni from My French Country Home in June. A few days filled with incredible gardens, flowers, antiques to find, and maybe even some painting.

No expectations. No skills needed. Just a time to stop and stare for a while.
Just a couple of spaces left.

Lucy XX