Autumn Collection

Autumn Collection, April 2020

Over a year ago now just as we began our long Autumn covid lockdown, I started walking a new path near our home. It wasn’t that I deliberately decided to change my daily walking route but it just seemed to make sense to turn down a different path and see where that might lead, as many of our regular roads and routines were being dismantled in this new and unexpected covid-world. Visually, Autumn invites us to lean into change. Creation demands that we notice how it protests the loss of its summer flourishing as its very life loses sap and changes colour to signal the long season of winter that waits its turn, just around the corner.  I bemoan the loss of Autumn, it’s my favourite season and resent having to prepare myself for the cold chill that always demands more attention. Yet Autumn itself needs to be celebrated and not seen as an ‘in between the main seasons event’, rather as an invitation to explore the beauty that only this season offers.

We live in a semi-rural community, so the walks from my house into the surrounding areas can either keep me on the footpath on our road which has a semi-urban feel, houses on one side built on their classic kiwi quarter acres, and the other side backing onto the rolling farmlands of the north-west. Our street is nestled in the lower foothills and valleys of the Waitakere Ranges, which would have once been adorned with native giants and natural bush. Kauri are dotted amongst the backyards.

The thing I like about keeping to my routine is that there are no surprises (which actually means dogs), that I don’t know about. We have our fair share of dogs in our street, and I know the ones who are going to come hurtling at their fence as they hear the sound of a passer by. Even though I know they are there, I still get such a fright. I think it’s because when I walk I generally drift off into a head space where I’m not really consciously aware of my surroundings (because of its homely feel),  apart from when I have to cross a road, or when I’m catapulted back into reality by one of these mad dogs. I’m sure their owners love them.

The new route that I took last year doesn’t have the same sense of familiarity. It’s a long country road and the homes are interspersed with many acres between them. I’ve pretty much figured out where the dogs are, and what I’m going to do about it if one of them comes charging out of it’s gate.  At the top of this road I have strategically placed a fairly strong and spiky stick that I’ve tucked in behind a yellow fire hydrant, and when I turn right off my familiar road I pick it up and carry it with me somehow convinced that this will come to my rescue if necessary. I’m pretty sure that if a dog did come at me that it would snap my stick like a twig and I would be left with the short end. My imagination runs wild. 

I also use this stick to push (or scrape) creatures that have been hit on this road, because being a country road with a high speed limit, any slow crossing hedgehog doesn’t stand a chance, nor does a possum in someone's headlights. I find it hard to leave one of these recently deceased creatures in the middle of the road, so I use this stick to gently push it into the gutter, where I offer a little karakia and an aroha mai on behalf of whoever was behind the wheel. This stick is helpful, probably more so for the latter use rather than as a protective device from a crazed dog, but nonetheless it lulls me into a sense of security as I walk this road.

On one particular day recently I decided to go a little further than usual, crossing into unknown territory and as would happen a dog came running and barking towards me, skidding to a halt at the boundary of its property that has the sign post ‘Dave’ at the gate. I like to think it was because I was yelling and screaming and shaking my stick at it that it stayed within its boundary, so feeling victorious, I carried on. At this point I did have a choice to make of course as I considered the unknown,  I either kept walking past the dog, or turned back and headed for home, knowing that it’s highly likely that I would encounter said dog on the way back, by which time it may have figured out that my stick is not much more than a strong twig. I hope to meet Dave one day so that he can assure me that his dog is just being playful. Until then...I’ll keep my stick handy.

~

Foraging #1

The beauty of course of forging ahead into new territory is that you also find new and unexpected things. This day, after the dog incident I came across a bunch of mushrooms growing wild along the grassy verge. I know the rules about mushrooms. You can eat any that have a variety of brown or tan gills but never eat one that has a white underbelly. Apparently they kill you slowly, gradually filling your internal system with poison, leading to a painful death. So I’m careful.

These healthy autumn splendours were dotted along the grass but I had no bag, just a hat that I wasn’t prepared to use as a container to be blackened by mushrooms, but I did have a phone, so I strategically layered them on top like a plate, and in my other hand maintained a firm grip on my stick.  The dog who I encountered on my way past seemed to have lost interest fortunately, but as would happen my phone rang, which posed a slight dilemma as I knew that to answer it would mean dropping my mushrooms, and already I had begun to imagine the smell and taste of them gently frying in butter as a side dish for dinner that night. (Sorry if it was you I ignored.)

