Featherings...

...for Knots in the String.

“Silence fell like a hammer made of feathers. It left holes in the shape of the sound of the sea.”
― Terry Pratchett, Nation

I see it and hear it – that profound settling of noise without ripple or ruckle when something great is about to happen. Or even something passing ordinary like birds quieting as the sun sinks below the hills and the world outside my window is left in silhouette against a watermarked sky.

Whenever I see a feather when I’m out walking, I’ll retrieve it and settle it in my pocket and hope that it gets home safely to be added to the collection. The feather is a feat of natural engineering but I prefer to see it as just something naturally beautiful, no matter how plain. And by extension then, every bird. Except for bush ravens whose cry I hate and whose ugly Uriah Heep shamble across our orchard as they eat our fruit makes my skin crawl. Woden’s Curse, surely.

The touch of feathers is evocative – from baby-down softness to hard quill - a paradox. Down that fills quilts and jackets, quills that in their time have been shaved and shaped for writing, dipping in and out of a pigment pot to create the illuminated manuscripts I so admire.

I like to think I have a spirit animal - a sea eagle, and I saw one today as I drove across the causeway - pitch perfect on its flight path from one side of shallow Pittwater to the other.

When I see one gliding on an updraught, misty grey and snowy white against the sky, I feel an inordinate calm and there’s a soul-belief that everything’s okay. Which is indeed what happened to me and mine today…

At night, the terrier and I always walk hopefully, never sure that I will be lucky enough to spot an owl. There’s an obscure silence as the bird swoops past a shoulder, the air barely disturbed. Once they settle on any sort of upright, they glare at us. It’s quite a powerful confrontation - no fear from the owl, and a lot of curiosity from me. A mutual respect.

I have one owl feather – a beautiful thing, and I can only count owl sightings on the fingers of my two hands, but always a privilege.

As I write this, I have a comforting idea. Imagine if someone says something nasty, and instead of seeing it as shards of glass and sharp nails, envisage it as soft white feathers coming out of the person’s mouth. The whole emotional tenor changes and threat or hurt of any sort is diminished in a moment.

My time:

Trying to write. Minimal word count. Off to writing purdah next week. Will have phone switched to silent and will spend little time with social media. However, dog walking will be vital. Lucky terrier, lucky me.

Ballet this week. Lesson to self – do not think the following: ‘Wow! My foot feels so good!’ Such a thought is immediately followed with a series of tendues interspersed with piqués. Even though only on demi-pointe, I can feel the tenderness growing and by the time we walk away from the barre, the ball of my foot is flashing red and amber. Next week I shall strap the ball and big toe again.

I spend time with my unwell 4 year old grandson who talks non-stop as we walk to the shearing shed. The resilience of youth is a lesson and I resolve to turn the ball of my foot from amber to green.

Go Nanny!

I sleep like a log after two nights of the Coronation and then the Coronation Concert. Brilliant history and pageantry in the first, making the hairs stand on my neck. With the second, the drones were awe-inspiring, so too Prince William’s speech to the Commonwealth and to his father. Colonial history aside and trying to see the diplomatic relationship within the current world, I’m a supporter of the Commonwealth of Nations. We have more to gain together than apart.

Our first frost – crystalline, sparkling. A vivid blue sky that almost hurts the eyes. I love the glitter and calm of such days despite that it seems the weather might just be playing tag with joints and bones.

My first scarlet robin (Petroica boodang) of the new season. His chest is aflame, and I almost wish he’d drop one tiny feather so that I can add it to my motley collection. I listen to his shrill call as he hops from the rails of the vegetable garden to the dying foliage of the pumpkins, pecking at the lucerne hay we’ve scattered across the soil.

Reading:

In print, I finished The Salt Path. Exhausted, overwhelmed and inspired by the true story of Raynor Winn and her husband, Moth.

On Kindle, Fiona Valpy’s The Dressmaker’s Gift. One of the main characters is from The Beekeeper’s Promise. I’m a fan of authors writing further novels about familiar characters. Each adds dimension to the other and it’s like a broad tapestry being stitched, inch by inch. It’s a process I’ve used in 6 of my own historical fictions.

As an aside, for me it’s like coming home as one never really has to say goodbye to characters one has learned to love (unless one has ‘killed off the darlings’.).

Listening:

Still listening to Harffy’s Forest of Foes on audio and dreading the finishing. I’m so invested in the story and characters that finishing always feels like a bereavement.

Substack:

Faves this week.

Watching:

Nothing beats The Coronation.

One can’t be a historical fiction writer and not be stirred and inspired by the pageantry as it plays out. There are many stellar moments both musical and theological, but two incidents will forever stay in my mind. One is the massed guards’ cheers from the gardens of Buckingham Palace. Goose bumps cascade from neck to knee.

The other is the revelation of the St. Augustin Gospels from the 6^th century. To see the ancient book in living colour and imagine the monks, the scriptorium, the candles, the smell of parchment and pigment, of monk’s robes.

Of chilled and cramped fingers.

Of feathered quills…

As Eirene Evripidou says: “Feathers fall; soft as a song, light as morning dreams.”

My choice of music today?