“In the Craft, we do not believe in the Goddess ~ we connect with her; through the moon, the stars, the ocean, the earth, through trees, animals, through other human beings, through ourselves. She is here. She is within us all”
I make a pilgrimage every year to the bluebell woods. Not far from Halfway Up A Hill is a patch of beautiful woodland. It's privately owned, but the owners are generous enough to share their little patch of heaven, and every year when the bluebells bloom they open up the woodland to the public. To me it is a magical, sacred place. I look forward to my visit every year, it has become part of the way I celebrate the Wheel of the Year.
Bluebells are quite possibly my favourite flower: I love their colour, their scent; I love the time of year they appear; I love their woodland habitat. My annual visit to see them feeds my soul. I visit them with friends, with family, alone. I have visited on cool, damp chilly days and on brilliantly bright warm sunny days. But it is unthinkable to not visit at all. No matter what else is happening in my life, I make time to visit the bluebells.
The woods are approached through a bright sunny meadow. The owners have cut a path through the meadow, fringed with all kinds of wildflowers. I follow its gentle slope down towards the woodland's dark edge, and as I get closer the scent of bluebells starts to waft around me. I slow my pace, aware that I am approaching a holy place. At a gap in the hedge at one corner of the meadow I step through into an enchanted world. A sea of blue flows all around me, and early summer light filters down through tender new leaves of oak and beech, hazel, birch and hawthorn. Paths meander through the trees, and I step carefully, trying not to crush any flowers underfoot. It seems sacrilegious to damage such beauty in any way. As I walk slowly, mindfully placing each step, I breathe deeply, trying to inhale the essence of the place. At points along the path I stop and sit for a little while, listening to the sound of the woodland all around me. Insects buzz, the breeze ripples through the treetops, birds sing - wren, robin, chaffinch, chiffchaff, blackbird - and the sound of cattle, sheep and human activity drifts over from the nearest farm. I notice how, when I sit still and silent, the birdsong intensifies nearby as though having decided I pose no threat, normal service has been resumed. At one particular sitting place I am thrilled to hear the whirring of small wings directly behind me. I hold myself as still as possible, desperate to turn and see which tiny bird has dared to land behind me but knowing that as soon as I move it will fly away.
I try to still my mind too, letting thoughts drift away like the clouds above the treetops, trying to open and receive whatever the bluebell wood has to offer me. I feel it as a gentle healing energy, which soothes and nourishes my soul. I want to stay and bathe in it forever, and yet I know that I will have to return home before long - visiting time ends at dusk - and that the bluebells will not be here much longer. There is perhaps another week before they fade, begin to set seed and their blue-purple glory is over again for another year. So I drink it in while I can, feed my soul on this peace and beauty while I can. It is enough - until next year.