There are so many things to be discovered in this life if we allow ourselves to walk a new path and go off our prescribed map. The next time I take this road I’m going to take a  paper bag and carry it in my pocket in case I find some more mushrooms.  I’ll collect my stick on the way for security, and if my phone rings I’ll answer that as well. I’m prepared for what I know, but curious about what I don’t. Happy trails.

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Foraging #2.

I’m not sure what happened to me since that last post, (probably my worst fears imagined) but for some reason I decided to stop walking past Dave’s dog. I think it was because as I was heading in that direction the following day I saw the dog off its property and standing in the middle of the road ahead in some kind of ‘stand off’ position, (as far as I was concerned.) Perhaps it was sampling the recent road kill that I was ordained by the universe to push to the side of the road. Unfortunately however my imagination ran wild and I decided to turn around and head back towards home along the familiar road. I felt a sense of defeat because my friend walks the same route and she just yells at the dog and keeps walking. Clearly she has more courage than me.

Since then I’ve been walking the road up to Daves place and then turning around, heading off on another side route that allows me to maintain my usual walking distance. This morning I stumbled across some more mushrooms and being autumn and foraging season, berated myself for not carrying that paper bag to collect my treasure, having to resort to using my phone as a plate again to store my stash. The first lot I encountered were a big round tan variety, growing amongst nettles under some pine trees. Flipping them with my stick revealed their white underbelly, so I walked on by. Why is it that the largest, most obvious mushrooms growing on the side of the road are the poisonous ones? It’s as if that which seems the easiest and convenient is sometimes the most distracting, and dangerous. You have to keep searching on the road less travelled to find your treasure, which I found just up ahead, growing on the verge of some un-mown grass just outside someone's property. 

Of course my first thought usually leads me to wonder what the difference between foraging and stealing is. This healthy crop of mushrooms was growing on someone’s property, albeit outside their fence. On a side note they also have chickens, and often an egg or two is laid on the grass in full view of the world and potentially open game for a passerby, human or not.  I recently picked one up, but had a surge of guilt and placed it back under a tree in the shade, so as it would not be scrambled by the heat of the sun, and ready for the owners to collect on their daily rounds.

Back to mushrooms though, in consideration that the residents may also love these wild beauties and are open to the idea of eating that which grows of its own accord, I adopted the one third rule approach, that is, when foraging, take a third, leave a third for someone else, and a third to aid the potential for further growth. So I gathered 8, (which may have been two thirds), and layered them onto my cell-phone plate, and with my stick in the other hand, walked home happy that my dinner plans were sorted.

While passing grassy fields where cows graze, I just knew that there would be an abundance of mushrooms to be foraged. There was even an open gate with no sign of cows anywhere. But it’s the dogs! Those crafty and ever watchful creatures whose job it is to protect their property from the casual passer-by, or the potential mushroom forager/thief that stopped me from venturing (illegally) off my map this day.

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Foraging #3.

Today I decided, armed with a paper bag for my haul that I couldn’t let this dog win so for the purpose of walking further along that road to where I hoped more mushrooms might be, I needed to garner his friendship somehow and decided to name him Dave. I’m not sure why I have decided Dave is a ‘him’, it could be something to do with the fact that when I was very young I thought all dogs were boys and all cats were girls:) That will suffice for now. I assumed the name at his gate belongs to the master and owner of his property, but the dog seems to be the most present at any one time, so I’m going to give him ownership and naming rights to help personalise the event.

I noticed there were two women walking a way ahead of me who were both leading dogs, and when they reached the gate there was an almighty ruckus of barking, so waiting, I observed carefully neither owners or dogs seemed perturbed by Daves threats (maybe his bark is more than his bite afterall), so I felt confident to venture on. I have to admit a sense of courage as I strode past, armed with my stick (and a rock that I had also picked up, just in case). Dave was nowhere to be seen, clearly having no luck with terrorising the people ahead of me he had given up and gone home to re-think his battle plan. 

It was nice to be back on the road that I had imagined was fraught with danger. The clouds were looming and rain was threatening, but being Autumn in the north the wind was warm and refreshing. So I strode on, up and down hills and further into the countryside, searching the grassy verges with my keen foraging eyes. Dave was now a thing of the past, a figment of my imagination, a threat no longer to be concerned about and in my complacency I was shocked to pass by at least 3 more houses with dogs who were intent on, if they could, busting through their barriers to chase me. This was quite disconcerting as I hadn’t met these canine creatures before so I was unaware of any possible gaps in fences, or of the sizes of these dogs who may be able to jump them. One was a little white fluffy something lounging on the back of the couch inside it’s living room window, clearly spending its days watching  for something to catch its attention. He didn’t scare me, these are not the ones I worry about. The next lot (sounded like 3) were tucked in behind a high fence and in true watchdog fashion were able to hear and sense my presence. These were a little unnerving. The third was only heard but not seen, which is the most dangerous kind of dog to encounter. I watched my back, but continued, determined to fill my paper bag. I’d come this far, and there was no turning back. 

