I know there must be gazillions of people struggling with all this but is anyone else finding their lives are morabor ut in cochlea pace ...slowing down to snail's pace (thank you google translator ...high risk strategy and I'll await corrections from the classicists out there).
And, setting all the worries and anxieties aside (and I no way diminish these, we all have them) perhaps not really minding that it has for a while...
In fact I'm almost taking advantage of permission to do so before we all have to return to civilisation and full diaries, and feeling that we must get out and about, and visit places and worry about R being above one (new language) and wearing masks (new fashion) ...and...and..
Botanical wanderings have been a real exercise for me in looking closely, and I see from your comments the other day for many of you too, and I am really grateful to Marilyn,a reader of the scribbles in the U.S., who wrote to tell me about the late Brian Doyle and a book of his collected essays One Long River of Song - Notes on Wonder. I downloaded a sample to my Kindle and realised very quickly that here was more writing for the now, and a book that I needed in my hand, one I could slot into the Read-a-Chapter-Daily category. I have rather too many of those at the moment, but all up-lifting in the face of so much that can be down-casting; books I will treasure in the years ahead as saviours when I look back on this time. I must confess I sometimes find books like this can be a bit sentimental and schmaltzy, a bit too pseudo-spiritual for this lapsed Anglican, and dare I say embarrassing, but nothing could be wider of that mark than Brian Doyle's writing...
"When Brian Doyle died of brain cancer at the age of sixty, he left behind dozens of books -- fiction and nonfiction, as well as hundreds of essays -- and a cult-like following who regarded his writing on spirituality as one of the best-kept secrets of the 21st century. Though Doyle occasionally wrote about Catholic spirituality, his writing is more broadly about the religion of everyday things. He writes with a delightful sense of wonder about the holiness of small things, and about love in all its forms: spiritual love, brotherly love, romantic love, friendly love, love of nature, and even the love of a nine-foot sturgeon.
At a time when our world feels darker than ever, Doyle's essays are a balm for the tired soul. He finds beauty in the quotidian: the awe of a child the first time she hears a river, the whiskers a grieving widow misses seeing in her sink every day -- but through his eyes, nothing is ordinary...."
Here's Brian remembering a moment when he looked at shrew...
Looked very closely...
'But there was something beyond curiosity or the startle of astonishment. For just an instant I paid attention with every shard and iota of my being. Maybe we couldn't survive if we were like that all the time, I don't know. But when it happens we see that which none of us can find words for. Sometimes we are starving to see every bit of what is right in front of us.'
Well I looked at the hawthorn flowers the other day...really closely and for a long time because I didn't have to be anywhere else, or do anything else because I have all the time in the world to do things right now...and had I ever noticed the pink bits before...
Cast not a clout ‘til May is out. Richard Mabey confirms it is the Hawthorn or May Tree blossom not the month that sees us putting away the thermals. The blossom banished from houses and that apparently has the ‘smell of the Great Plague.’
Since this all began I've been thinking I MUST keep a diary, must write it all down, but write what down. It wasn't until April 23rd, St George's Day, that I found a new A4 notebook and the right mood and actually wanted to start...and then it would be nothing about the Big Thing but it would be all the little tiny things.
The new flowers I'd seen...
The goldfinch that sat on the branch and sang for me...
The little patch of Lady's Smock right at the far end on the left of Hill Long Acre and discovering that the Orange Tip butterflies feed on it.
The nature reference books piled up on the computer-less writing desk in the book room...
Incidentally I spent about two hours sorting this desk....
Polishing it, finding 'things' for the windowsill, creating a nice place to sit and write and think and look things up in books rather than google..
Finding out all there is to know about sycamore trees because I walk to this one every day. Introduced to England in 16th century, naturalised since the 1630s, and might it be so ancient that it is approaching the 400 year limit of its life...
It would be a sad day.
And discovering that the leaves from Germander Speedwell, currently creating little lakes of blue in the hedgerows, were used in tea as a treatment of gout. Years ago I bought a copy of Flora Britannica by Richard Mabey, a charity shop find, and it is invaluable for diagnosing and explaining my field discoveries.
And then a good close stare at some lichen before realising I didn’t really know much about that either..
Lichen experts out there...might it Parmotrema perlatum...suddenly I need to know the right names.
Finally looking up which butterflies hibernate... Small Tortoiseshell, Comma, Peacock, Red Admiral and Brimstone and keeping an eye out, even following a few in the hope they will settle for my camera..
Then I needed to know the meaning of 'purlieu' ,because I am also reading a letter a day from The Natural History of Selborne by Gilbert White, first published in 1789 (when that sycamore tree might already have staked its claim on that corner of Bramble Park). Finding no copy on the shelf I treated myself to the edition from Little Toller Books with engravings by Eric Ravilious. Little Toller a small publisher I really don't want to lose through this and so doing my tiny bit to support them. The book arrived post free within days and with some lovely postcards included.
Purlieu : Originally land severed from an English royal forest by perambulation of an adjacent landowner's boundaries, but it can also mean a frequently visited place, a haunt. That might mean my desk too, because having prettified it I might then have spent another two hours sitting at it and staring out of the window.
I really am living the poem and I doubt I'm the only one who is purposely creating a little holiday from their day to day life as a way of managing the bigger picture. The W.H.Davies lines might be a bit hackneyed and cliched from overuse these days, but they are nevertheless still true...
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
I know the worries for many of you may still be huge, but I hope you are all finding time to stand and stare too.
And do you have any more Chapter-a-Day reading suggestions...
Recent Comments