I’m rushing my steps, a little out of breath. It’s the same every time and as soon as I set foot inside the forest’s calming embrace, I stop. Allowing my soul to catch up.
In isolation, thoughts can prey on us and I heard that suddenly there’s an increased interest in journaling. It becomes an outflow and a release for the mind. Perhaps it’s not always so easy to find the time to sit down and write or know what to say. I thought I’d share one of my writing practices with you. It’s perfectly accessible to anyone who wants to try it.
There’s the voice of the tall pines bending in the wind, the rustling as small twigs fall to the ground and distant birds debating. There are days when mosquitos chase me relentlessly, and there are cool winter days when the forest seems fully asleep. Every walk is different, and every time I see something new. Little insects busy with their short lives or the variety of mosses, lichen and rocks with faces.
Once I sat quietly for an hour fiddling with a microscope lens on my phone when heavy footsteps and the breaking of dry branches had me look up to see a moose and her calf majestically sauntering through the forest. I think I held my breath for a moment as they came so close before they saw me. Soon enough they resumed their business and trotted deeper into the forest. And as I observe these wonders my longing grows to put words to what I see and to use the surrounding wonders as metaphors for emotions and the trials of life.
The forest has its own unique way of telling stories. I like to capture sentences, or sometimes even words, as I walk through the forest… Like “beard lichen lashes” or “snowflake belly dance” or “grey stone dragon egg” (yes, there is one in the forest, as unbelievable as it sounds. And a little further on I found a dragon face turned into stone). As I set my mind in this poetic mood I keep seeing more and more. Heart-shaped rocks, incredibly delicate fungi and a stone cat guardian watching over the forest.
I always have my phone with me to note the magic down or take pictures. Sometimes I’ll stop as I walk to really work on a piece of verse, or I work as I walk. Just as walking and talking can be liberating so can walking and writing. It has become a practice, one of my many creative practices. Walking and writing naturally comes with its own challenges, like how to manage so many words in my mind at the same time and so I’ve grown fond of the compressed haiku verse format. I use it as it has been adapted to suit Western languages. The first row is five syllables, the second row is seven syllables and the last row is five again. I was taught to connect the two first sentences and let the third bring in a new perspective. Like this:
Winter comes to call.
Introspection and presence.
Snowflake belly dance.
See how there’s something fateful and inevitable in the first row. Followed by the peaceful second row advocating a slow-down. But the third sentence instead notices the snowflakes dancing, breathes of energy and conveys a slight sense of humour.
I’m fond of these limits on the words used and how this limitation makes me forge my sentences into compact little phrases. No filler words. I remember once hearing Tomas Tranströmer, a famous Swedish poet, say that when he had compiled a new poetry collection, he had written words enough to fill an average sized novel in search of the perfect expression. But putting the pressure of that perfect expression aside I find this a relaxing writing practice. If a full haiku feels too much, I just go for five-syllable sentences and note them down as I walk.
Another typical trait of a haiku is kigo or what we’d call a seasonal reference. There would be at least one word in the verse to indicate the season. Like ‘winter’ and ‘snowflake’ in the above example. Doesn’t it then seem that the haiku format was practically invented for forest observations? Of course, I know this is not the case, and that it is a Japanese verse format derived from linked-verse poetry. Haiku started emerging in the 17thcentury and got its name in the 19th. This gives the verse format a link to the past and adds extra spice to the practice.
I know all too well how intimidating writing can feel and that even the most ordinary and dull household tasks become more appealing than lifting that pen to draft a few words. That’s where writing practice comes in. I practice writing and I practice entering a poetic mood. This keeps my writing muscles strong, energised and ready to go. Ready to capture and ready to spot even the tiniest of inspirations. Honestly though, as I collect little sentences along my peaceful walks, I seem to forget them the moment I set foot in the house and everyday life calls. It gives me some peace of mind to know I’ve captured those sentences for later. Or perhaps they were only ever intended for that moment in time.
By Anneli von Knorring
