The un-silence of nature
Just what Sunday afternoons are for
As I write this it is a Sunday afternoon and I am sat in bed with a warm drink and the cat who has just been so startled by a crack of thunder he is now jammed into the crook of my arm as close as possible. Scattered around me I have notebooks and pen, books, crosswords and outside, the rain pours down.
We have had a lot of big rain lately and goodness it’s been cold for July. I even had the mini oil heater on in my room the day before; if not to dispel the cold but to ameliorate the pervading feeling of dampness. And yet, it is rather delicious to be cosied up now warm and comfortable with the window open enough for cool air on the face and to hear the rain. This, surely is what Sunday afternoons are for, if they are not warm and sunny.
Part of me wants to get up and make biscuits, baking being another comfort on miserable weather days. But, the thought of creating more washing up is putting me off at the moment.
The urge to be outside always pulls at me. Even now I would delight in standing out in the rain under an umbrella for a while. The garden changes gloriously in smell when it is raining. Leaves, grass, flowers, earth – all give out different scents, changing the un-see-able landscape that comes through this particular sense. But I am holed up comfortably, warm and sensibly resting after some garden work this morning.
Being a collector of nature through words, images, photos and bringing home small interests, I never really miss out on the world outside. I hoard things to return to: videos memories, descriptions, sound recordings, and can feast back on them through indoor days.
From under a fortnight ago, here are some observances gathered and added to my collection. They are from a small part of the River Gipping, where mum and I took our tiny stools, sketchbooks and pencils and sat by the water watching the world go by.
The un-silence of nature. Susurration and rustle of leaves a constant backdrop to the call of birds distant and overhead; chiff-chaff, robin, corvid. The metallic sound of a train on tracks as it passes by unseen. A weir crashes. The silhouettes of leaves lay over my page as I write; light creating shadows. From out of still water sharp stands of reeds grow as green blades piercing up towards the sun. Flitting among them, demoiselles and damselflies surface skim, a momentary stop then rapid flight once more. Trees of all different kinds dip lower branches into the river touching fronds and leaves with their twinned reflections born onto the water, mirrored. The air smells fecund with green sap and life. From a great weeping willow hang metres of tumbling tendrils; a waterfall made of leaves spilling from high in the sky. The surface of the water is pocked with the small movements of insects as they skirt and skim about on the dark glass. A long stream of bubbles rises teasingly to the surface raising excited questions of what’s beneath.
In other news
Where things are:
I am keeping my main blogs on my website www.jenny-may.com but will use this space to let you know when they are published and to share other little titbits.
Treat yourself:
My singing group, the Kettle Girls, have recently released a new album of beautiful songs largely sea and nature based. You can listen to one of the tracks, Softly Come Sleep – a lullaby of the seasons, for free by clicking here
If you wish to purchase an album (£10 plus P&P where applicable) you can contact the Kettle Girls by e-mail kettle.girls@btinternet.com or via our Facebook page f@thekettlegirls