I'm writing this from my version of heaven on earth. No altered state of consciousness, just a place where the sound of the wind or the sea is accompanied by the whirring of a hundred starlings, or the chatter of house sparrows living in grass-filled tenements under my eaves. The old stone walls are crammed with wild flowers, courtesy of the birds and the wind. There are several small-scale farms, so outside I can hear geese, hens, cockerels and guinea fowl, the distant lowing of cattle and at this time of year the vocal ties between ewe and lamb that always sound so urgent. I'm learning to differentiate between twin 1 and 2 in a nearby paddock. Just for fun.
Inside, apart from sparrow chatter, there's silence. The walls are thick. I love it that the floor is earth, literally. Huge slabs of slate lie like a giant's jigsaw on flattened soil. I love it that at the flick of a switch the soil will dry and the slabs grow not damp but a foot-friendly cool. Though that's a process that takes time. 19th century lifestyle with 21st century technology is my grateful version of unparalleled luxury.
I think I've always listened to the earth. Not just to the sounds of nature, but to the frequency of place. I assumed everyone did, but reality slowly dawned in my early 30s. Perhaps I had become confident enough to share. Two years ago I made a request. If I am to continue listening and in the midst of humanity, please could I have the equivalent of a monk's cell by the sea? Somewhere where my senses could run free and the translating of experience into language could be a pleasurable experiment. The monk's cell turned out to be lovelier than I'd dared to imagine.
I'll be blogging from the wilds and from city pavements, from my intimacy with nature and my learning through people. When I'm listening to frequencies that aren't generated by us I find it hard to switch to human contact. My friends know and appreciate this. Appreciate because I bring back heart-warming, helpful perspective. I suppose that's the basis of my work in teaching yoga or unraveling life's tangles.
So if you write to me and don't hear back, I'm sorry. You will have been heard. It might be a while before I surface again. I sometimes feel as if I'm doing the cosmic splits but can only feel one foot at a time. I'll keep practicing...
© Judith Seelig March 2012