Leave me breathless with wonder

When snow makes the ordinary extraordinary

This afternoon, indoors is best… You may still hear the wind.

Greetings from the moss,

Long letter or short postcard? This was the question I considered yesterday morning as a certain giddiness took hold. How can I resist playing outside? How could I spend time sitting at the computer with THIS out the window? I wrangled with my conscience, considered my commitment… Would a postcard be okay instead of a letter this week?

If postcard is your preference, you can jump ahead to the images below. Otherwise, read on for a letter of moments gathered this week.

Moments gathered

Thursday; out for a hair cut. At 9.15am the field is full of rooks; by the time we return at 1.30pm it is empty. My mind dwells on the darkness:

Driving out
the park is peppered with black.
Children of shadow, 
their sharp beaks probe the grass.
Meccano legs propel 
each inspecting clerk of works.
They are too many to count:
parliament is in session 

Driving back
the park is lined with black.
Long shadows stretch 
over the grass from the rookery, 
slicing the sunlight.
And what of the birds?
Have they become the shadows,
or do they watch from the trees?

Friday. Flickers of fire through the trees; a pastel sky; burning hills. A last mild day. Long-tailed tits for company as I mulch.

For the second time this week I’ve overdone it. Tired in soul and body, I close my eyes and sit listening to a reading, head resting on clasped hands as if in prayer. The light slips over the hill; when I next see the sun rise she will be a cold sister.

Saturday. My soul tells my still tired body to take it easy. Yesterday’s warmth is today’s cold; I feed the birds, pick apples. Indoors I watch rooks circle above the trees.

Sunday. As the night temperature drops, the house creaks. At 7am light floods in from an impossibly bright moon, just past full. The diamond to its left: the morning star. A wistful wave of, from, the cloud beneath; a backdrop of blue with the clarity of cold.

The walk out, past birch trees naked except for the fringed lingerie of lichen, shining in the early sunlight.

The last leaves brighten lime, beech, oak.  

The wind is cold, the sky restless—golden fields shine through the trees but there’s a darkening above. As I stop to listen to fieldfares, I watch two roe deer watch me before bounding across the barley stubble with a rocking horse motion. The first ice crystals fall out of the clouds to lie white on my black gloves. I think about taking a shortened route but decide to continue. The golden light and colour is the lure; the revelation the steely winter tones and the way that suddenly you see old things in new light.

Watch the clouds at play. Colours intensify. Sleet peppers my left cheek but I am exhilarated, alive. We forget just how invigorating it is to be out on the edge of the weather, with the kite and the heron for company.

Monday, 6am: bright moonlight bars the curtains and draws me to the window. Moon shadows lie on newly dusted diamond white surfaces; the sky is clear, the stars bright. 

PM. The dust lingers, the low sun beguiles. It is barely above freezing: no thaw. Down path, up lane, cut through, follow drive back. Not far, but slowed by the need to consider how it all looks through the viewfinder. Is it the cold or the winter light that takes my breath away?

What happens when Autumn meets Winter?

Tuesday. Out early, the birch are sugar frosted and just beginning to catch the light. I consider them from the path, then slip into the wood.

The light is magical. It would be easy to mistake the thin coating of snow for frost. Later, from the window, I watch redwings in the rowan; through binoculars their beauty is apparent. Snow falls.

Wednesday. During the night I peek through the curtains: more snow, lit brightly by moonlight. The night is quiet aside from the sound of snow sliding off the roof, which tells you that you will need to dig the path before you can walk it. There is something about snow though that muffles, a cotton wool wrapping of sound that is comforting.

I don’t think I saw enough snow as a child; I find it hard to resist. I clear the path, and begin my walk. It’s slow progress—not due to the depth of the snow (I have walked-climbed-rolled over infill drifts before) but because every few steps reveals something old yet new. I’m out early, and once I’m past the single short dog walk foot and paw prints, the powder is mine. All mine… apart from the odd deer and rabbit that have passed. Later I meet the gamekeeper’s tracks, but they provide a useful leading line.

Some time later I tell myself: my inner child is happy; my inner child is ecstatic, having a proverbial ball. 

Q. How do you reduce your age by a factor of ten?
A. Go for a walk in the snow.

I don’t remember when I last felt so high; the conditions have worked their magic. I return home for soup (parsnip and apple) with a belly full of joy and an SD card of images. I have taken too many, and it will take me a while to review them, but here are a few that illustrate the remarkable contrasts that can occur when Autumn meets Winter.

Thursday again, already. Wednesday morning was so good, I want to do it all again.

In the cold morning, the moon subdued behind thin cloud and the night wolf of the wind still howling, I am less sure. And then I figure as I need to layer up to refill the bird feeders, I might as well go for a walk. The snow was a little less magical, and I was a little less childish, but I’m still glad I went.

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Dark mornings, early sunsets. You can travel to and from work and never see daylight if you don’t go out at midday, especially if you are away from a window. It’s easy to bemoan the short days of winter, yet there is something magical about them. And if the days are dull, there is always the moon…

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Thank you for being here. Until next week,

Encore:

Birch trees naked except for the fringed lingerie of lichen, shining in the early sunlight.

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