In the absence of a digital presence, life ambles quietly on. There’s space for sitting quietly, for the scratch of pen over paper and the rustle of turning pages.
Spring came, the daffodils I planted for my lovely Nanna started to emerge from the dark of the soil, and then winter rallied and we slid backward into ice and cold and snow.
The birds are back – robins, starlings, red-winged blackbirds, killdeer and even a couple of herons. The frogs sang for a day or two and then went silent under snow and ice. The ravens are nesting in our neighbour’s silo again and I keep the ghetto-binocs handy but so far, only the jumble of this year’s nest refurbishment are evident. This morning, while walking the Emma-dog, we saw the first of the swallows. Scouts, perhaps. I wonder if they know it’s going to snow tomorrow?
Despite, possibly because of, the wintry setback, spring seems all the more determined to push her way through.
A new season, a new start. All things cycling around once again in a calming sort of predictability.
This, too, shall pass, has been the whispered mantra on the edges of the dark and cold.
And so it shall, as we emerge once more, blinking, into the light.
ps. Sea Bride is now available on Amazon. This will be the last indie production for a spell as I turn my attention to an old dream. More on that soon-ish.
At the threshold of sleeping and waking, I remembered something I’d seen in a dream – it was a young woman sitting by a fire, pouring tea from a large pot and remarking about the program she was listening to on the radio. It was gloriously old-fashioned and comfortable, in the same way that I used to find walking into my grandparents house was comfortable; full of simple, familiar routines that could ease my worries in an instant.
Quiet girls with dark-framed glasses – their perfect skin and lovely smiles that you’d never notice because you never notice. Pouring tea from an over-sized Brown Betty, old radios playing crackling dance-hall records. Lace doilies and cardigans; the faint smell of damp. Wing-backed chairs by small, coal-fires in drafty houses. Small smiles and contented hearts; thin, blue, air-mail paper and the wobbling script of an aged hand.
I watched Jane Eyre on the weekend and I found myself remembering why I used to write poetry. It helps me capture those threads of longing that I feel when I see storm-scudded skies and the bleak beauty of wind-rent heather and cold stone. I try to anchor myself on this patch of earth, all the while my spirit is restless and longs for a home and life far out of time and space.
Writing holds me fast to the waking world, lest I lose myself in the dreams entirely. But it’s a madness of it’s own and each time I go under, I wonder if I’ll be able to come back to the surface. I think of Inkheart and sigh for the notion of worlds-made-real.
Telling stories is one thing, dressing them up is entirely another and I wonder if that’s at all what I want to do, at least on any sort of grand scale. But there’s a burden of guilt attached to not sharing and I find myself resenting it. Ever contrary, I want to do the opposite of what’s expected.
I just want to write down the stories that are following me around.
The snow is coming down, thick and fast. Winter, it seems, has finally arrived.
until next we meet,