Your writing is sublime. Thank you. And so fitting for me right now, spending time—as I have for the past 18 years—in a tiny village nestled in a peaceful valley in Southern Spain. Some days I stand mesmerised in my quiet place up and over the hill, where almond blossom stretches as far as the eye can see to the backdrop of mountains, like rolling green velvet, where shadows tumble with passing clouds, lighting up and darkening the carpet of purple flowers beneath. After all these years, I might have to consider introducing myself properly.
Sublime! yes. That piece of perfection that quietly says, everything as the wind forgets to whistle and the feather flies on with the imagination allowed by time suspended!
Thank you, Marie Pauline, for reading and supporting. It makes a big difference to me, working hard at the daily craft of words, when you so kindly say, 'yes I'll back this strange pilgrim - he might just go far.' :-)
Thanks again, Freda, always so kind. Yes, I always think that feathers, especially significant feathers, are a secret cypher with which the world is attempting to send important messages.
Beautiful writing, as ever David. And the name is wonderfully right. I’m glad that you managed to reach an elegant accord. No place wants an awkwardly fitting name.
What an absolute delight to awaken across the pond to your voice and words. Drinking my coffee , hearing the birds twitter in the trees just outside , then immersing myself into Featherfall Gill I am feeling blessed today and joyful. Thank you so much !!! Creativity and nature is such a balm at this moment in time over here.
Oh, Candi, I'm a bit of an addict - as you have noticed :-) I try not to overdo it. A bit of a natural sing-song tendency got turbo-charged when I learnt Irish Gaelic. They are constantly using idioms with doubled words - 'níl dé ná deatach orthu' or 'ní raibh giob na geab astu' - and the rhythm is very beguiling :-)
What delightful magic you have shared in the listening to the land and the allowing the quiet to seep in so that one can truly hear. Love this, thank you for sharing!
I shed tears of joy listening to this and pictured in my mind such a place I had encountered many years ago in Newlands Valley in the Lake District. Sublime writing, perfectly narrated. Thank you for transporting me to my little quiet place if only for a few minutes.
Astonishing phrasing from deep reflection, that conjures 'it' exactly so! How it feels and seems to be, in such places, such moments, such connection. Beautiful way to start today, thank you David and the Gill 🕊
I’ve been working an essay lately on the beauty of not knowing, and came upon a number of quotes about “to know something is to forget its name.” I love that you reverse engineered this in a way, arriving at kind of knowing that can’t be manufactured through cleverness or history. Instead, you emptied yourself, your mind, and in that “forgetting,” the name drifted down to you.
Hi Kimberly. I was so hoping you'd read this one. There was something about embodiment of the land that I thought you might like. And maybe there is a sneaky way around the naming conundrum you mention. Names can be tools of classification - what is this thing, what species is it, what type of feature is it? Such names are designed to hold things at a distance. But other names have a different role entirely, they are passwords to contact, designed to be used in the vocative. Once we have exchanged such greeting-names, the old classificatory name, as you so rightly point out, can be forgotten. Well, just a piece of sophistry, maybe. But it might have some legs.
I don't know if it is of interest, but in Gaelic, Scottish or Irish, when a person's name is used in the vocative, in direct address, the end of the name is, where phonetically possible, changed in a predictable way. The final consonant is slenderised, kind of softened, if you like. I remember discussing this with a speaker who had Irish as their only language as a child. They said that they knew when their mother was speaking about them, using their unmodified name, but then they knew that they were being spoken to because their name, while still the same name, ended with a sort of softness, a little twist, an unseen movement of the tongue. I have always been very envious of these vocative forms.
My translation: as I sit here and watch about 10 different species of birds flutter about at the feeders, a frenzy of snow and seed, a part of me wants to identify each one, study their patterns and behaviors. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with this, but let’s not stop there. Let it be a doorway into shared space, the vocative level, where my heart enters conversation with each one. And when that happens, everything softens.:)
Your writing is sublime. Thank you. And so fitting for me right now, spending time—as I have for the past 18 years—in a tiny village nestled in a peaceful valley in Southern Spain. Some days I stand mesmerised in my quiet place up and over the hill, where almond blossom stretches as far as the eye can see to the backdrop of mountains, like rolling green velvet, where shadows tumble with passing clouds, lighting up and darkening the carpet of purple flowers beneath. After all these years, I might have to consider introducing myself properly.
Thank you for reading and replying, Alice. It seems you have a mighty love there, who knows you well and feels your gaze.
Sublime! yes. That piece of perfection that quietly says, everything as the wind forgets to whistle and the feather flies on with the imagination allowed by time suspended!
Love love love! Thank you for the reminder and importance of “neither giving or receiving,” but just waiting to discover and be shown.
