3rd December
I watch the sunrise through the window. The house is full of winter illness and everything seems too far away to grasp. The sky begins to stir, not in haste, but with the quiet certainty of something ancient. What time is it?
The first light spills across the Cromdales. The colours shift slowly, soft and shy, lavender and gold merge as though the Earth is whispering a secret to the sky. In the silence, I feel like the night is being tenderly peeled away. I witness its departure.
Are these the intimate dialogues I miss so much? The ones that make up the heavy matter in my bones and flesh? I am pining for the days I can rise and sleep with the sun. I am pining for more and more as time goes on.
10th December
Ice prickles in my fingertips. There is beauty all around in the woodland and heath, and I have to tease my hands to leave my pocket and press the shutter. I walk my familiar path, noticing the pine needles hold frozen drops, halted. And their buds… red and shining. Like berries, but they’re here for the long-haul. That promise of spring, of life cycles.
The bog is frozen geometrically. It freezes like this often, I assume the sheltered spot contributes to this. It is dark and black, not unlike its liquid state, but there is no knowing what lies below. So much swallowed up and hidden away. I push my boot down on its edge, I like the crack and the childish temptation it brings. My eyes widen at this glimmer of excitement pushed into my temples and heart from a distant memory.
The light is more tangible on the heath, and dusted and dried pink heather is frosted. It contrasts beautifully with the forest behind, deep dark greens and blues, and a splashed layer of honey grass. Every hour brings a new colour palette in this place. I’m not sure if I’ve seen this one before. The sphagnum mosses squish between the heather, I’m always entranced by their tiny forms. Maybe they are the most perfect organisms on Earth. Who knows.
21st December
The Solstice feels truly dark. Sleety rain and deep slate skies. Flashes of light through the clouds tease. The cyanotype I laid out in the garden is the only record of it.
24th December
It’s Christmas Eve, and Venus shines strongly. The sky is a place of refuge, viewed from my front door. Later I go out to see if the stars are out. They are. Eternally entrancing and I wonder how many eyes watch them in that moment. How much wonder is floating around in the atmosphere. The sky is the connection.
There are days where I’m weighted to the ground. This has been one of them. I hover around the periphery of my home. I’m not sure where this comes from. A step beyond and I know there will be resolve, yet, I stay.
I’m here, my earthly body is here. It’s not going anywhere. My mind wonders but mind and body are tethered. And when I think quietly, there are tethers everywhere. Some pull and some lead.
These skies and dramatic cloudscapes intermittently bring nature to me. I see Orion, I see fire of stars and ice particles thousands of metres above. It transports me. It pulls me outwards. Pupils wide to take it all. When I am dust it will be me, and I it.
27th December
There is incredible calmness on the Loch, and the quiet and light glow feel perfect in ways I can’t express. Strong sunbeams reflected into my eyes and I’m not sorry to be squinting, it has been a while. Two ripples collide.
The water ebbs gently and the reflections glow with hazy movement, the shallow sands and peaty water take the golden light, and the liquid releases images to this dreamy-eyed viewer. The ripples make me think of Saturn’s rings. They move outward infinitely, molecules no doubt push further into the loch than my eyes can see. Energy perpetually sourcing and seeking. Never resting.
Seeing sun push through pine needles lifts me. This is the first time since before the Solstice that I feel a lightness, both in luminance and weight. Everything I need is on its way.
There is a galaxy in my chest.
It moves and is warm.
It is peppered with fire.
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