Dear Walking Stick,
You were born in a hedgerow in one of the most beautiful valleys in Wales. You were recognized for your wonderful straightness and curved top just right for a handle by a kind and gentle giant, who cut you and fitted you with a sturdy foot and gifted you to me.
You are made of hazel wood, light and strong and straight.
There was a time in my life when I had Shaman spirit and I saw the hidden heart of you. I carved into your handle and released the Dragon hidden there. We spent a few years together exploring a world imbued with magic.
Do you remember the sacred wood and the flock of tiny birds that always came?
Do you remember the fairy dog that walked at our heels?
Do you remember sitting by that bridge watching that wren build his nest?
Do you remember the sacred grove on a cold February afternoon, the glittering flame and that shaft of sunlight?
Do you remember the winter wasp in the water meadow and the sudden realisation of the reality of death?
Do you remember the evening between the setting sun and the rising moon and the skylark overhead?
Do you remember the rituals and the beauty? Did you feel as at home in those wild places as I did?
I love you old stick. I’ve not used you for a while, but we’ve had some adventures eh? We’ve walked a lot of Welsh hills and many miles of the Yorkshire flats. Thank you for helping me in the rocky places and sitting perfectly balanced in my hand, like music, on the straight roads. Thank you for lying like a rod across my shoulders, stretching out the stiffness, easing my spine.
I’m sure we will have many more adventures together old stick. When I hold you all the memories of our past pilgrimages are there. My old Shaman mind and pagan heart flutter a little stronger.
You are magical, inspiring, an old, true friend.
I love you,