Betwixt Lakeland & Edinburgh
One of the joys of keeping a journal is, of course, ‘flipping through the pages’ and bringing to mind people, things, places and experiences that made an impression. Today I was delighted to revisit Entranced by the light … first published here on 22nd May 2021.
Time and time again, I am moved and entranced by the movement of tide and cloud and light – sometimes stormy, bracing and energising; sometimes calm and colourful and wide inside π
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iPhone 11 Pro Max
Winter gradation of light here touches me at some profound level. Perhaps especially glad of light in shortened days thereβs a poignant magnification of beauty all around me – lightβs calling me to appreciate what is, when it is, wherever it is.
Light
For Monet
Poets, too, are crazed by light,
How to capture its changes,
How to be accurate in seizing
What has been caught by the eye
In an instant’s flash –
Light through a petal,
Iridescence of clouds before sunrise.
They, too, are haunted by the need
To hold the fleeting still
In a design –
That vermilion under the haystack,
Struck at sunset,
Melting into the golden air
Yet perfectly defined,
An illuminated transience.
Today my house is lost in milk,
The milky veils of a blizzard.
The trees have turned pale.
There are no shadows,
That is the problem – no shadows
At all.
It is harder to see what one sees
Than anyone knows.
Monet knew, spent a lifetime
Trying to undazzle the light
And pin it down.
May Sarton
Letters from Maine: New Poems, 1984
They, too, are haunted by the need / To hold the fleeting still / In a design
We cannot hold the fleeting still. That’s why, for us, time so often appears, inexplicably, to fly. And time between the 3rd November 2022 and tonight, the 19th November 2022, appears to me to have passed in the blink of an eye. Of course, I have flashing memories of a flu jab, dental treatment, a Covid vaccine booster, poems read, accounts enumerated, letters written and received, some loving conversations – about life, and about death, about love, and about grief: yes, of course. Yet still there’s a degree of unknowing, an inability to grasp time’s flight, and probably a need to step out, sometimes, for a while, from the paths of routine, simply to breathe ‘illuminated transience.’ Yes: there are times and spaces when It is harder to see what one sees / Than anyone knows.
This blog remains a steady friend to me – sometimes in daily conversations and at others, in much the same way as happens in many other relationships, by way of catch-up. Revisiting. Re-membering. Undazzling the light. This blog reminds me – encourages me – to recognise profound beauty in the daily journey, not just in the destination. This blog slows me down within the continuum, the quiet voice at my shoulder inviting me to love and to life. And with every blink of my eyes, with every breath breathed in and out, with every attempt to catch a fleeting thought, or to let a thought take flight, the view changes. Focus zooms in and out … harder to see what one sees / Than anyone knows …
But – Light through a petal – it’s OK to be moved only ever so slightly in the breeze: to stay awhile, to let all that is, within and beyond, tell us quietly what ungraspable time and life and love are really all about.
one word to describe
a libraryβs chief purpose:
illumination
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Edinburgh is arts, art and festival 24 hours a day, 365 days a year – which makes it a natural environment to host arts, art and one of the worldβs best known International Festivals. Nature, and innumerable artists working together, will touch this vibrant city with colour, drama, light and great literature; with prose and poetry, music, song and dance throughout a happy August. And just outside my window I behold gold π±
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One thing is certain, and I have always known it – the joys of my life have nothing to do with age. They do not change. Flowers, the morning and evening light, music, poetry, silence, the goldfinches darting about β¦
May Sarton
Freesias, for me. For my desk. Peppery and colourful. And my best ever morning light? Two best ever! i – Sunrise over Galilee. ii – Normandy. Scented apple orchards and a golden mist hung a few feet above rolling fields, just after sunrise. Evening? In winter when itβs time for firelight. Music? Usually one piece at a time, silence before and aft to hold words, notation, resonance (!) and echo. Poetry? – my way of allowing the Universe to speak to me randomly: close my eyes and take down a volume – pot luck, usually followed by more of good fortune than anticipated. Silence? – why silence? William Staffordβs glorious βListeningβ suggests an answer more exquisitely than Iβve ever penned to date. And goldfinches? The ones who seem to enjoy my Japanese Acer as much as I do. Two little tininesses that fly-in disproportionate measures of duty-free joy from wherever theyβve been playing.
My father could hear a little animal step,
or a moth in the dark against the screen,
and every far sound called the listening out
into places where the rest of us had never been.
More spoke to him from the soft wild night
than came to our porch for us on the wind;
we would watch him look up and his face go keen
till the walls of the world flared, widened.
My father heard so much that we still stand
inviting the quiet by turning the face,
waiting for a time when something in the night
will touch us too from that other place.
William Stafford
Listening
from West of Your City
Talisman, 1960
Deep the wells that supply entire lifetimes.
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Emergence: sound and light. Thank-offerings in the journeying of David Whyte.
Sometimes, oftentimes perhaps, it is our close friends who help us give voice to what we most need to say in a day – or in a lifetime. And other times when, even if they feel they can not quite, a friend might tell us: βbut I know someone who canβ β¦
Thank you, dear Lori, for all the times when you absolutely know: thank you for sharing David Whyteβs articulating the prayer of The Burren – that great and Ancient windswept bedrock in the soul of all of us. Yes, thank you, Sound. And thanks to you, too, Light.
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Dark only in so far as a little international company were close-gathered beneath the firmament – huddled – half way up a volcano that last erupted here 350 million years ago.
Dark only in so far as midnight arrived before any of us expected her to, amid the silent music of the sunβs solstice-reluctance to leave us through the hours of our night.
Dark only in so far as we needed to scrunch our eyes a bit to focus in the twilight, taking care not to spill hot herbal tea or sit on a plate of grapes or another of fresh mango.
All else was light. Is light. Will be light. The light that – come what may – is irrepressibly present within, and in life-dancing β¦ sometimes silent, sometimes heard (link), as though on a slight breeze β¦
Arthurβs Seat, Holyrood, Edinburgh. Wednesday 22 June 2022
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Some days are just pottering days arenβt they? – nothing very energetic or exciting, more a quiet tidying this and that, a contemplating, voting in the local elections, watching the progress of the light. And Iβm feeling towards the close of day that the teachers who, through the ages, have encouraged a slowing down, a βconsider the lilies of the field,β an attentive watchfulness, have, between them, got it right!
May the whole earth reach out toward peace and the coming of the light β¦
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So much of life has continuing need for the same set of requirements, and is made up of those same elements: a right balance of darkness, light and water. No wonder so many teachers have asked humanity to consider a flower as we contemplate our own lives.
I love that, with every lap of MS Borealisβ promenade deck, the light changes are constant and dramatic. This is something that lives in my memory – and calls to me – when back on terra firma! ππ³β¨
Time and time again, I am moved and entranced by the movement of tide and cloud and light – sometimes stormy, bracing and energising; sometimes calm and colourful and wide inside π
πΌπΆ Like a small boat, on the ocean …
… lost in wonder as light and experience change, moment by moment π΄σ §σ ’σ ³σ £σ ΄σ Ώ
wind in my wheels π± 