A message from Mac
It is in knowing myself to be wild that I find the deepest sense of belonging. Like the bramble that spears the footpath, lurching the divide, wildness simply is and will not be gainsaid. This year the Oaks of Embercombe lay their seed upon the ground and invite all-comers to harvest, store, and move airborne to nearby soil that still has memory of forests long gone. Spiders, fantastical in design, spin webs that trawl the soft autumn air for the unwary fly, whilst peering into dark un-foretold futures. Beauty and danger have always nestled close. Last night, long after my family had slipped into dreamtime, I left the bathroom and turned to join them. Pale, silvered light clung to the opaque glass of the front door and I knew the moon was calling. Shifting direction I slipped the door latch and padded out into the softly compromised dark. Cold air on my naked body. cold air drawn into my lungs, cold air and the magisterial authority of trees standing in shadows, breathing their long, slow breaths. Instinctively, without forethought, my arms uplift and describe the ancient universal gesture of obeisance. To be wild is to be alive and know it well.