Let Nature's Beauty Bring You Tranquility
Everyday enchantment; The candle I burn in the window
Birch, like chameleons, shift tone: from bitter chocolate to silver thread; from emperor purple in shade of sun, to ripe raspberry milkshake under fog-birthed cloud. If there is a tree of winter, this must surely be it. Its decorations are muted—droplets of water, tiny globes of ice; white rimes written by frost. Under a fall of snow, Narnia appears.
I haven't yet completed my 100 words—blame my butterfly brain—but I did promise to return with a second helping of the beautiful silver birch trees before winter was out. For a while their seeds spread into my sketchbooks, and they always catch my eye and my heart when I am out with my camera. I am fortunate and happy to live in a place where there are plenty of these trees. Here are some views of them, mostly from this winter, but I've slipped in a favourite from a previous year; needless to say, it’s a reflection in water.
Last week I wrote that “I have decided to deposit the darkness on paper in a series of graphite sketches.” The world grows darker still, democracy herself seems almost under threat, so I’m still drawing. I also made a decision about keeping a light on here.
A recurring theme, in my own letters to you, and in the notes and posts I have been reading is that many of us feel this darkness as the world shifts from the axis that we knew. There’s not a lot I can do, other than to keep sharing words and images that might just brighten your day a little. And to tend to my own inner light, trim the wick, and to let it shine out from this small corner.
These letters are my light in the darkness, the candle I burn in the window for you. Moth to flame, the things that draw my eye and my heart.
Passing the 1000 subscribers mark felt like a good time to take stock. To think about not so much what I’m doing, or the reason I’m doing it—I’m clear and steady on that. Rather to consider how I do it, and to remember that one size doesn’t fit all. Writers are encouraged to monetise their newsletters; it’s the way that Substack makes money. We’re told to do it sooner rather than later. To devise strategies and keep pace with the person next to us on the treadmill. I don’t want to do that, and so I decided at the end of February to pause paid subscriptions. To concentrate on giving as my own small act of resistance. I will be keeping all of my content, all the beauty and tranquility, ‘free’. I’ll continue to include a link equivalent to ‘buy me a coffee’ (tea in my case, I gave up coffee long ago) so you still have the option to recognise content that resonates. This, of course, will undoubtedly brighten my own day.
Thank you for the concern you expressed last week for my poorly cat. The second visit to the vet did the trick—another injection and she began to be interested in her food again. Normal c-attitude has been restored! Until next week,
PostScript
Encore now sounds a little pretentious to me, though that was far from my intent. So I’m adopting PostScript instead for the little-extra-at-the-end. I continue to marvel at the profusion of birch seed on the ground, and on the water, and it seems I’m not alone in my enjoyment—the trees have been busy with crossbills and redpolls.
March has again brought muirburn plumes. Last year I wrote about this and the hills in prose and poem.
You will find the first helping of birch here:
All words and images are copyright © Michela Griffith except where otherwise noted
I love your "own small act of resistance". In a world where life itself is reduced to "deals" and money, your generous presents are so refreshing. There is a particular photograph of silver birches that strikes me as "the supreme entanglement". Such beauty. Thank you.
What a treat Thursday afternoons are as I quietly listen to your beautiful nature reflections, Michela. You bring those silver birch trees to life in such a vivid, poetic way, capturing their delicate beauty and how they inspire a sense of light and resilience in these challenging times. Thank you for sharing your words and images with us. I clicked back and read your 'hills' poem, first sideways, until I realised a little more scrolling down was needed. :)