Falling leaves

The weather forecast for today, on the radio, is for rain moving in from the west. Just now, the morning is cloudy but still dry, the wind has moved to the southwest and whilst it is cold against my cheeks, it has a gentle, soft feeling to it, like cool silk. This wind has come from the Atlantic, it is cool and moist, with rain to follow in it's wake. We have a full English breakfast in our bellies, Norman and I, and have collected Dolly and Teddy at ten and are walking on the Westwood. We are in no particular hurry, and decide, once we reach Black Mill, to prolong our walk as long as we sensibly can. To this end we stroll to the Westerly boundary of the common, past the gorse bushes, with their extensive rabbit warren, and up to the hedge that runs south to north to Burton Bushes. Beverley is on the eastern edge of the Yorkshire Wolds, gently rolling, chalk down land, and our progress along the hedge takes in several small climbs and descents. A moderate southwesterly breeze is blowing and occasionally it gusts and cascades of leaves shower down to the ground. Walking through falling leaves has the same magical, mystical feeling, as walking through gently falling snow, the sensation is one of sweet, sadness, ephemeral and evanescent. It is beautiful, and tragically finite, there are only so many leaves left to fall. David Hockney, when being interviewed about his canvasses of "Bigger trees near Warter", revealed that his painting was a composite, not just of several canvasses but also of his experience of the same trees, in different light, over a succession of days. My sense of the Westwood is similar, it's overarching, comfortable, familiarity, disrupted by the differing aspects revealed by the changing light at specific times of the year. The Zen Master, D. T. Suzuki, says that we can't all be great poets, musicians or painters, but each of us has the potential to be an artist of life! Weaving the exquisite suchness of the moment into the fabric of our existence. Today is such a day and in the woods at Burton Bushes, I am enchanted by the glowing hues of the moss on trees, the radiant array of different greens, that only become apparent in dull light. I photograph, trees and stumps and fallen logs, but the camera, on my iPhone, only sees through it's lens and not through the soul, so the images lack the sense of a living presence, that is integral to the actual experience. We wander, the dogs and I, in happy harmony, for a couple of hours. The forecast rain begins to fall as we walk down the hill, from the woods, towards the car, but the rain falls light and we get back without a serious soaking. Once home, I construct a lamb baguette and chop a slice of meat into small pieces for Norman. Earlier this morning I put the leg bone in the slow cooker with onions, vegetables and a variety of pulses. Initially the bone wouldn't fit, being too long, so I had to fetch my hand axe from the garage and crack it in two. Even after dinner yesterday and lunch today, there is still a pound of lamb, wrapped in foil, left in the fridge. After lunch I meditate, and the Thomas Ades' mind worm resurfaces. Prospero's curse, is his need to be in total control, to be God in his small island domain. This seems to me to be a universal ailment, a fundamental human insecurity, that probably lies behind our totally destructive drive to centralise, bureaucratise and rationalise every aspect of modern life. Walking in the woods, just letting go, and realising that the billions of fallen leaves are all exactly where they need to be, without anyone's intervention, is a powerful antidote to this omni-present, control freakery. No swimming for me today, as I am collecting Louis from school, giving him tea and taking him for his swimming lessons. Prudence demands that I conserve my strength for this task. We park, Norman and I, a few yards down from Bleach Yard, further along New Walk. The rain has eased but could easily start again any moment, it takes us slightly over five minutes to walk to the school, and Normy reluctantly consents to being tied to the railings, while I collect Louis from the playground. He is first out of class, and as ever, full of life and questions. He tells me that he now enjoys learning as much as playing, so the school is getting the essentials right. On our way to the car, he calculates the days to Christmas Eve, forty two, and runs through a list of potential presents. Most of them involve Super heroes, which despite my debunking of them, remain Louis' firm favourites. He draws and colours for ten minutes, whilst I prepare his tea, a reprise of last night, ante pasta, olives, crusty bread and cream soda. While he eats, he wants to know about volcanos, so we look up eruptions on YouTube, followed by tornados, whirlpools and tsunami's. He has the alpha male's usual obsession with violence and disaster, which I try to channel into more scientific enquiry. The endless curiosity and wonder of a five year old is a constant marvel. How do we possibly manage to convert the majority of lively, curious, infants, into dull, bored, teenagers. We leave home at a twenty to five and drive to the leisure centre for his swimming lessons. Our timing perfect, changing without stress or hurry and arriving precisely on time. Whilst Louis swims, I buy a drinking chocolate and then chat to Anne Gorman, nee Fahy, who is there with her two boys Alex and Louis. My Louis, is really getting into the swing of his swimming classes, and with his strength and physique, could easily do well, if he was minded to do so. I collect him at half past five, change and dress him and then deliver him back to Sarah's, just before six. I am out of potatoes and vegetables, so call and buy some on my way home. The lamb bone broth is fermenting well when I arrive and Norman is waiting eager to play his part in reducing the Lamb Mountain in the fridge. For my part, I am pretty much lambed out for today, so eat some Camembert with crusty bread and a glass of Cabernet Shiraz. Liz, the Sherpa, phones after dinner, to tell me that Leslie is back in hospital. It doesn't seem to be anything specific, other than the slight sinus problem, except he complains of not feeling quite right. I have a bad feeling about this. To bed at ten.