This is the physical manifestation of my encounters with the forest—a journey woven into the canvas of Scotland. I have no formal training in painting, no mastery of acrylics, no grasp of measured proportions. My learning mirrors that of an instinctive wanderer: reading fragments of wisdom here, gathering insights there, erring, dreaming, and letting colour flow through my hands like a quiet stream.

In this portrait, I have sought to weave the essence of the seasons. If you have ever roamed the wilds of Aberdeenshire, perhaps you will recognise the flowers—ephemeral visitors—that grace the days as they ebb and flow. Just as the seasons yield to one another, these delicate gifts of nature unfolded before my eyes, stirring wonder. Some moments, like echoes of déjà vu, lingered just long enough to imprint themselves on the canvas: the butterfly and the robin (their stories I will share with you one day).

And the halo—why does it encircle my head? I am no saint—far from it. I may be the least devoted to any creed of stone or scripture. Yet, I follow a quiet faith: reverence for life, for the earth, for all its gentle creations. My tongue speaks no ill, my heart harbours no hate, no bitterness. I wish you well, I wish you peace, and I wish for you to live as you desire. My religion is simple: to live, and let live.

The light around me is not divine; it ascends from the world that cradles me: the quiet wisdom of fungi, the soaring of birds, swallows dancing on the breeze, and flowers braving the cold kiss of winter. From them, I draw my lessons. With them, I resonate.

There is a tangible totem—one that binds me to past journeys, to kindred souls, a bridge between the forest, my home, and the distant lands that became part of my life in 2024.

Ideas

From the depths of the forest, where the mist dances over the damp earth and the trees whisper ancient songs, I walk, surrounded by a golden halo rising among the mushrooms and flowers. I am neither king nor saint in the human sense, but something more ancient, more deeply entwined with the earth’s essence: a mortal soul, an observer, an admirer of the eternal cycle of life.

With spring, the swallows arrived, etching their long journey upon the sky. They came from warm lands, where the suns were different and the winds spoke another language. They fluttered around me, singing to me, telling me what they had seen, celebrating their long journey with their flight—now here, now at peace. They know that I understand their longing to fly, their destiny written in the path of the stars.

The robin, on the other hand, remained in the forest all year round. A tireless observer, it hopped from branch to branch, curiously inspecting every corner of the green sanctuary. Its fiery chest was the flame of winter, the promise that even in the coldest seasons, life persisted. “We survive because we remember,” it once told me, and I nodded, for I, too, was a keeper of the forest’s memory.

Beneath its feet, flowers took turns adorning the earth, as if each season wove its own colourful carpet. In January, snowdrops emerged from the frost, tiny lamps of hope in the dimness of cold days. Then came the daffodils in March, greeting the sun with their radiant yellow and orange hues. When May bowed before summer, the bluebells covered the ground with a violet, bluish, pink mantle—an echo of the magic flowing through that sacred corner.

At home, the morning glory, a climbing plant, coiled itself upward, seeking the sky, its roots hidden yet persistent, its flowers returning every year without fail. Even in the shadows, it found a way to reach upward—like memories, like dreams that refuse to fade.

And among the undergrowth and fallen leaves, among the moss, mushrooms emerged in secret. Some were red and speckled, guardians of visions and hidden paths. Others were small and discreet, breaking down the old to make way for the new. “Nothing truly dies,” they seemed to whisper, “we only change form.”

I smiled, understanding that every creature around me had its own role in the cycle. The swallow had to leave, the robin had to stay. The flowers had to bloom and wither, only to return stronger. The mushrooms decomposed what seemed lost, but in reality, they only prepared the ground for what was to come.

Wrapped in my purple zarape from Tlaxcala, I will go on observing, protecting, remembering. Because life is not a straight line but an infinite circle, where everything that is born must transform, and everything that departs, in some way, always returns.

Last modified on 2025-02-10