The stone gatherer
It’s little less than a year since I published my first article.
Time -not surprising really- moved his steps fast, restless at times, other awfully silent instead.
In his run, staring at a “front” with outlines clear at all, he found a path to the woods without realizing how it was uncared, compared to other more evident accesses, even cheekily marked.
No plates here, no marks on rocks or trunks, only grass and leaves repeatedly trod, diverted branches and… the feeling that a tunnel tightens to infinity. I lenghtened my bare hands, moved low fronds away, secured the bag with clothes and thin threads around the waist strongly, collected years of love in the light the dark the richness of grievous losses and went, simply on. From time to time I touched parallel ways, crossed bisectors… open roads, bright, crowded with passages and laughs and answers… But I had no questions for those answers.
My questions… stones allowed to fall down along the path waiting for other handy to gather them…
I smile thinking that it exactly is what the etymology refer to, the gesture of putting on others your own quest, your own dimension of sense…
I walk a voluntarily, necessarily lonely path, I’m aware of it but… a child hope, a warm and mellow instinct persuades me to gather little gems -between a step and the other- and to smooth them on my hands caressing them just a bit, whispering them tales of free flights on the tops of the highest trees, of starry nights lying down on damp beddings, just to let them fall down in a moment, from time to time, pretending to be vague, almost careless.
Will someone gather them?
Will someone taste their soft contours, will he perceive the breath of the wind on the tops of the highest trees, will he see the damp light of the evening stars?
A week ago a stone gatherer crossed my path for a moment. Steady steps, soil and moss scented. Shiny and vibrating his eyes. I saw him gathering some of my little stones… He held them on hands, curious and careful, skipping them from finger to finger. Their tinkling a seductive lullaby that still echoes in the woods. He kept them for a while, till he too let them fall down, as if he was vague…
Time moves forward mocking, not everything manages to keep up with his paces. For sure not my will, my need to shape this space, this blog so that it’s pure image of my path into the woods.
Something took gently its shape already, yet a lot still moves in silence, waiting patiently for its moment to come, its opportunity to show itself openly.
Restless -yep, just as time that paws the ground ahead- I look at the pages, the contents that I would have different, I would like even more brave, even more expressly mine even if not much conventional, even if not immediately making out and far from what, maybe, many readers often want to get and spend just in a second.
I breathe deeply while running the most recent articles, and in secret flip through the material collected during the last months… as fruitful seeds welcomed by a fertile land they are macerating under the weight of this massy rains… no doubt anymore, they will have their spring soon, glorious will sprout under a smiling sky, will feel cold in still icy night…
Meanwhile one of them, quick, tickles the soil already: “Memoirs of a shamanic journey to the Middle, the Lower, the Higher World” is a ritual costume in three parts, a kimono and two tunics of silks and gauze of wool, ecoprinted with leaves of gimko biloba, eucaliptus cinerea, rhus coggygria, oak, chestnut, persimmon, helycrisum flowers, roots of rubia peregrina, bixa orellana seeds; it has been selected for the international exhibition that will take place in Aichi, Japan, next December, for the 7th edition of the Natural Dyeing Biennale.
My attendance has been the opportunity to have my first ever experience with a professional photographer, Maurizio Paradisi, who took shots of my work and, after many and many years spent to elude the lens in every way, me!