Sadly, it seems like everyone on that rural road had recently mowed their very large grassy verges or others had beaten me to it, as there were no mushrooms to be found, apart from on one piece of lawn outside a house where a feijoa tree was also dropping its big ripe green juicy fruit. There were some mushrooms laying amongst the feijoas but there was also someone working in their yard just on the other side of the fence, and at this point the difference between foraging and stealing plagued my conscience so I walked on, dejected and empty handed. Besides being disappointed that I would not have mushrooms for dinner, my return walk home that day was unsettled by the thought of having to pass the unknown and unpredictable again. However I strode past Daves place with great gusto and a sense that I had at least conquered one of my fears that day, which was very satisfying.

There’s something in me that wants to stop walking that road. Walking for me is very much a part of my meditative practice. Sure, it’s my exercise regime as well but at its core it is where I feel the most connected to myself and to the world around me, where a universal presence envelops me in a web of safety. And I don’t want to be disturbed.  My imagination is my strongest point of connection to the Divine, allowing me to have deep and abiding connections with nature. But it can also play tricks on me, like creating stories of mad dogs and other dangers. But this is the reality of the life we live, so I will continue to walk there,  to observe and to listen to my imagination and intuition as they guide and inform my peace as well as my fears, because the absence and presence of both inform our journey. 

And I’ll carry a stick, and a paper bag.

~

A Ruru

One day towards the end of Autumn I spotted a small bird lying on the side of the road. This happens to me often, and I’m always glad to have my stick in hand to enable me to push any road kill gently out of the path of oncoming traffic.  It caught my attention and on a closer look I realised it was a ruru, a native NZ owl commonly known as a morepork, its deep mysterious call resembling the way this two syllable word sounds. It was lying on its back, tiny yellow ochre feet tucked into its belly that was blanketed with cream and brown feathers. I turned it over and its body was layered in a downy speckled coat, its tiny head tucked away in what seemed to be the only injured part of its body. Perhaps it fell out of a tree, or maybe it was hit by a car when it attempted its first flight, so I pushed it gently into the bush near where it lay. I deliberated over whether or not to pick it up and take it home to bury it in my garden, but I decided not to, thinking perhaps it would be more apt to leave it where it lay to become nourishment for the whenua where it lay at the end of its very short lifeIn te aō Māori this relatively small nocturnal bird was seen as a watchful Guardian and was associated with the spirit world, the common 'more-pork' call heralding good news. They often call to each other either in the trees in my garden or they can be heard across the valley that borders my home, and this encounter with the ruru seemed to haunt me in a strange kind of way that night. Another sound the morepork makes is a kind of screech, and once again in Maori tradition this occasional piercing signified bad news, such as death. 

This night a ruru was sounding this intense cry just outside my bedroom window,  and I imagined that the little bird that lay on its own was somehow calling me to come back and take it to a safer place. I felt oddly connected to it and almost guilty that I had left it alone laying in the grass, maybe food for predators that would have no regard for the beauty of its feathers that would have once adorned a traditional korowai|cloak to be worn on special occasions, symbolising mana and portraying a deep connection to nature.

I have a friend who collects feathers to make a korowai and the following day as I filled a bag of black and white feathers that my chickens are shedding as they lose their coats, the little ruru was on my mind. These chicken feathers will possibly make the cut as ‘fillers’ for a korowai, but the intensity of the ruru feathers would provide an outer layer that would display the beauty of this little mysterious bird. So I decided to go back and gently pick it up, take it home and put it in my freezer to preserve it. I offered a karakia of thanks for it’s life so far, and an aroha mai, and I will gift it to my friend as I feel it is deserving of an extended life.  I’m sure she would be pleased to know that she adorned another mana wahine, who will also be deserving of her coat.

To forage is to search widely for food and provisions. Clearly we live in a culture that doesn’t require this practice for our day to day survival, but if we are open to the idea of treading gently on the earth and walking slowly enough to discover her beauty, we will be resourced in a way that can only be good for our soul, and our planet.

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