The Peace of Wild Things

Just loved these peaceful images from Staveley Nature Reserve. Is there anywhere prettier than England in May? Even without obvious wildflowers or blossom, the colours were so soft and beautiful and I've tried to edit the photos accordingly. 

'When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.'    (Wendell Berry) 

Spring

 'Spring is when life’s alive in everything.' 

Christina Rossetti

'It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, 

a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, 

and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.'    

John Galsworthy

Liminal

Such a familiar sight and yet it continues to uplift me every time I see it. I've lived in the shadow of Salts Mill's chimney for over twenty-four years now and it has become an old friend that says 'home' to me. There is something about this shot that speaks to me. We have reached a liminal time of year. Nature doesn't know if it is winter or spring: bright sunshine promises warmth and doesn't quite deliver, a biting wind harks back to winter frosts, bare trees have leaf buds only just appearing and yet there's the occasional flurry of early blossom. The cherry trees on the main road have yet to flower but there is apple blossom in our gardens and blackthorn blossom in the hedgerows. And that blue, blue sky... a clear blue that does suggest a certain crisp cold. 

I am becoming aware that I'm reaching a liminal point in life too. Without really consciously deciding, I know it is time to prepare to move to a smaller and more easily managed home. I've loved living here in this old, solid, stone terrace, full of echoes of previous families who've lived here (I sense very contentedly), to which I've added my own story. It's been a real haven and is wonderfully located, in a good community. But these old houses take some managing and the steep stairs (though they allow the high ceilings that make the rooms feel spacious) will one day take me some managing too. They're not a problem yet but having Covid over Christmas underlined to me that the gap between 'coping' and 'not coping' is actually surprisingly narrow. I don't want to be forced out by ill health of one kind or another (though there is no sign of that yet) so I realise I need to prepare for and make a willing choice to downsize and future-proof  (as much as one is able) before I am forced to do so by circumstance and before the undoubted stress of moving starts to look too daunting. 

I've an idea of where I'd like to move to - and it's not far away. Beyond making sensible preparations to get this house to a saleable point (tidying and decluttering mainly) there is little I can do except to be ready to jump should a suitable property become available. I am, of course, already wishing it to happen, even before I am really 'ready'. Just as no-one can speed up the seasonal changes and there are false starts and it is frustrating 'waiting' for Spring, I shall have to wait and trust the process. I have to place it in God's hands. He hasn't let me down so far! 

Pond life

Just an unassuming little pond... yet it's hard to overstate how excited I can get in a location like this, which is all about light, shadow and shape. I didn't really spend long there and yet it was one of the highlights of my day! Another day, another season, a harsher light and it would look completely different. In addition, the way you edit images like this can change the 'feel 'of them a lot.  These are just my initial edits; I may look at them again another day and decide to try them another way... 

Actually, I think I love this in black and white: 

Bullfinch bliss

Attribution: © Francis C. Franklin / CC-BY-30 (Creative Commons Licence) 

One of the moments of life that I remember with clarity as being among the most blissful of experiences happened years ago when I visited the RSPB reserve at Leighton Moss. I was on my own - and in those days, post divorce and getting used to a new state of being, that was an occasion of some bravery: a major trip out, alone, simply to enjoy myself. I walked the long circuit of the reserve, out along the Causeway. In those days the path continued beyond the reed beds, through woodland, to return to the Visitor Centre along the roadside. It was sunny and still and I’d already enjoyed seeing a feast of birds, harriers hunting across the marshes and all sorts. I entered a little clearing among the trees and there beheld a male bullfinch, one of only a handful I’d ever knowingly spotted, resplendent in his breeding plumage, such a stunning coral pink set off with black and blue grey wings. He took my breath away. I was suffused with joy, a perfect sense of bliss. We had a moment together before he went on his way. I’ve never forgotten the encounter, a real gift that somehow made things right and filled me with peace, not a relaxed peace but an energised sense that ‘all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well’. 

