In your journal you can mix the most mundane moments of life with the incredibly spiritual and sacred moments. ‘Everything is sacred’ after all! On this day I wanted to do a ‘despacho’ (a sacred ritual) to honour the ‘Apu’ (mountain) of my childhood. My Apu, this ‘high place’, spiritual 'power place' of my childhood: the landscape where I drew strength and energy from, (even if I didn’t know it at the time). My 'childhood apu' or 'power place' is Richmond Park, Surrey, UK.

Thursday 26 October 2006

7.50am Thursday already! Don’t the days whiz by….. I woke about 7.15 this morning. I still have some outstanding tasks, having looked at my ‘to do’ list.

- haircut

- despacho

- writing assignment

I know that if I were to achieve all of those today I would be so pleased with myself.

It’s been another drizzly day today. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll ever get a fine one. Perhaps I’ll be forced – or rather, perhaps I’m meant to do my despacho on a dull day. At least there won’t be so many people in the park! But actually, the sky seems to be clearing a bit and I think I saw a glimpse of sun trying to come through.

9.55am Well, I’ve done the Paul McKenna meditation and now I’ve got the background music cd of Sound Health, Sound Wealth playing. There are suddenly lots of crows cawing and swooping around. According to Animal Speak by Ted Andrews its meaning is “The Secret Magic of Creation is Calling”. It’s cycle of power is “All day – all year”.

4.20pm Just got back from Richmond Park. Now I just have to burn or bury my despacho ‘parcel’. I opened sacred space, smudged with sage and lit candles, then I wrote a letter to Richmond Park, thanking it. ‘It’ seems too small a word for such a supreme, powerful and beautiful place that has meant so much to me all my life.

As I continued on I saw what looked like a stone circle, formed around a tree. But instead of stones were fallen branches. I left the path to take a look. At first I thought someone had deliberately placed them around the tree but now I saw it was where they had naturally fallen, as the tree was dead.

I continued on, away now from the path, tramping in the long grass and through the trees, just as I did when I was a child. We took the ‘wild’ route whilst my Dad pushed the pushchair along the public path.

As I walked there today I remembered suddenly how we had found a dead squirrel, and carrying it by its tail, how we had proudly shown it to my Dad (who’d expressed horror!)

Now, in the distance, another dead tree caught my eye. It stretched proudly into the sky like a Goddess, gleaming white, and smooth, stripped naked of all its bark. And, like an ancient Greek statue it had lost its limbs, yet still it stood, proud and beautiful. I gazed respectfully for a while, then, almost reluctantly, continued on again.

I walked slowly and looked all around me as I didn’t want to miss a thing. I wanted to drink in the beauty of this park: the squawking parrots - who weren’t around in my childhood, and the cawing crows (or jackdaws), who were.

I noticed a small snail on a wet leaf, and a vivid orange slug, and (possibly magic I don’t know) mushrooms.

And then, with a start, I saw a beautiful squirrel. He lay on the grass with his back nestled into the dip at the base of a great oak tree. The fur on his tail moved like feathers in the gentle breeze. He was asleep in the sunshine.

I eased forward gently, mentally reassuring him I meant no harm. He gazed at me through half open eyes. I wondered at how still he was and how peaceful and undisturbed he seemed by my presence.

And then I saw the emerald blue bottles – just one or two, darting and exploring. One crawled over his eye. When he did not flinch, I knew, he was dead.

For a second I was sad but it didn’t last longer than that. He was too beautiful, nestled there against the tree. Even the vibrant scavenger flies were beautiful.

I marvelled at Nature and how quickly and tidily his small body would be consumed by Mother Earth. I guessed he wasn‘t long dead and I blessed him. I almost didn’t want to leave him.

I had a small garden fork in my rucksack to bury my despacho if I felt it appropriate. I wondered if I should bury the squirrel, but quickly decided instead to let Nature take care of him.

All around me other squirrels scampered up and down trees, just carrying on living. They weren’t mourning their brother or clearing away his body.

So with final blessings and farewells I moved on.

A clump of trees stood by the ancient wall of the park and the land dipped down. It looked like a secret dell, a sacred place and it seemed to call me. I made my way past nettles, rabbit holes and fallen branches to take a closer look.

I felt a stillness as I arrived. I looked around for somewhere to bury my despacho, but I feared it would be un-earthed by inquisitive dogs. A large tree shielded me from the public path and a convenient log begged to be sat upon. So I rested a while, feeling safe and shielded, and grateful to be there.

When I got up a few minutes later I looked up and saw, towering above me, the tree that had shielded me from the path, was, in fact, the ‘White Goddess’. It was a sacred place, as I had thought.

Reluctantly I made my way back to the path. I had to cross it to reach the pond near Sheen Gate. Before primary school, every week-day, my Dad would bring us to this pond (we always took breakfast with us, cold, soggy yet delicious, bacon sandwiches and sweet tea in a thermos flask).

At this pond, we deliberately took it in turns to fall in. I think one of us did it by accident the first time – John I think. But then we all took it in turns to do it deliberately. We thought it was fun! My Dad didn’t, but we were never severely told off. Whoever had fallen in got to wear his jumper (smelling strongly of tobacco) and have a speedy ride back home in the pushchair.

Reliving my memories, I headed back towards Beverley Brook and the small stream that ran from it. The grass was long and the ground springy under foot. The long upper grass was bleached blonde by the summer sun, the grass underneath was a lush green.

I crossed the road and the playing field and walked along the small stream to Beverley Brook. I couldn’t see anywhere to cross the stream except by the small bridge further on where it joined the Brook. Odd, as I’d remembered jumping over that stream with my friend Eileen and her West Highland terrier Snowy when I was about 9 or 10.

Suddenly huge black clouds appeared overhead and the wind whipped up. I had on my rain poncho but actually it didn’t rain much at all and miraculously the sky soon cleared to blue again with sunshine and voluminous white clouds.

I found myself a spot on the bank of Beverley Brook sitting on my poncho. The bank is quite deep and I’d stepped down it to a ledge and felt secluded and sheltered.

I watched a yellow wagtail dipping in the shallow water that emerged from a large drainage pipe. He was paddling away happily then suddenly hopped out, did a quick poo and hopped back in the water again – fascinating! How very hygienic of him I thought!

Above me in the distance towered the modern flats. Tower blocks built in the 1950’s. At first as I looked at them I resented them, intruding on my peaceful and beautiful space. Then I remembered that I was born in one of those tower blocks. And without them I never would have known this wonderful park.

I watched the willow leaves falling one by one into the water and floating gently downstream. And as I sat by the brook, thinking back on old memories and the years gone by, tears suddenly welled up and I needed to blow my nose.

It was growing chilly and the shade had moved round to where I sat. I decided to leave before the evening traffic built up.

As I made ready to leave, I took a good look round. I felt full of gratitude. I left a gift at the foot of the willow tree. It was a piece of wood, charcoal on one side. I had picked it up in the park a month or two ago, fascinated how lightening striking a tree had created natural charcoal. I’d picked it up in wonder and taken it home. Now I was giving it back.

I have another piece (in my journal I wrote ‘peace’ instead of ‘piece’!) here at home. I may well return that piece too.

I walked slowly, reluctantly, towards Roehampton Gate. The cars on the road that led to the gate seemed obtrusive and loud. I looked back, slowly savouring the green view one last time, then turned and walked, smiling, back to the car.

As I got ready to drive away I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My mouth was still turned up at the corners and I looked radiant! Richmond Park had worked its magic, once again.