Waiting outside the station for the taxi I watch for
anyone else who might also be making their way up to the house that used to
belong to the poet, Ted Hughes, for a writing course centred around
nature. When my wife read the
description of the course to me so many months ago I felt I had to go; that
this would be an integral part of the next phase of my life. Two women come separately past me, looking
every inch writers; confident, assured, knowing where they were going. I begin to formulate the question, but they
are gone, over the narrow bridge that spans the loquaciously enthusiastic
shallow water. I realise then that I am
apprehensive, that I am experiencing a nervousness born from past hesitance and
antipathy to groups, heightened by the sense of being exposed. Can I write after all?
I arrive at the house, a grey stone impressive
monument, slotted into the steep hill; the meadows below give way to young
woods that dip to the river then rise towards the horizon. The colours will change during the week, but
the mists, early morning light and evening gloom will create an ever changing
connection in the mind. I am shown to
the Log Shed with its own grey plaque detailing its grand opening some years
ago by a Baroness, no less. I am
honoured indeed and relieved to find the Log Shed has its own bathroom, cause
for relaxation at the thought of private nocturnal wanderings.
I am the first, but it is not long before others
join me on the lawn that overlooks the valley.
We talk in tones that acknowledge our reasons for being there and it
dawns on me that it is our love of the natural world that has brought us here
and that many of us will be quite tentative in our approach to writing. Apprehension continues, not like a
debilitating affliction, more as an uncomfortable memory seeking to take
hold. This would carry on to an extent
into the next day in its symptoms of a tightening of the throat; a turbulence
in the chest and a tendency not to seek out interactions. All the time there is
a magic in process, unseen, unknown and arising from my fellow writers with
their unassuming abilities and care for the world; the tutors, so different,
but with intelligence that reveals itself in their conversations and a genuine
concern to explore humanity’s relationship to nature and how that can be
expressed in writing.
On the third day there is a change of
perception. No longer do I question my
writing ability – it is irrelevant. What
is clear is that I need to work on the project, to give it serious attention
and to see where it leads me. I am no
longer apprehensive, as the walks through the woods, the sound of the river and
the watching from the garden have mingled with the conviviality and communication
to bring about an intense feeling of learning.
And this is my project: to explore what is learning
and what is our relationship to nature. This exploration is set against the
background of the work of J Krishnamurti, with which I have been familiar for
over forty years; I am currently teaching in a school founded by him. This will give the exploration context in a
global sense and provide opportunities for further conversations in India and
the UK in particular. There is no
attempt to create an authority or to adhere to orthodoxy, but the opportunity
to examine questions and statements that have been alive for a long time. This approach sits harmoniously with the
direction the week has taken, in the sense of engagement with the world crisis
through nature and the fundamental understanding that humanity is inseparable
from the natural world.
I am not alone when I return to the station, with a
grateful acceptance of the road ahead. I
have said my farewells to the two women who, at the beginning of the week
emerged from the station; they are no longer strangers. I have been helped both
in practicalities, and in understanding.
The road stretches out.
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