Trying to be subtle

I often see other photographers' landscape work that has a seductive blend of softness and yet detail, and the exact quality has always eluded me in my own work. I'm not trying to reproduce someone else's ideas or images - that's impossible anyway - but rather seeking to push my own boundaries and keep on learning. On a trip up to Malhamdale recently, the light was ever-changing and, at one point, I was really struck by the variety of tones in the scenery - aquas, soft greys and light russets seemed to be there, giving almost a smoky quality to the foliage. I have tried to process this image rather differently from how I'd usually do it: lighter, less saturated and softer. Perhaps it's less 'as I saw it' and more 'as I perceived it'. I think I quite like it. 

Autumn musings

'It was a beautiful, bright autumn day, with air like cider and a sky so blue you could drown in it.'   

Diana Gabaldon

'How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.'  
John Burroughs

We've had quite a few of those beautiful, bright, blue sky autumn days and they do lift one's spirits. For most of us in the UK, spirits are badly in need of lifting, what with the mess the government is in, the lack of true leadership or even common-sense, the energy crisis, the cost of living crisis, the effects of Brexit, the war in Ukraine, the climate change crisis - to mention just a few things, in no particular order. I can't ever recall a time, even when things have seemed 'bad' before, that things nationally and internationally have been in quite such a storm. (Nearly said s***storm and that's what I mean!) Nevertheless, I'm enormously grateful to be where I am, at this stage of life, with everything that I really need and knowing too that my family are as resilient as they can be to weather these storms. I alternate between feeling angry, sad, ashamed, worried... But no amount of worry makes any difference; there's little most of us 'ordinary people' can do apart from what many of us always do, which is to take responsibility for our own lives; vote sensibly when we get chance! ; notice, care and try to support others where we can and nurture ourselves with food, sleep, exercise and whatever calms one's own particular soul. 

As is obvious from my blogs, my own main 'calming' comes from nature. Just being out in the fresh air, walking and enjoying the rhythmic movement of my own body, noticing all the small things - the birds, trees and other aspects of nature's bounty; the colours; the light and how it affects the scene; the sounds; the scents - all those are gifts. Sometimes I'm able to capture some of those gifts in a photo and then I can share a little of what I experienced with others. If I can write an uplifting blog post or share a beautiful picture, I know that there are a few people, perhaps less able to get out themselves, for whom that picture and those few words might provide interest, a spark of reminiscence or a little hint of pleasure in an otherwise quiet day. That in itself is worth celebrating, I guess, though that is not why I take photos and write my blogs, which is entirely a matter of self-interest and self care. It makes me feel better, brings me joy, provides a focus (if you'll excuse the pun). Similarly there are many who bring me joy, in the same way, through their blogs, their writing or their art and photography. 

Each of our seasons (and I'm glad to live in a country that does have definable seasons) has its own merits. Personally my favourite time of year is spring, when warmth creeps in, light rises, soft greens unfurl, flowers and blossom appear - bluebells and cherry blossom being particular treats for me. Spring also seems full of new beginnings, fresh starts, new energy. My whole being starts to uncurl in step with nature. I wake from sleep, stretch, feel energised. 

Then, I suppose, autumn would be my second favourite time of year, though somehow I feel I never quite make the most of it. It has echoes of a new school year (even so very many years since I started one!) It's a bit of a blank page, rather intimidating somehow. The lifestyle magazines are full of warm colours - reds, oranges, russets and browns - none of which are 'my' colours. There are cosy throws, mulled wine, candles, a sense of closing in, snuggling down. Hygge is the trendy word: a mood of cosiness and 'comfortable conviviality', with feelings of wellness and contentment. Bearing in mind that many of my autumns start (as this one has done) with a not-very-healthy dose of a heavy cold (blame children and grandchildren going back to school!) and it doesn't somehow help me to find that mood. Nor does the fading of the light, our long northern nights. 

