The endless song of beauty continues

From the heat of day step into the balm of shade

Greetings from the moss,

Well the last week has certainly been a rollercoaster of temperatures. Summer, briefly, is back with attendant benefits for mood. After last week’s ‘From Melancholy to Mindfulness’ this letter continues by sharing the richness found - whenever possible I have headed out to the moss that gives this publication its name.

Summer hangs by a silken thread

Thursday

Today’s word is bracing. Hat, gloves and neck warmer are out.

The sound and then sight of silvered water pulls me to one side through the grass and on down to the side of the burn. Through the lens I am transported back to the lines and colour of another stream in a different place. It doesn’t last long, but it brings something inside me to life: a spark of recognition for an old friend.

Cold sun glints through lime and ash canopies; green against blue for a little longer.

On the far hill the grain has yet to be harvested. Wheat lies static but the barley takes on the movement of water and I look out to see old gold rippling below the hills and a big sky.

Friday

Morning brings a first ground frost which is sure to yellow the birch further. Early sun leaches moisture to form cloud, and the day never quite warms.

The deer have eaten the only bud I have seen on my inherited floribunda rose; there have been no flowers this year.

Saturday

I should have gone out for a walk. I got as far as the garden. The afternoon forecast promised rain; the wind bent the trees. In the end I settled for reading and looking through images.

Sunday

Milky sky, red hills. The joy of words exchanged.

There is now no doubt of autumn.

Rooks call. I take a detour off-path to avoid breaking the web in which the spider sits.

I have company, the slightest of shadows slipping alongside me across the grass. Birch shed seed as well as leaf. To yellow add the red of blaeberry leaf, chickweed wintergreen and tormentil. A brush of silk across face, the crunch of dry twig.

The geese seem confused: two days ago they flew south, yesterday north, today they’re heading south again. A mistle thrush sings in the pine. The moss is brighter as yellow ochre joins the purple, orange and red.

Monday

The morning is clear, begins cold and is still, the loudest noise the brush of fabric as I walk through the wood back to the moss.

Evensong is robin, at volume.

Tuesday

Small new buds on the rose; the robin’s song - surely the sound of autumn.

The air is chill; the noise of traffic carries as the birds sing.

The smell of damp earth on fingers. Cool follows you into the wood, the sound of rush-hour ebbs and eases as if a lapping wave. Not leaving the coat at home turns out to have been a good idea, the extra warmth is welcome. Take the path through the pine, follow the deer, back to the moss.

Wednesday

Last week melancholy had hold, but just as the first frost was visible came the promise of a warm dry spell: summer reprised. How good it is to feel the warmth of the sun after the night’s chill edge, to see the hills redden at sunrise and to watch low level mist drift up and down the valley floor. A word for this was gifted to me last year: in Shetland it is called daalamist. (Thank you Charlotte A.)

The precious joy of a summer’s day in the third week of September. Early morning and the condensation that forms is on the outside of the windows.

Turning the washing on the line, there’s song that at first seems to be in the birch trees. Then a familiar outline on the electricity wires at the top of the garden. A short walk reveals a gossiping party of barn swallows and house martins, gathered before their migration. It’s a special moment to savour, watching them alternate chatter with circuits high in the blue.

Green grasshopper heard first, but also seen.

A walk

The sound of broom seeds popping in the sun; dark elderberries ripening. Golden grasses and yellowing birch. If this doesn’t look like autumn, please tell me.

More popping seed; five silk stars, field thistle seeds, move together through the air.

Smell of warm vegetation, trickle of stream, cry of buzzard - distant putter of motorcycle.

Silver sunlight on silent water. The rise and fall of lime leaf-light. Robin’s song and the sound of the breeze… It’s hard to break away from the moment.

Walking has its own quiet rhythm, a meditation, a slowing of thought. Each step takes you a little further from the bustle of life and the demands on time and attention. You become, in effect, your own metronome.

And rest.

Close your eyes. Let the sun warm you, its orange cast takes the place of sight. In the distance, combine harvesters are at work. Hear the sound of water, birdsong, sparking seeds though these are not broom, and the smell of a warm day.

From the heat of the day step into the balm of shade. Blackbird: startled. Sounds of water follow your path, parallel, but visually discrete: you meet at the junction of tracks before the water heads away to the pond.

Reader poll: Listen, read or both? What’s your preference?

I try to make the voiceovers more than just a read through, but there are no ‘stats’ to tell me how many of you listen. I’d appreciate your feedback, which will help me judge what to invest in evolving the audio. I’ve extended the timescale for your reply - which unfortunately resets the poll. Such is life! Thank you for taking part.

Until next week,

Encore: from last year

My motivation for creative pursuits is mostly intrinsic, but it’s important to share them too. And if my words and images have lifted your mood a little or helped you relax at the end of a busy day, I’m glad.

Finding Magic in the Everyday

If you find that my letter gives you a moment of calm:

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All words and images copyright © Michela Griffith except where otherwise noted