I cannot hear the stars.

Sounds and stars and reprints

I am walking off a bad mood through a hard frost; I accidentally sold something to Germany, and I cannot ship to Germany; I feel upset that someone deliberated and chosen my work, which is honour, and I cannot fulfil it. I remain in my bad mood until I see the lapwings. Their unique gait, the blunt broad flap of black and white wings, alert me first,  but I can see them clearly in the field, the jaunty crest of feathers atop their head, perfect. They fly away with some small birds; goldfinch, probably. I resume my walk, order restored, creating stories as to where  the lapwings and goldfinches were off to, and in lieu of a reasonable answer, why. I’ve never seen them together before. Is it a thing? Birds are mysterious.

A young woman walks past. I say hello but she doesn’t register me. She is wearing wellingtons, and no coat, and headphones. These are all bad signs, according to my son- no eye contact and poorly dressed for the weather,  but most of all not listening. Wouldn’t like to hear the sounds of nature.  He has a point; who wouldn’t want to hear a lapwing? A very dubious person indeed. They have the best of  calls, something created in the BBC polyphonic workshop.  Some people understand to walk in nature is good, but not why - surely it is the connection to nature that restores, not just the fresh air and exercise, as good as they are?

The water of the lake is glassy and alien, and ducks move across awkwardly with a barely perceptible sound, a crackling hiss; the sound of thin ice under pressure, slowly giving way. The ducks fall in and swim with graceful relief  until they are  forced once again out of the water, their legs slipping and splaying; the crackle of ice starts to reverberate once more. The sound of a duck on thin ice, a new sound. Ssshh. Pay attention. It is worth it.

I draw wildlife and last year I was asked if I am ‘close to nature’. The question confuses me; after all we are all nature, a part of it at least. Am I not an animal, taking my place in this world? By way of an answer I volunteered I had recently arrived back home with a sparrowhawk in my jacket, and my husband wasn’t at all surprised, that’s the level we’ve reached in the marriage. Apparently it is a sure sign you are close to nature, whatever it means.

The sky thickens; Jupiter is out first, close to the crescent moon in the twilight. Laurens Van der Post claimed The bushmen of the Kalahari can hear the stars sing, and to fail to hear the song was a sickness, a sign, perhaps, you are cut adrift from from the land. He was a liar, but I hope that one thing is true. We have less stars in our light polluted skies, but I’d like to think they can still sing.

Leaving the icy world of the lake, I feel sad that people think I am close to nature, as my knowledge is very limited, and mostly related to the happenings a walking distance from my house. There’s so much I would like to know. I can’t remember how to navigate using trees such signs, or by stars; I don’t know how to track an animal, or find water; I still don’t know what those birds are up to, and I can’t hear stars.  If someone like me is considered close to nature, then a substantial number of people must be amputated completely- conceptually at least. Biologically they are alive, and therefore, natural.

It is dusk by the time I make my way home, the sun setting through bare black branches, which I’ll never tire of. I don’t want just to photograph it, or draw it, I want to suck it into my very bones, keep it close, make it the very marrow of me. Some people constantly see new adventures, but for me joy comes from the intimate knowing of this land.

A blackbird fusses in the hedge, a sound comforting in its familiarity. I’ve heard it thousands of times, which isn’t enough.

The sound of ducks on thin ice, mine.

The sound of a blackbird, mine

A crescent of moon hanging above a burnt marmalade sunset, me.

Frozen crunch of frost laced grass beneath my feet, My world, me. Us.

I see Jupiter, I see Orion and the pleiades. I listen intently, but all I can hear is the buzzing of my own ears.  I wonder what they sound like, those stars.

Workings

When I was not failing to ship things to Germany, I was mostly selling things I did not have in stock, so hasty reprinting sessions supplanted all other creative activities this week. As a result you can buy this red kite- very limited edition because it’s a bugger to print (to use the technical term) and the red amanita is back in stock.

Findings

Packing away my Christmas decorations I had a strange melancholy; the days of overexcitment and wonderment are past, and  how many chrsitmases are left, for us as a family. I never considered them as limited. I came across this piece by Laura Pashby that sums up the feeling far better.