Beautiful David. I feel I should offer more than these simple words, but your words have left me wordless and lost in a frozen landscape of tiny clustered wrens under appalled stars.
Beautiful, exciting, and wondrous to read---and I did, twice. Then I listened... a mysterious melancholy came over me---I know, I know, and yet---I find such hope, that green moss enduring...that bit of warmth...oh, you speak so deeply of nature's intensity, of things that hurt ...and I am feeling the whole journey...
I loved this in the same way I read a favorite story, knowing I'll put it down, but that its essential spark stays with me...knowing I'll pick it up again...and again...
Thank you for such careful attention, Toni. I always imagine a reader looking this closely and my hand trembles a little before I send anything out into the world.
Hi David, it seems you have been out enjoying the cold snap. I always enjoy how the feel of the landscape changes with the vagaries of the weather. The extreme temperatures and snow of last week brought a stillness (no wind helped!) and muffling of noise. It's hard to believe now with temps up to about 12C that we hit -15C early on Saturday morning on a trip to photograph a frozen Loch Droma. It was worth braving it, although it was 'only' -7C at the loch, as we witnessed a vibrant sunrise that wrapped An Teallach in pink and purple hues. One of those mornings when you become an almost invisible speck in the glory of Mother Nature.
Dear David, how I dream of agility.... I have found little of the earths upward seeping warmth these past days, and yet, not a flake of snow has fallen as I wish it would. Not heel bone thumping but all feet bones, then femur, slipping from under me on sheet ice... arms waving a merry dance, what a silly skater I must look. And... no please not, oh the shame, I'm being watched! In his rustiest red, with fluffed up tail, a fox grin in the gloaming, I hear well his chuckles as he twists and trots with enviable balletic grace across ice that has me frozen bottomed, chicken grain scattered, staring up at the stars!
Thank you for this my friend, I am smiling, as always...
Dear Susie, can I make a request, an impertinent one as we are only recently and distantly acquainted. This little story is so perfectly told. The pace, the letting go and the loss of control both literal and literary. Can we see more of this, from time to time, if it suits you? In the meantime I'll take these few sentences and put them in a bottle - so that when I get that stodgy stuck feeling as I write, I can pull out the cork, take a quick sniff and put myself back on the energy-line. More of this, please. Not instead of, but in addition to, shot through. Ah, its probably there already and I am just a poor reader. Apologies. I'll go back and sift through the library :-)
Dear David, I find no impertinence in your request if it might add a spark of light to stodgy moments - though I fear you may not have enough empty bottles to store my somewhat historic (indeed mortifyingly well known in certain circles) acts of clumsiness on ice or muddy fields... even puddles seem to defeat me!
Nothing ever stodgy in your writing. There was just such a flash of a different energy in those moments you shared. Not about the falling itself, but the embracing of the falling :-)
I've been saving this. Like a bit of cake packed into my lunch but held back, saved to be savored...
...for later.
Long, achey day. News of a friend whose journey is winding down. His painful steps toward the boatman who will ferry him across, soon enough. His fear. And mine.
Your story, an enlivening, achey splash of that river water to the face, the deeply drawn breath, the gratitude for feeling something so intense imbued with so much quiet and alive in the same moment, pre-dawn.
I am awake now and the weight of all the darkness feels just a bit lighter. Enough to step. And then, again.
Yes, it is certainly 'love enough' to share this frozen dawn with tiny hearts that have found their way into your heart - whilst many are still snoring under heaped duvets. Bless you for sharing this secret and holy place.
David, I so love reading what you write, AND all the comments your writing evokes. The comments expand on your distillation of your experiences. Great way to start the day, thanks all!
Hi Lise. I know, the comments are such a blessing - pushing us to think about new ways of understanding the things we try to dress in words, the craft of the words themselves.
Oh David, you could very well be here. Tis forty below tonight and only 8°C in my front room. Good night to be inside (prayers for those sleeping rough) with blankets, half gloves and two full fluffy katzen seeking warmth from the mother furnace.
