The Land Remembers
“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass
Time slips by almost unnoticed. Oh, we measure it and lament the slipping by of minutes and bemoan endless lists of jobs undone or yet to be finished. We wish away entire days at a time, looking forward to those days of release from work, of blessed freedom. But rarely do we stop to witness the passing of moments.
This notion struck me this morning while taking advantage of the late warmth to hang my washing out. I noticed the ivy was in bloom, my notice first being taken by the rather loud buzzing coming from it.
When I first moved into my home some twenty odd years ago, I was lucky in that the man who lived here before was a keen gardener. For a while, I too tried to maintain the neat order. But as my own relationship with the land deepened, I began to let things grow a little longer before trimming back, if not leaving altogether.
Rather enjoying the feel of the warm sun, I moved closer, abandoning the washing for a moment or two, and noticed the ivy was busy with the hum of bees as they moved between the clusters of ivy flower. Butterflies too alighted on the open blooms or sunned themselves, their wings flashes of bright colours among the bold greeness of the ivy leaves. I don’t know how long I watched the scene for, perhaps a minute, certainly no more than two, but still, those few moments were like a balm for the soul. A remembering of the summer past while enjoying the present for the solace and joy it gave.
It’s in moments such as this, where we connect with the present, that we realise how blind, how caught up in the business of our own lives and news from the wider world, we have been.
Already the autumn equinox seems a distant memory as we look forward to the poignant celebrations that Samhain brings and onwards towards the dark depths of winter. The land remembers, and it is here in these moments, that it shares its memories with us, connects with us. Each communication individual and unique, stirring within us our own memories and experiences.
The misty morning in the woods brings to mind moving images of walking dogs beneath the boughs as gold, red and orange leaves dance to the ground, swirling on the breeze to dazzle and amaze. The memories crash and blend, the dogs change and morph, companions of childhood and later on too, all merging into a lived experience of joy and loss and everything in between.
Other times it’s a scent. It’s sugar beet season and where I live one of the smells I associate most with the autumn months is the smell of the sugar beet factory on the air. It pervades the whole town, a malted, pungent, bitter-sweet scent that is loved by locals and not so liked by those not used to the smell. To catch a whiff of it on the cool autumn air instantly instils a sense of nostalgia, a deep longing for something long-lost or forever gone and at the same time a sense of looking forward, a harbinger of the darker months to come and the delights and struggles they might bring.
The lingering power of the sun brings to mind the memories of summer passed, and travels to new places. This summer we visited the borderlands between Scotland and England. The place holds a stark beauty, perhaps made a little melancholy by the blood soaked history of that place. The land remembers, and such a feeling was tenable when visiting Hermitage castle some twenty odd miles over the border into Scotland. The castle is impressive in a haunting kind of way, standing as it does against the backdrop of moorland and hills. There’s also a ruined chapel on the site, and it was here, looking out over the ruins and onwards the towering hills and grey skies, that you feel the land is alive, that you feel the memories roiling within it as surely as you feel the wind on your skin or the wetness of the rain.
And so I come back to the present, back to my own slice of land and my own memories. How they entwine with the memories of the land both here and afar, growing into something new. More memories to be made perhaps, experiences to feel and embody, and magic too, for there is indeed a magic that comes with remembering.
And so perhaps this is my own attempt to reach out, to encourage you in the busyness of your own lives, to take a moment to connect with the land. Let the memories of the land entwine with your own as you lose yourself in the simple act of remembering who you are and your connection to the land where you live.
The land remembers you.
EMMA KATHRYN
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
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