I'm not a huge follower of astrology, I have to say, but my star sign is an air sign, whereas autumn always seems to be about earth and fire. (Even in that photo at the top, I thrill as much to the blue sky as the russet leaves.) So the season never seems to be a good fit for me. It does, however, lend itself to musings. As Nietzsche said: 

'Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.' 

For me there is some grief in there, a sense of things slipping away. It's not called 'Fall' for nothing. Yes, I know things in nature often have to die before they are reborn; I know all about there being times and seasons for everything and I respect that, yet I still feel sad. I still feel like cutting myself off from the world, even the conviviality that others can create. I want to hibernate. It feels cold, not cosy. I wonder what autumn and winter must have been like for my ancestors who were farmers, out in all weathers, breaking the ice on the water trough so their stock could drink. I wonder how my coal miner forebears could bear the monotony of going to work in the dark, working all day in the dark and then going home in the dark, to sleep in the dark. Must have needed a lot of forbearance. 

Things change; new generations reinterpret things in new ways and yet often have to learn again many of 'the old ways' in order truly to survive and thrive. 

'And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves...' 
Virginia Woolf

'Another fall, another turned page...' 

Wallace Stegner

Connecting with the Divine

Sunset on the beach, the colours unbelievably vibrant. I took a great many photos and only towards the end did I think of trying a few ICM shots. (ICM stands for Intentional Camera Movement, where you select a slow shutter speed and move the camera whilst the shutter is open, to create a blur.) These days, there is nothing especially unusual about ICM; you see so many of these images. It can give a nice effect when the scene is about colour more than anything, though images often lack a focal point. I was reasonably pleased with this one, though it wouldn't win any prizes. It does, for me, evoke something of actually being there and witnessing the splendour of this natural phenomenon, fast changing and completely awe-inspiring. It actually made me feel quite emotional, watching the beauty unfold. No two sunsets are ever the same and the fleeting colours can be mind-blowing. To me, this image beckons almost like a portal into another dimension. 

'To watch a sunset is to connect with the Divine.'  Gina De Gorna 

Harvest

'When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth.'     Mary Oliver

When life (or a friend, in my case) gives you cooking apples, fresh and tart from the tree, go and look for blackberries. Well, that's what I decided to do anyway. In truth, blackberries seem few this year, I suppose as a result of the dry weather. Or maybe I just wasn't looking in the right places. Those I found were quite small but still sweet-tasting. I collected a little bag full. Once the apples were chopped and stewed, I added the blackberries, cooking them enough to release their purple juice but not lose their shape. The concoction needed a sprinkling of sugar to satisfy my sweet tooth but, oh, it was tasty. 

Perhaps we all have a latent hunter-gatherer still within us. Once I got into the swing of it - and managing to avoid the sharp prickles of the brambles - it was a pleasurable half hour or so. There is something satisfying about getting close to mother earth and her bounty. I'm not a gardener at all, but I'm sure it must be very pleasing to harvest your own home-grown crops. 

And yes, I did 'cram the black honey of summer into my mouth' as well as into the bag. You can't return from a blackberrying expedition without juice-stained fingers and a purple tongue! 

Ocean

'You can either see yourself as a wave in the ocean or you can see yourself as the ocean.' 

(Oprah Winfrey)

'The ocean has a life of its own. Its tides, whirlpools, currents and eddies are 
a testament to its conflicting emotions.' 
(Anthony T. Hincks)

Walking the other day and listening to my own heart (as you do) I felt like the ocean. On the surface all is relatively calm, even sometimes sun-kissed, with a myriad little sparkling diamonds and turquoise, luminous depths. The waves are mostly gentle, lapping the shore. There is a pattern to the tides, not exactly the same each day but still reliable, orderly, dependable. Sometimes I hit against rocks, painfully, spray surging up with the impact - and then that too ebbs away. But I am also aware of undercurrents, rip tides, strong and tugging, trying to pull me down. In places they boil into whirlpools. I fight but perhaps the best strategy is to let myself go with it and bob up somewhere else, lifted on to a different shore.  Some day, I suppose, I will drown, claimed by the depths. Maybe by then I won't mind. 