Heavens, Heather, take care of yourself. I once spent an ill-advised night in a gore-tex bivvy bag in winter in northern Labrador. The bears didn't snack on me (I'd be awful chewy) but by morning I was nearly entombed by the sheet ice from my breath on the inside of the bag. Had to punch my way out. The silly things we do when we're young :-)
Oh my!! I am fortunate that I’ve never had to spend a winter’s night outdoors! In my truck, once or twice, but never under the stars! Northern Labrador… now there’s a wild and woolly place, from the tales I’ve heard! It may venture down to forty below here and even be chilly in my front room, but I live in a city of over a million people. Help is nearby, if’n I were to need it! Yes, the silly things of youth, gah!!
Thank you, Robin, for your kindness. I'm a very poor, scatty reader. Like a magpie that gets into the shed - rooting and rummaging until I find bits of treasure. 'welcome soft-antler brush of morning, grey that lifts' :-)
Wow! This is wonderful and a huge inspiration for me. I, too, have an ancient ash where I seek refuge - on the edge of the woods where birds hide and emerge.
Though your boots may be monstrous, your words and intent are as soft and glorious as the breath they invite. Good lord your prose sends me David! “Her blade glances off a rib and lodges next to my heart.”
Beautiful David. I feel I should offer more than these simple words, but your words have left me wordless and lost in a frozen landscape of tiny clustered wrens under appalled stars.
Hi again, Emily. Thank you. Simple words are the best words, aren't they?
They are ✨
Beautiful, exciting, and wondrous to read---and I did, twice. Then I listened... a mysterious melancholy came over me---I know, I know, and yet---I find such hope, that green moss enduring...that bit of warmth...oh, you speak so deeply of nature's intensity, of things that hurt ...and I am feeling the whole journey...
I loved this in the same way I read a favorite story, knowing I'll put it down, but that its essential spark stays with me...knowing I'll pick it up again...and again...
Thank you for such careful attention, Toni. I always imagine a reader looking this closely and my hand trembles a little before I send anything out into the world.
This is so beautifully written. It makes me feel even more homesick for winter.
That's kind of you, Aria. Winter will be back :-)
Hi David, it seems you have been out enjoying the cold snap. I always enjoy how the feel of the landscape changes with the vagaries of the weather. The extreme temperatures and snow of last week brought a stillness (no wind helped!) and muffling of noise. It's hard to believe now with temps up to about 12C that we hit -15C early on Saturday morning on a trip to photograph a frozen Loch Droma. It was worth braving it, although it was 'only' -7C at the loch, as we witnessed a vibrant sunrise that wrapped An Teallach in pink and purple hues. One of those mornings when you become an almost invisible speck in the glory of Mother Nature.
Dear little Loch Droma. Such a funny, lonely child up there at the shedding :-)
Dear David, how I dream of agility.... I have found little of the earths upward seeping warmth these past days, and yet, not a flake of snow has fallen as I wish it would. Not heel bone thumping but all feet bones, then femur, slipping from under me on sheet ice... arms waving a merry dance, what a silly skater I must look. And... no please not, oh the shame, I'm being watched! In his rustiest red, with fluffed up tail, a fox grin in the gloaming, I hear well his chuckles as he twists and trots with enviable balletic grace across ice that has me frozen bottomed, chicken grain scattered, staring up at the stars!
Thank you for this my friend, I am smiling, as always...
Dear Susie, can I make a request, an impertinent one as we are only recently and distantly acquainted. This little story is so perfectly told. The pace, the letting go and the loss of control both literal and literary. Can we see more of this, from time to time, if it suits you? In the meantime I'll take these few sentences and put them in a bottle - so that when I get that stodgy stuck feeling as I write, I can pull out the cork, take a quick sniff and put myself back on the energy-line. More of this, please. Not instead of, but in addition to, shot through. Ah, its probably there already and I am just a poor reader. Apologies. I'll go back and sift through the library :-)
Dear David, I find no impertinence in your request if it might add a spark of light to stodgy moments - though I fear you may not have enough empty bottles to store my somewhat historic (indeed mortifyingly well known in certain circles) acts of clumsiness on ice or muddy fields... even puddles seem to defeat me!
