It was lovely last week to receive a flurry of kind comments and to feel supported in this endeavour, thank you all. I’m trying an experiment this week - there’s something extra at the end of this week’s post for paid subscribers; prior to that content is free to read. I’m hoping that the way ‘preview’ and ‘paid’ are shown by Substack’s default settings won’t trip us up - and you will not find that my writing disappears behind a paywall midway through a juicy paragraph.
Since I last wrote to you a switch has flipped, arctic air replaced by two named storms - Isha and Jocelyn - in as many days. The speed of transition has been remarkable for the time of year while the sun remains low to the ground, seemingly weighted by gravity. It’s not been a photogenic week: there is little left of the snow even on the hills. These fractured depositions that linger in cold and deep ground are, I was once told in another place, called ‘snow bones’ and they supposedly only disappear after more snow falls.
I’ve been spending more time thinking about words and images and how to evolve the two, making a tentative start on something that might be held in the hand.
Things I’ve noticed this week
Friday. Sleety for a while, then sun and the beginnings of a thaw despite the wind. The snow is now soft, slippery and heavy to move. I find the track up to Auchinleith filled with drifted snow and divert to the field below, looking for ice, shadows and water to play with. A heron glides in, turns into the wind, stalls and is framed against shadowed ground as it descends, lands and begins its hunt.
I follow its example, though less gracefully. Snow reflected in blue sky water pulls me into my own ditch to look; I edge down the bank carefully. I’m looking for pure water but I can’t deny that the fluid lines of the grass anchor this composition. A fascinating tracery of fine lines is revealed in the movement of the confined stream. Nature always finds a way to soften our lines.
As I return I meet the party convoy of trucks and tweed; more pheasants will be shot this afternoon.
Saturday. A worm wriggles, ever so slowly, across the snow covered lawn. The grass is very slowly beginning to reappear. The view from the front window is adulterated: a dirty beach, high tide mark of salt and grit, the blade torn verge tucked just out of sight. The sky is a milky pale blue. I pass up a walk to clear snow and then write. A small book arrives and sows a seed.
Sunday. Pink warns of Isha. A morning walk, dark thoughts. Dead pigeon fits the mood. What good have humans done to this earth? Spent cartridge. It’s hard to find the magic amid the muck. I envy the birds their unknowingness, and welcome the sunlight as it reaches in to me.
Monday. After a wild wind night the first clouds are red raw. Morning is work not walk and after lunch I decline the still bullying wind’s invitation to print heather and add words to frost.
Tuesday. It’s hard not to notice the mess. The clean white blanket has gone. Our own scrapings have left a surplus of dirty grit and torn verges. All debris is more noticeable. Even my husband commented on it, and he isn’t prone to noticing. I’m trying to work out why it seems such an assault on the senses. There is the extreme contrast between new page and old journal. The weight of grey cloud holds your vision down; no sparkle or flicker to draw your eyes up and away. You need to pay attention while walking, notice the patches of black ice, the roots that trip and slip and twist ankles, a rib cage seemingly ever more exposed by the retreating earth. It feels like we’ve gone back a few weeks into shorter days: the greens are darker, the purples edge of nightshade.
In the absence of sight - night fallen, curtains drawn - the storm is sound. Pulses of rain, wind propelled, varying rhythm and cadence, tapping of water on glass, the push and pull of the formless against surface and structure. A clamour to reach, to enter, which will make sleep difficult. The false promise of a lull before the next wave breaks.
Morning comes, the dark pre-dawn, Jocelyn’s energy seemingly undiminished. The snow is missing but the globe is shaking violently. In our shell we are night bruised from disturbed rest. For some reason I think back to the bubbles of air trapped below last January’s ice.
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You’ll find more image rich writing in previous posts on FLOW’s home page.
My photography and mixed media art live here on my website.
Stories of place: lichen lines
An extra piece of writing, image and word play as a thank to paid subscribers.