Well, that went fast. Christmas was in turns wildly windy, white and wet. Both morning and afternoon of Christmas Eve saw beautiful displays of nacreous or ‘mother of pearl’ clouds. We seemed to slip so quickly into another year; I hope that it will be a happy and healthy one for you.
Over the past week I’ve been warmly wrapped up in words and writing since beginning
‘s Winter Writing Sanctuary and I have to say right at this moment I feel more upbeat and inspired than usual for the time of year.The daily writing prompts have nudged me into spilling words unexpected and varied in form. Mostly I’ve shared these in the Substack app on Notes and I am grateful that some of my fellow travellers / hermits have come along to see what I write weekly. Hello!
This week I offer you:
A piece of observational writing from Tuesday, though it could be Wednesday as the weather seems stuck on wet hold. I know I really shouldn’t grumble about all this water.
A post that came from the sanctuary, and a link to others, if you’re curious.
I’m also delighted to be able to share the news that images from my photographic series ‘A Memory of Water’ are to feature in the next volume of Len’s Journal, a quarterly limited edition printed journal dedicated to creative photography and edited by Len Metcalf. And I’m delighted to see that Bill Ferngren, who I have previously interviewed for On Landscape magazine, will feature too.
There’s just time to subscribe to receive Volume 4 of Len’s Journal if you’re quick (cut-off date 8 January).
Precipitation
As the sky finally lightens, a cock pheasant squawks in the distance. The water fallen is busy with purpose, the ditch overfull as it works its way over the moss and spills across the path. Veils of cloud cling to the contours of the landscape.
I splash through the new water. There are no golden Dali-esque reeds today. Instead, I notice how the birch trees are more purple and the lichen adorning their lower branches more vibrant in its green hue.
On the edge of the wood, I listen to bird song and quiet but persistent drips. There's a chill edge to the damp air, heightened by a new dusting of snow on the distant hills. In this moment, even the moss emits vapour.
I wind through the trees, wet pine and birch seemingly so thirsty that they hold onto every bead, every jewel, that has fallen from the sky. Nature’s seasonal decorations.
The water through the culvert sounds almost machine-like; this is the wettest I have seen it here and long-standing residents concur.
I opt to walk the triangle route; it’s too late in the day to go further. I skirt the lingering ice, and stop to watch tiny Goldcrest before the peace is interrupted by the echo of distant chainsaw.
Stepping into the cathedral of plantation fir all is again quiet. I walk down the aisle over the moss green carpet and listen again: drip...drip...drip—a softer melody this time.
Returning to the track, I am struck by the contrast between the noisy and effusive stream on my left and the dark silent ditch on my right. The soundtrack of the day is undoubtedly water.
Walking back I contemplate whether, for all the years I’ve spent looking and photographing, it is through writing that I am truly noticing the small beauty around me: part monologue, part shared vocabulary. The year is opening a new chapter as I immerse myself in this regular writing habit.
As yet, I don’t feel that I’ve found words to adequately describe the palette of this place. The silent green of pine; the dusky damson of birch; the crusted and encrusted grey-green lichen. Mediterranean sphagnum seems too hot in tint for this cold landscape. The darkness of the ditches, the fleeting flash of white roe deer. The smoke of mist, the fire of fallen needles. The layered land and rowing rooks.
I know that the wet mulch of leaves and the falling rain is feeding me too. Four months of regular writing has been immensely enriching.
I remain profoundly grateful for the ability and the good fortune to be able to wander, and wonder.
You’ll find more sanctuary writing here.
In other news my recent shadowplay in Notes continues to have a life beyond me and has helped to inspire
’s latest print offer.Thank you for joining me and for reading. If you’ve enjoyed this, a like or a comment, a recommendation for FLOW or a restack if you’re on the Substack app would all be greatly appreciated. There is also an option to become a paid subscriber if you would like to further support my writing.
You’ll find more of image rich writing on FLOW’s home page.
My photography and mixed media art live here on my website.
Precipitation is lovely Michela. Reminds me of bring out this morning in a still very wet woodland. So much water still hanging around!!
So rich and evocative...having also been out walking in watery woodlands today I felt immersed in everything you describe here.