becoming winter
(with summer at heart) A heart in ruins - passengers of time and the Tawny owl in Barn owl territory
Hello lovely readers, a warm welcome to new subscribers who have come in a much appreciated flurry this week - thank you for joining me
on my hill.Two weeks ago, while checking DM’s from much missed friends on Instagram, I noticed a request from Kailee Parsons, the photography editor for an online magazine called Prisma. She asked if I would consider writing an article for the magazine talking about my photography. Nooo, I thought, absolutely no, what’s to say, I’m not a photographer!
So, of course I said yes—like I really needed to add to an already overloaded schedule—duly sent in a short text of 280/90 as asked for with the required number of photographs. Kalee loved what I sent her. It will be published in December.
This is the second time in under a year that my name will appear in print, which is really nothing at all unless you’ve been to hell and back again in an unscheduled meeting that did not—and never could— resolve the plighted future of one small, sweet hearted, unfortunate boy. Small things touch deeply…
My apologies for infrequent posts this month, I am acclimatising, slowly, to temperature change, an even heavier workload—a heart in ruins—when I believed it would be lighter and ever present fizzing.
On my mind this week…
A first scent on the wind, snow… far mountains are capped in white for a bitter few days, the snow melts but the air is changed, there is, now, no turning back, winter is curling its colours around me. And, suddenly, the bare bones of trees appear again, naked but for the stubbornness of ivy with its thousands of arial roots clinging to branches and trunks. Scarlet berries, holly, spindle, the remnants of black bryony all of natures toxic temptations decorate the bareness. As if in preparation for Christmas too…
Sassy and Grey cat are asleep on the terrace, curled cosily on cushions every morning. They know.
It would be foolhardy of me not to agree with Sinclair Lewis’ quote: “Winter is not a season, it's an occupation.” My mornings begin thirty minutes earlier, in complete darkness I wade through muddy fields, feed sheep and chickens, Wolfie is walked in a stubborn gloaming. Light enough only to know boar have recently passed; they leave their scent, their traces scattered on the road, his fear of these wild sharp tusked creatures, reciprocated in my own.
Tuesday - Barn Owls are in conference, a stranger has arrived amongst them, perhaps they are discussing eviction tactics but I cannot be certain because no sooner does the meeting begin, it ends again. I see shadows of wings disappear, then silence.
Thursday - They begin again as I trail up between ever darkening silhouetted trees—a Tawny, for it is certainly he, I hear his call— has joined them, edging closer from his wooded place of hiding, I see him swooping, silently—always silently—a fleeting glance in my direction because that is all a mere human deserves in his great saucer eyes. But this woodland is not his ground, this woodland is sacred Barn owl ground—it being close to their breeding place aka our barn—and whilst usually they cede to the greater size, they are more numerous and loudly adamant. Tawny leaves with a last twitwooo turning his head once in glaring defiance as if to say, ‘don’t think you’ve seen the last of me’.
I hope I haven’t.
A round table, the surface of which is shiny, manmade, spotless, five of us are seated; I sit to the left of the mother, she is unclean, leaves the residue of countless unbalanced meals from dirty nailed fingers on its brightness. She is breathing heavily, has wheezed through a lifetime of self-made hardship, one-fifth of which is spread before us in printed reports under harsh lights, in almost identical fashion to the three-fifths already passed, and, in identical prediction also of a fifth that is yet to be analysed. The story these papers tell of unchangeable repetition of uneducated poverty, one we, all but the mother, know has a predicable ending.
I am mostly silent. I stare at dirty nails tapping on the table, she wears chipped pink nail polish—as if colour hides impecuniousness—I stare at papers that do not hold one positive word for an impossible future that must be decided. I stare at a clock, willing the near future sooner than slow agonising seconds allow. With each second a fracture constricts my heart, my own breathing.
It is Friday night, the school is quiet but for the sound of advice—if your son is placed here he will benefit from an education adapted to his abilities, you will be invoiced for travel and boarding costs, if he is placed here, he will have only six hours assistance per week, not guaranteed but there is no charge—I am fighting tears, wish for laughter, shrieking children, a distraction from the misery of obligations never adhered to, from neglect that cannot be reversed.
The conclusion is forgone—another fracture tears heart flesh—the mother leaves, her abject poverty trailing behind. Papers are cleared, the surface wiped with something clinical, we four are left in the room, white faces reflect on the round table mingled with the desperation of silent sighs.
I don’t weep until I am home and my husband asks, innocently, ‘how did it go?’
And he cannot console this heart in ruins.
“If. A two-letter word for futility.” ― Sidney Sheldon
Hours are predictable passengers in time I rely on; that is to say they can be held, moulded to needs, read, understood and laid down, they hold music, laughter and tears, exhilaration and tragedy until the next arrives, on time, as dependable as the seven days in the week that form each month and so on… Other passengers—moon, sun, stars, people—timeless undependable tremblings, sometimes faded or shining brightly, sometimes violently, other times more gently; that is to say they cannot be held, either they are too fleeting or they burn in there persistence or, they are absent entirely, though life is not life without them.
Philocalist - one who is able to cherish the little things.
Noun: lover of beauty; someone who finds beauty in all things.
Philocalist is a borrowing from Greek, combined with an English element. Etymons: Greek ϕιλόκαλος, ‑ist suffix.
I am not controlling rising panic! I have neglected to be organised, again… ignored all the lights being strung from building to building, through trees lining streets, in gardens, in windows, again… Twenty-four days!
In mild to middling panic, with love always
Susie x
Some magic from the this weeks reading on and elsewhere.
Barrie and JoJo who head up
put together a wonderful letter full of gorgeousness every Sunday free to everyone who signs up to their website. It is a feast of creativity of all types, not least their own. Last Sunday they shared some photographs of murmurations of starlings by Kathryn Cooper which are jaw dropping. Please do check both links. wrote about Pylons, he cleverly and beautifully intertwines his life of travel, poetry with these steel giants - it is as compulsive and as it is intelligent.
'Philocalist' !! How wonderful a word. Thank you, dear Susie. Yours in disorganisation, xx
The traces of both the beauty and the sadness of winter trail through this lovely essay.
And thank you for the kind mention.