I will share them with pleasure. :-)
Nothing ever stodgy in your writing. There was just such a flash of a different energy in those moments you shared. Not about the falling itself, but the embracing of the falling :-)
Oh Susie, I love these words! I can see that grinning fox! 🦊
Ahh, thank you Linda, of all the agile creatures on the hill to have witnessed my clumsy dance, it had to be him didn’t it!
I've been saving this. Like a bit of cake packed into my lunch but held back, saved to be savored...
...for later.
Long, achey day. News of a friend whose journey is winding down. His painful steps toward the boatman who will ferry him across, soon enough. His fear. And mine.
Your story, an enlivening, achey splash of that river water to the face, the deeply drawn breath, the gratitude for feeling something so intense imbued with so much quiet and alive in the same moment, pre-dawn.
I am awake now and the weight of all the darkness feels just a bit lighter. Enough to step. And then, again.
Necromancer.
Sorry to hear your news. Tough time, every time the bell tolls. Take care of yourself. Keep your feet dry.
Yes, it is certainly 'love enough' to share this frozen dawn with tiny hearts that have found their way into your heart - whilst many are still snoring under heaped duvets. Bless you for sharing this secret and holy place.
You are always welcome, Vanessa. Thanks for coming along in the frosty dark :-)
Stunning, David! You've done it again!
Hi Patricia. You and your generous heart :-) Keeps me pushing onwards.
Magical and escapist. Just what I need.
Thanks, Betsy, for reading and escapading :-)
David, I so love reading what you write, AND all the comments your writing evokes. The comments expand on your distillation of your experiences. Great way to start the day, thanks all!
Hi Lise. I know, the comments are such a blessing - pushing us to think about new ways of understanding the things we try to dress in words, the craft of the words themselves.
Oh David, you could very well be here. Tis forty below tonight and only 8°C in my front room. Good night to be inside (prayers for those sleeping rough) with blankets, half gloves and two full fluffy katzen seeking warmth from the mother furnace.
Heavens, Heather, take care of yourself. I once spent an ill-advised night in a gore-tex bivvy bag in winter in northern Labrador. The bears didn't snack on me (I'd be awful chewy) but by morning I was nearly entombed by the sheet ice from my breath on the inside of the bag. Had to punch my way out. The silly things we do when we're young :-)
Oh my!! I am fortunate that I’ve never had to spend a winter’s night outdoors! In my truck, once or twice, but never under the stars! Northern Labrador… now there’s a wild and woolly place, from the tales I’ve heard! It may venture down to forty below here and even be chilly in my front room, but I live in a city of over a million people. Help is nearby, if’n I were to need it! Yes, the silly things of youth, gah!!
What a lovely discovery. Thanks for this.
Thank you, Robin, for your kindness. I'm a very poor, scatty reader. Like a magpie that gets into the shed - rooting and rummaging until I find bits of treasure. 'welcome soft-antler brush of morning, grey that lifts' :-)
Thank you, David 🙏🏼
grateful for the feelings, one by one, this evokes in me.
Hi Carrie. Thanks for reading some more and sharing the moment :-)
Wow! This is wonderful and a huge inspiration for me. I, too, have an ancient ash where I seek refuge - on the edge of the woods where birds hide and emerge.
Thanks, Mary, that is kind of you. Hope your ash whispers the wonderful to you :-)
Though your boots may be monstrous, your words and intent are as soft and glorious as the breath they invite. Good lord your prose sends me David! “Her blade glances off a rib and lodges next to my heart.”
Thank you. As always, Kimberley, you send me off down the path to find the best of things :-)
As always you capture me within the first few words and don’t let go until long after the last whispered sounds.
Hi Ambermoggie. Well, there we were - both creeping about in our own darknesses, unbeknown. But the same sun rose for both of us :-)