Pebbles

Just a little playing with an image of my pebble collection. I can't truly say why I have a pebble collection... They are stones I've picked up over the years on beaches and brought home (and yes, I know you're not really supposed to do that!) Neatly laid out on a shelf in the sitting room, the hoard is perhaps one of my favourite possessions. There is something about the smoothness of them, their diversity of colour, shape, texture, the way they fit in one's palm - and yet all within relationship to each other. I like the grading from largest to smallest. 

I know my grandgirls appreciate them, especially M. In fact, there is a poignant little story to tell here... Once when the family came over, her father produced the tiny, rounded, orange pebble from his pocket and placed it at the end of the line, saying he'd been carrying it around for ages. It fitted and looked at home there so it was left. The next time the grandgirls came, that very pebble went missing. As they were leaving, I exclaimed about it (without really thinking it through!) M bent down behind the door and then produced it, saying: 'Is this it?' So we replaced it in the line. It was only after they'd gone that I realised the likely truth: that M herself must at one time have found it (she's the kind of child that does amass pockets full of treasures) and she must have given it to her daddy to look after. Perhaps she then forgot about it. Anyway, seeing it on my shelf must have reminded her that it was her treasure, so she reclaimed it, but obviously felt a little guilty, hence the 'finding it' again when I noticed its disappearance. I felt bad afterwards for not thinking ahead, and just keeping quiet when it disappeared from the line-up. I should have realised! But, sweet girl, I do love it and treasure it, all the more so because of that incident. And one day you can claim all of them for your own collection, knowing they were precious to me. They are, as precious as the finest jewels. 

Perhaps we're all a little odd! 

There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion 

That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble 

Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, 

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Boundaries

Warm and humid today but I needed a walk so I did my usual 'out along the canal and back along the river and through the park' route. It takes me about an hour and a quarter, so it's a decent stretch (and I need to stretch, being crippled up with lower back pain right now. 😬 ) It turned out to be a bit of a nature walk, though mostly unidentified. I saw some kind of furry creature swimming across the canal. It was quite long but I couldn't really see it in detail so I'm not sure if it was a water vole, a mink or a rat. By Hirst Weir, there was a bird that I took to be the heron that is often around there - and then I wasn't sure, as it looked a lot paler than herons usually appear, and thinner too. So maybe a little egret? It was too far away to be certain. Less happily, there are flotillas of Canada geese along the river and in the park. I counted at least 50 birds. In the past few years they have taken over the local waterways and fields, big, messy, aggressive and noisy birds. I dislike them. Finally I spotted a tiny, brilliant blue butterfly near the nature reserve. I'm hopeless at identifying butterflies and it didn't stop still to be photographed or closely studied. It was most probably a Common Blue, though its underwings appeared to be blue too, so possibly a Holly Blue? Who cares, really? It was pretty and a delight to watch. 

The advantage of that particular walk, I think, is that it takes place along various boundaries - the edge of the canal, the river path, the edges of the grassland and woodland. Those liminal spaces are always exciting places to be. I walk the same route over and over and yet still see things afresh each time. 

The scene in my photo caught my eye this time. I'm not sure why, though the soft colours are so harmonious and I like the textures of stone, grasses, old wood. The lady lace is in bloom of course, which always reminds me of childhood... Our family outings into the lanes of the Derbyshire Peak District, and - specifically, for some reason - the May Day celebrations at Wellow, which I used to love, watching the maypole dancing and enjoying the festivities. The hedgerows were always coming into bloom at that time of year - buttercups and lady lace and may blossom. Sweet memories. 

Today isn't May Day... August 1st is Yorkshire Day. Having never actually desired to live in Yorkshire, and finding myself here initially just by circumstance (last minute entry to university), I have now lived here for 52 years. I reckon I can count myself Yorkshire and be proud of it. It gets under your skin and I wouldn't want to live anywhere else now.