Schlicht und machtvoll: die Magie der leeren Hand
A few days ago, on my way home from work, I stopped off at the beach. This is a place I know well, the point where the river Taw and the river Torridge blend, sneaking-off together to the sea. The tide was out; revealing tiny striated dunes, wide expanses of slightly yielding sandy mud, and flattened forests of fine green seaweed.
Donning some loose clothing I walked out, far away from the marram grass and the strand line, and on to ground that for most of the day is the river bed. Once at the waters edge I stopped, dipped my hand in the water and anointed my forehead. This river is sacred to me. Not because it has any kind of mythological association (though it does feature in the excellent writing of Henry Williamson) but because of the simple lived experience of having spent a decade of my…
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