Summer Solstice retrospective

Poetry…

…as a route in

is what I’ve found myself saying to people over the last several months when tasked with explaining the work of the collective, or the role that eco poetic practices play in my life.

A route in: to reconnection with the living world; to examination, to exploration of our relationship with nature. Some garden, some walk, some work…

and we write.

Jess and Toby heading into the woods.

The sun ticks its way past its zenith. Hanging high in the sky for the sustained, elongated noon of midsummer. Several poets find their way from the concrete labyrinth of cooking London to the cool and elder shade of Hainault Forest on the North East fringes of London.

Now Epping’s lesser known sister, Hainault and Epping were once united as part of the large Forest of Essex, before enclosure and other human activities ringfenced these woodlands, shrinking them away from each other. Now, only mycelial memory and historic records remain to unite the two green stands, divided by the gritty and stinking winds of the M11.

Hainault is part of our collective’s story. A Woodland Trust site, and the haunt of our friend & mentor, George Lewis, I have visited Hainault throughout the seasons since Wild Thing was first established. This summer, we gathered here as a collective for our first outdoor workshop, and to welcome new members Josiane & William to our group.

After gathering to share our intentions for the day on the open meadow being slowly claimed by ragweed and shrub, we take a meandering path under the canopy, moving through the younger understorey until the light changes, trunks thicken, and we are deep in the ancient part of the forest. Laura leads us in a grounding meditation before Jess takes us through some word games designed

to break language down

hands rest gently on knees

buttocks sink into the ground

pressure on skin

hollows in the earth

breathe in for four

hold for two

out for five

Lisa K.

Afterwards, we break into solitude, or clusters, depending on whether we came here to be alone in the woods, or together. Some stay within the reach of the oaken canopy from which we began our journey. Others, myself included, head straight for the deeper forest, letting nothing but the gaps between trunks guide our passage. I wade through bracken that grows taller than I do, and have a distinct feeling of swimming through a lake of sunlit green. Gathering notes like a child filling their pockets with so many leaves, shells or stones, I am led by the eyes and instinct into so many twists and turns as to lose myself utterly. It is long past our schedule by the time I find my way to the poets to share back our findings 

ash trees have sinews like flayed muscles

tiny hollies sprout optimistically from the shaded ground

William W.

and write together as the rushing in the canopy drowns out our voices.

Lisa, David & Josiane under an oak tree after meditation.