Creative Writing in the Woods

I write a lot, often for my work, sometimes for this website and occasionally for no good reason at all.  There’s something about getting out of the way and setting the pen free (and yes the pen is mightier than the laptop).  It’s a pleasure that is hard to describe, ironic given that’s what I’m trying to do here.

I recently attended a creative writing workshop – Words in the Wood – led by Caroline Hukins at Hazel Hill. Caroline guided us through a day of stimulated writing in the magnificent backdrop of my favourite woods. It was broken into small chunks and interspersed with nature, tea and cake. Rather than explain it, I’d thought I’d simply log my writing here, in all it’s flawedness, and allow you to imagine the day.

Arrival
I’m here again. In this magical place. Experiencing a creative day retreat. I wear two hats.

As a writer I’m wondering how to improve my craft. Increase productivity, nourish creativity. Write what matters to me but focused on my reader. Personal and in service? Engaging and useful? Profound and mundane? Big and intimate?

As a steward of Hazel Hill is this the work we want here? How does the wood serve the process? Can we work in the wet and cold? How does writing indoors and outdoors co-exist? How can we encourage Caroline to bring more? What might I run here myself in this format? How does the commercial formula work? How does this support our charitable aims?

So many questions.

The Walk
A mindful walk got us started. I noticed just how many leaves are on the ground. It’s autumn and a mattress is now all around. In my garden this is bothersome and needs attention. Here it is a blanket, preparing for a winter by covering the ground, warming and feeding the earth.

A cycle of being that needs no help from human hands. The leaves fall, they cover, they warm, they nourish. They decompose, they feed. Soon they will start to help trees to grow a new set of clothes. And so the cycle continues.

The paths are lined with fallen logs. Straight lines remind me of the human hand at work. Holding the leaves back from the path. Create a route, build a buffer. We walk in lines among the fallen. We can stray from the path but we are aware we are straying. The mattress does not want to be walked on and we are soon back on a firmer surface.

A mistle thrush accompanies me on my walk and accompanies the wood in its rustling.

The Host
What is it to host here? Caroline facilitates and holds the space. Antonia floats in and out. Doing the dance of the host. Hot water, fires, a sense of being one step ahead. With us and at the same time not.

This is valuable service. Under appreciated, under valued. Something for this charity to offer and celebrate. We offer service wholeheartedly and with good grace in the spirit of the place. A human version of the wood itself.

Hosting is a skill. It’s a trusted role, generous, present and understanding. Our host can also tell the stories of the wood, the buildings, the charity.

The Tree
I chose a tree in the sun nearby. Did it call me or was I just being soft and lazy? I sit by it and work out it’s a beech. I’m embarrassed about my lack of tree knowledge. And I own it. It’s symptomatic of something important that I am discovering in my evolving relationship with this place. The beech doesn’t care about this. I feel forgiven.

As I sit, I realise how close this beech is to its neighbour, and equally huge conifer. A non-native, an outsider. Are they competing, collaborating, neither or both?

How long have they been here? Who is the elder? Neither is an elder! (good tree joke) The beech has its lower limbs wrapped round the conifer. Do I detect care or is it simply facing south?

The beech has broken limbs and scars where limbs once were. Some leaves remain but soon they will be shed. As I write this a fly lands on my paper. It is not afraid, perhaps curiosity prevails. It stays a minute reading my words, while my app becomes 100% certain it’s a marmalade hoverfly.

It disappears. I return my gaze to the beech, which stands in front of me indifferent to my presence. Or is it? It strikes me I believe the tree knows me better than I know it. Knows without knowledge, what is that? Wisdom? Interbeing?

The Story
John was a giant of a man. He’d always been aware of the impact he could have on a situation, simply by standing up. His wife often scolded him for scaring the neighbours when all he was in fact doing was getting up to stretch and yawn.

“John”, she’d say. “I love you dearly, but why did you have to be so tall?”

His physicality really helped his life as a fugitive of the law. While his hugeness may have been partially to blame for his various misdemeanours – everyone likes to have a go at a gentle giant – there was no denying that living off the land deep in the forest was much easier for a grizzly bear of a man.

Ten years hiding in the depths of Sherwood had brought a simple rhythm to life. Grow food, hunt for meat, occasionally steal for those little luxuries, but mostly enjoy the ferocious beauty of nature and all she offers.

It was as if life was meant to be like this. Right up until the arrival of the disruptive presence dressed as a returning nobleman. Things would never be the same.

It wasn’t the smouldering looks or the swaggering gait of the man. Nor was it his regal bearing nor fancy dan language or his oh-so-clever wit. No it was his thirst for revolution that really shook things up. Robin’s ideas were his weapons and try as he might, John could not resist the lure of emancipation.

Haikus
The dove soared upwards
Warning her friends of danger
With a loud high coo

Come to Hazel Hill
The magic is infectious
No matter the weather

The beech knows me well
I long to know it better
To be forgiven

When sun emerges
On an autumn afternoon
My heart warms fastest

Wood becomes ashes
Ashes dissolve in the ground
Ground produces wood

The fund raiser writes
Of great possibility
We cross our fingers

Rachel writes stories
But thinks they are terrible
We know better

Fires constantly lit
Antonia is our host
She brings care and love

Do haikus rhyme
No not necessarily
But some of the time

Poem
How would I paint happiness?

With magic brush
No sense of rush

In timeless time
Poems that rhyme

Interbeing
Clearly seeing

Compassionate
With love not hate

Aging with grace
Line-covered face

Wholeheartedness
And nothing less

The great outdoors
Where no one snores

The lack of doubts
And Brussel sprouts

Take time to care
No need for hair

I am enough
And other stuff