The book of light

And my muse - the tree goddess

1.

Yesterday, preparing to go away for a few days to write, I am searching out notebooks from my journey to the trees. I have stacks of Moleskine notebooks in different sizes and colour. A large black one has a sticker on the front cover. ‘Book of light. April 2009’.

I don’t look to see if there is an explanation of why it is called the book of light. I only see that I was considering it as an alternative title to what became ‘The Creativist Manifesto.’

2.

On the first page of this same notebook, I read: ‘Muse = Tree Goddess.’

'‘I imagine my muse. I call my muse towards me. I shut my eyes. I have an image of a tree. I draw the tree towards me. It is the tree goddess, the spirit of the tree. Why have I called a tree to be my muse? I stand in the shade of the tree, and I absorb its coolness, its energy which it freely gives to me. I think back to the beginnings of the tree, when it was an acorn perhaps, and it was full of heat, and it was starting off on its own journey. No one could have known looking at that sapling what height it would grow to. In the beginning it needed the protection of others, and needed to escape being trampled or eaten. But it believed in what it could be and continued to grow and grow - until one day it could be a shelter for others, it could be a home for others, and it could generate new trees of its own. That is why the tree goddess is my muse. The tree that stands tall, powerful but gentle. Each morning, before beginning my writing, I will invite my muse, the tree goddess.”

I have no memory of writing this.

The tree goddess had already spoken to me nine years before I heard the call to set out on my journey to the trees. She had stayed with me, even when I had forgotten her.

3.

On the train today, I start reading Cacophony of Bone by Kerri ni Dochartaigh. The writing is achingly beautiful and sparse. Cut to the bone. She writes of how another writer gave her the advice - “Remember the light.”

4.

I arrive. I take myself on a walk through the woods to orient myself. It is raining. I am captivated by the lichen frilled trees, and the fallen branches furred with moss like shed antlers, and the last of the beech leaves strung like copper prayer flags and bejewelled with rain drops. I kneel down to listen to water running over decaying leaves and stone as more water falls from above to join and become one. I see the light captured in the water.

5.

Roger McDonald, in The Tree in Changing Light, writes of the botanical function of the tree is as a light collector.  The tree needs to capture light in its leaves to photosynthesise food. ‘Leaves were solar collectors. They generated sugars that flowed through the inner bark and changed into the woody material of the branches, trunk, and roots.’

6.

A robin lands on a low branch of this tree and stays a while. Blackbirds play in higher branches. I think this is a tree that can be a guide to return to while I am here.

7.

Each morning, before beginning to write, I will invite my muse, the tree goddess.