Monday was the celebration of the life of Stephan Harding, scientist, ecologist, teacher, poet, musician, in the Great Hall at Dartington in Devon, and at Sharpham burial site. As a faculty member of the Living Waters programme (which gave birth to this collection of writings) his presence has been greatly felt, and his passing bittersweet - leaving both a sense of loss and also a profound armful, valleyful, ecosystemful of gifts.
Those of us who weren’t able to make it in person committed to visit the places with which we’ve fostered relationships as part of that programme, to honour Stephan. It’s also the one year anniversary of the passing of Tim Harland, another inspirational man deeply in love with the Earth.
I join Stephan Harding’s life celebration on Zoom this morning. There are some deeply heartfelt expressions of gratitude and reciprocity, describing a man who has fallen in love with the world, embodying both rigorous science and living, breathing poetry. Even through the limited medium of Zoom, the sense of interconnection is surprisingly touching and powerful.
At 2pm I arrive at my ‘Gaia place’, as Stephan calls them - places of intimacy where we offer our presence and attention to life. Rain is beginning to subside, and in my field of vision I can see occasional leaves shudder under falling drops, silent cymbal crashes of dark green, lit with water. They seem to echo each other, one followed by another, rippling though the trees.
I greet my non-human kin, beginning to name some of them like I might greet human friends - Alder, Nettle, Willow, River, Hawthorn. It takes a while to land, to feel beyond just a fleeting visitor, shaking off the clutter of the day. I walk along the bank upstream a little, brushing nettles with bare legs. I notice my skin’s aliveness with the sudden prickling. There is a large willow amongst many alders, standing slightly back from River’s edge. One of the speakers at his celebration described Stephan’s Elephant Mother, his beloved goat willow. I’m thinking of this as I greet the giant tree - the first time I’ve approached this Willow close enough to touch. It is an elephantine being, broad and muscular, dwarfing me - and at the same time I’m struck by Willow’s delicacy - the slenderest leaves. Someone has left a knotted plastic bag of dog turds on the crook of an enormous branch. I put my hand gentle on the trunk and greet Willow, her roots plunged down deep in the saturated soil. And I take the bag with me.
A gust shakes the canopy of alders as I walk back to the bridge - a rush of leaf-clinging droplets fall at once, a minute deluge clattering into River, like a sigh. I walk carefully through snagging pendulous sedge and fibrous balsam stalks to a downstream spot at the confluence of two Riverbraids - where I first sat in early March last year at the beginning of Living Waters, limping with a collapsed intervertebral disc, wrapped against late snow. This time I am moving freely, able to zigzag between plants with a delight that I only think about now, as I write. I remember to take off my shoes - the cold and damp of the yielding mud a surprise to my cossetted feet. My movement and standing are peppered with conversation, offering gratitude to River, to all kin, to Stephan. Slowly I find myself feeling more present. A wren arcs over Water; small and exquisite, a muted, dusk-feathered jewel. What appears to be a moth (but I learn later is a caddisfly) flits with translucent wings.
I have gathered four offerings from my studio - a sequoia cone, a black and white feather, a sea stone, which I plan to offer to River, and a whittled stick, gathered from the ground in the woods near Schumacher College, that I’ve had with me for sixteen years. I intend to immerse Stick in River. I speak over the three gifts before releasing them into Water - watching as the cone rides the current with buoyancy and speed, the feather caught as it falls by the lightest of winds, landing close to shore and then, as the slack water meets the joining braid along long multiple ripples, accelerating away - and the stone, lofted high, drops with a splash and for a moment it seems as if I can see the entry point, the hole it makes in Water, right down to the bed. I stoop and gently submerge the stick, soaking up a little of River, making connection between this place, and those woods. After making the offerings I speak a word or two of gratitude again for Stephan and the whole community of life in this place. I spot a caddisfly on a leaf, and gently scoop it up into my hand - it takes off, and lands on my face - a tiny, delicate sensation.
I feel a sensation that I first sensed walking several miles upstream from here, last year. A feeling of animal and insect and bird and plant kin, gathering at my back, a feeling of affirmation, sensing a community of strength and tenderness in which my life is held and supported and dependent in ways I barely understand. But very much not alone. As a turn to look downstream before heading home, there are two audible splashes as trout breach the surface, and I hear the plaintive cry of a buzzard, over and over, above the canopy, beyond sight.
As I write, later into the night, there is Rivermud still on my feet. My son comes and, unbidden, wraps his arms around my neck before he heads to bed.
Thank you Stu and our Rivers too for the lessons they keep teaching us! I was also on Living Waters 2024 and in Stephan’s small group. I realise now what a privilege and life changing experience that was- a remarkable experience.