This was written in 1974 at after a DLM festival in Copenhagen, but from the notes it seems Vera had an experience of her own, apart from the then-frantic following of the movement.
A line of green trees, smoke hung in a line. Acrid wood smoke in eyes, baked beans and fried bread, girls in various stages, I recognise them all, I was once each one. The gentle beasts (crossed out: young bovines black and white) look on, an electric fence between us. The campfire with songs and stunts. Nostalgia for a forgotten time, but how necessary today. Roundness – trees, leaves, brushes, fields – no straight lines. Golden corn, rib high for some, a forest canopy for others.
Today I came back, away from peace, today I returned to home and family. I realised I had been complete for one week, doing the things I have always wanted. Why was this? I wonder, then I know. It was the primitive, this outdoor life, this closeness with the Earth and sky. Living with nature, not with bricks – working for others, enjoying their banter.
No rebuffs here, all are friends. Pettiness is quickly stifled in the common good.
Envy, spite and selfishness soon forgotten. Service to each other comes first, as we are dependent one to the other. If one falls, we all fall, we serve to survive.
This is what it once was like – before the world went mad – before the most treasured possession was the family car. Then it would be the latest baby, or perhaps a common crop of corn. The air was sweet and creatures on the field and wood and Pond were all in harmony – a rhythm of life.
The best in people returns at such times. Notice is taken of a feather – from the breast of a duck – a white duck they said, it was so soft it must have come from there.
Grass was not just a green patch in the garden. It was a beautiful creation and there were many kinds, even one blade was significant because it was seen for the first time, perhaps. Evenings which were still, and wood smoke layering the hedges, lingering like a blanket. Clouds were shaped into vast wings and could be seen in their entirety – no intrusion of chimneys to break the expense of sky. The dead-fingered tree had Blue Tits nesting in its great trunk, still useful in its death.
Now the truth is in my heart – I know why I was one with nature, I have lived this way before. That life was guided by the stars and moon, the Sun that warmed the earth was mine by right of birth, I was part of both and all was me. My lives(?) were simple and complete, a blissful time.
Now full circle has swung round the heavens. I will return from where I came. Home of the beaver, the river rushing by. The land of my true birth, in earth and sky. And things beyond, above and around forever.