Thank you, Marie Pauline, for reading and supporting. It makes a big difference to me, working hard at the daily craft of words, when you so kindly say, 'yes I'll back this strange pilgrim - he might just go far.' :-)
Oh this is delightful, David. What a treat to hear your voice and read along. It feels like a fable, with the three-day quest. 💚
Ha! Busted! You don't live with Sharon Blackie for fifteen years without a bit of fable-dust rubbing off :-) Thanks for reading along.
It's actually nineteen ... :-)
I figured!
I’m stunned by your eloquence. Thank you. I looked onto my winter garden, saw a tiny white downy feather resting, grounded.
Thanks again, Freda, always so kind. Yes, I always think that feathers, especially significant feathers, are a secret cypher with which the world is attempting to send important messages.
Beautiful writing, as ever David. And the name is wonderfully right. I’m glad that you managed to reach an elegant accord. No place wants an awkwardly fitting name.
No, indeed, Lesley. The charity shops are full to bursting with ill-fitting names :-) Hope all well on the mighty island. Nearly there :-)
All is well on this sparkly cold day, thank you!
What an absolute delight to awaken across the pond to your voice and words. Drinking my coffee , hearing the birds twitter in the trees just outside , then immersing myself into Featherfall Gill I am feeling blessed today and joyful. Thank you so much !!! Creativity and nature is such a balm at this moment in time over here.
Glad it reached you at the right time, Katherine. Breakfast is such an important part of the day :-)
How can one resist this alliteration?! "... sycamored slowly down through the sunlight and fell at the rowan's roots. "
Oh, Candi, I'm a bit of an addict - as you have noticed :-) I try not to overdo it. A bit of a natural sing-song tendency got turbo-charged when I learnt Irish Gaelic. They are constantly using idioms with doubled words - 'níl dé ná deatach orthu' or 'ní raibh giob na geab astu' - and the rhythm is very beguiling :-)
I love that you waited, watched and listened. And that a name was given to you!
Thanks, Evelyn. Though I did try her patience, fizzy fool that I am :-)
What delightful magic you have shared in the listening to the land and the allowing the quiet to seep in so that one can truly hear. Love this, thank you for sharing!
Kind of you, Scot, to read and reply. Thank you.
Such evocative writing. And this is why I don't have names for the places around me - I never asked!
That is kind of you, Amy. And yes, they'll just be biding their time, watching and waiting for the right moment :-)
Quite beautiful - thank you.
That is kind of you, Fiona. Thanks for taking a moment.
I shed tears of joy listening to this and pictured in my mind such a place I had encountered many years ago in Newlands Valley in the Lake District. Sublime writing, perfectly narrated. Thank you for transporting me to my little quiet place if only for a few minutes.
Thanks for taking a few moments to be in the little places, yours and mine :-)
Beautiful. Resonant, and ancient, in its way. Thank you.
Thank you, Hele. I love the idea of resonance in all its many guises.
Astonishing phrasing from deep reflection, that conjures 'it' exactly so! How it feels and seems to be, in such places, such moments, such connection. Beautiful way to start today, thank you David and the Gill 🕊
Thank you Susan, that is kind. I'll pass on your thanks this very morning :-)
Collaborative naming at its best.
I’ve been working an essay lately on the beauty of not knowing, and came upon a number of quotes about “to know something is to forget its name.” I love that you reverse engineered this in a way, arriving at kind of knowing that can’t be manufactured through cleverness or history. Instead, you emptied yourself, your mind, and in that “forgetting,” the name drifted down to you.
Hi Kimberly. I was so hoping you'd read this one. There was something about embodiment of the land that I thought you might like. And maybe there is a sneaky way around the naming conundrum you mention. Names can be tools of classification - what is this thing, what species is it, what type of feature is it? Such names are designed to hold things at a distance. But other names have a different role entirely, they are passwords to contact, designed to be used in the vocative. Once we have exchanged such greeting-names, the old classificatory name, as you so rightly point out, can be forgotten. Well, just a piece of sophistry, maybe. But it might have some legs.
I don't know if it is of interest, but in Gaelic, Scottish or Irish, when a person's name is used in the vocative, in direct address, the end of the name is, where phonetically possible, changed in a predictable way. The final consonant is slenderised, kind of softened, if you like. I remember discussing this with a speaker who had Irish as their only language as a child. They said that they knew when their mother was speaking about them, using their unmodified name, but then they knew that they were being spoken to because their name, while still the same name, ended with a sort of softness, a little twist, an unseen movement of the tongue. I have always been very envious of these vocative forms.
I feel softened just reading this David!
My translation: as I sit here and watch about 10 different species of birds flutter about at the feeders, a frenzy of snow and seed, a part of me wants to identify each one, study their patterns and behaviors. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with this, but let’s not stop there. Let it be a doorway into shared space, the vocative level, where my heart enters conversation with each one. And when that happens, everything softens.:)
What a beautiful process you have brought to life. A naming journey :-)
Thank you!
Thank you back, Bobbi, for reading and replying :-)