Starting Again

At this time of year when we lack sunshine and warmth on the British Isles, when every bud seems to hold on for that frostless dawn and every bird tries to keep itself fed to hatch their eggs, it’s difficult to get up and be our best each day, crafters and grafters; to create something new, to tell a different story, to start again. Even the camera feels heavier than usual when snow flurries sting you face on the moors and rainfall keeps the owls from hunting. 

I find myself a patch of shelter behind a dry-stone wall, dressed for a blizzard to stay warm, to stay put and wait and at times, it’s a bit lonely. Patterns of lichen draw the scenery, my eyes follow stone by stone and fence by rock into the distance and questions rise about purpose and use as legs get stiffer and digits sore and the light fades for any decent photo. But you stay and remind yourself you’re here to see them, be amongst them, those creatures of twilight. When you’re still, under your camouflage netting, you’re accepted. And then the mind wanders and can’t help a sense of guilt from rising, asking if we aren’t trespassing on something unspoilt. This thought, in turn, evokes a sadness, hinting at the separation between the wild and us. 

As the moon rises, cold and metallic and the moors turn cobalt blue, hares run along the ridge and wings spread in silver light as the owls reveal their perches.

I would not know of their existence and never return to tell their story had I not stayed.

Those sightings mean enrichment for me, for us as a society. They’re a reminder that we share simply everything. So I come back to sit and wait for a few frames at sundown, from the edge of their territory where I won’t intrude, waiting, getting colder, hoping to meet them again. Never trespassing, but sharing. Surely, that must count for something?

To waken our consciousness, our perception of space, of the wilderness still there, still amongst us, I start out again.