JOURNAL ENTRY

 10^th April, Wednesday

“This morning dawned in chilled silver
I wore my coat up to my chin.
Now the sun is out
And coltsfoot down dances
On a warm wind.”

[MUSIC]

WELCOME

It's a night of filling moon in an April sky. The canal banksides are thickening with rush and flag, sedge and reed. I cannot hear any at the moment, but this is an owl kind of night. Still, clear, silent, with just the whisper of wind among the alders. 

Welcome to the narrowboat Erica narrowcasting into the dark to you wherever you are.

Things are all a bit confused and hectic at the moment and so it is especially wonderful that you have managed to make it tonight. Thank you so much for dropping by. The grass is a bit dew damp at the moment, so come inside, the kettle is on, a seat is waiting specially for you, let's find a little bit of peace and quiet together in a world of noise. Welcome aboard. 

[MUSIC]

JUST SHADOWS ON A SUMMER LAWN

 There has been a lot happening and there is a lot still happening. The river of this year, so far, has been roaring and fierce and it is sometimes difficult to know quite where the banks are or whether we are floating or sinking. But that is the nature of rivers and it is pointless to blame it for being what it is. It has been difficult to find time (and head-space) to record anything, but I did want to upload a quick podcast as a marker for where things are. Although it doesn’t always feel like it and it can be hard, at times, to acknowledge, the turbulence we are experiencing is local. The world continues. The rooks are hatching while nests are being mended. The blackthorns along the towpath are freshly green and the early May is budding. Although, alder, oak, and ash, remain skeletal in their winter form, young foliage is greening the earlier leafing trees; willow, beech, sycamore. Although, some of the oaks too are garland in the first emerald flush of unfurling new leaf. The perch and carp are getting restless too, running their bodies along the hull and leaving a swirling starfield of glittering silver scales that hang for a moment or two, weightless, just below the water’s surface.

The ratatat and woodpecker laughter thrills through the wooded cutting. Squirrels race and riot across the high branches, crossing the canal with the spectacular ease of circus acrobats. Wren, robin, blackbird, and thrush play curious symphonies of older, wilder music. 

Yes, life goes on amongst all the particular tumultuous chaos of my living. And it is good to reach out and be part of that. To taste worlds where the shadows that tower over and seem to dominate my world are inconsequential and of no importance at all. I watch the ladybird that lands on my sleeve. A tiny conscious package of life, pawing with her front feet at the wool fibres of my jumper. Exploring. Assessing. Making sense of the strange landscape into which she has landed. I lower my arm into the long grass. She flexes her brittle red wing carapaces and then struts onto a blade – still pearled with the globe of dawn dew. She remains completely untouched by all the seemingly insurmountable events and challenges that are storming through my life. No doubt, she too has her cares – things that shape her life. But it is good to feel the limits to my turbulence, to become aware that not everything is filled with the cataracts that I am experiencing. The shadows that over-reach me and feel as if they will defeat me are, after all, only finite. There are places where their touch cannot be felt. They are, just the shifting cloud shadows on the velvet of a summer lawn. This little ladybird lives untouched by them. I leave her on the green sword-blade of new growth grass, in the April sunshine. Above us a cormorant sails on outstretched wings among the scattered blue.  

Dad died, mid-March, amidst the first breaths of Spring. Last week was his funeral. It was a good death. One that he wished, and if it left a few wounds that might take a number of years to heal and find ways to come to terms with, it is good that it was a good death to a long life. Grief and loss are complicated things emotionally and as a few of you said in your emails (and thank you so much to everyone who expressed your thoughts to us at this time), the death of the surviving parent can hit in ways far harder and unexpected than one might have prepared for. They are wise words.

Although the funeral is now over, in a lot of ways, the hard work starts. I’m going to be busy and probably not have much time to do podcasts for the next couple of months. To add to the pressure, yesterday, a lorry drove into the back of our car and likely wrote it off. Donna was driving – or giving way at a roundabout at the time, but was unhurt. It doesn’t take much to write a car off these days. As nasty as it was for Donna, in actuality, it was not much more than a vigorous bump that smashed the trim and the boot lock, and forty years ago, a couple of well-aimed blows with a lump hammer – or some bailer chord to keep the boot closed would have made the car roadworthy again! We are crossing our fingers that it wasn’t written off. Insurance will cover it, but right now we don’t want to have the added pressure of trying to find a new car. To add insult to injury, the insurance brokers of the firm who owned the lorry that hit us, fixed us up to have a replacement hire car while the claim was being processed only for us to find out, after having spent two hours waiting for it to arrive, and without bothering to inform us, the company stopped the claim as we lived on a boat and therefore did not meet their ‘scrutiny.’ It’s maddening. So, the rest of today has been spent trying to work through our insurers (who are quite happy with us not living in a house) to find an alternative hire company. We’ll see on Monday what happens.  

Isn't it so stupid how, in the great scheme of things - and compared to the magnitude of the death of a parent - losing the use of a car should hit me far harder and occupy my mind so much more? Of course, our minds don't work quite so coldly and rationally as that - it is not a measure of my values, just the culmination of so many waves crashing in upon us at once; being stung by a wasp, doesn't sting any less just because you gashed your leg badly on barbed wire earlier that day! 

That all has meant I have not recorded the podcast I had planned and this is all a bit random and fly-by-night. But I guess, we all know those times trying to survive the cataracts; the waves that keep coming, the eddies and ripping currents. Find the flow the best you can. That is not meant to trivialise it of deny the difficulty. It is just that in all the detail, it is important not to lose sight of what is happening.

Earlier this evening, before the sun had set, Maggie and I were on the hill looking down to where we are moored. A blue haze had softened the skyline backbone of Cotswold ridges. The long stretch of fields and woods of the vale were turning to gold in the gauze of an evening mist. The sky above still blue and ranked with bruised banks of cloud. A golden evensong of distant wood pigeon, blackbird and jackdaw. Dandelions, their luminous buttery heads still open, shone along the green grass banks. Three ducks in close formation flew overhead. There is only one word to describe this place; tranquillity. An Indian family comprising at least four generations, drove up in two cars and then, in small groups clustered by the fence on the lip of the hill. They chatter and laugh together. But slowly, they too all fall silent. Captivated by this mesmerisingly quiet scene stretched out below them. Maggie and I keep on walking. After a while, I look back. There they are. This generation of family, lined up along the fence, silhouetted against a sky of gold and whispering blues; lost in its silence. 

Later, I drop back down the hill. On the still water, one of the swans mirrored in calm, neck hooked like a shepherd’s crook, glided towards the bank. His partner, beak tucked under her wing, sat on their proud nest. All week they have been building: a raft of twigs beside still waters. It is a nest to be proud of. Their clutch of eggs is growing.

Some of the ducks are not so lucky. I keep finding abandoned eggs among the long grass. Secure nesting spots are not easy to find. The hunt goes on. Yes, other lives have other cares as equal to any that I am feeling. 

It feels as if I am walking through a tranquil world of such sacred peace, far greater than can be found in any church or cathedral. A tranquillity that would not break even if I raised my voice and screamed. The cob swan, chuckles and gives us a snort of recognition, then he nibbles among the flag leaves. I know on each boat I pass, ours included, the busy hubbub of living and its daily cares wear heavy and loud. Just as they do for every life I pass; the swans and their constant alertness, the ducks without nests, the voles, the moorhens, perhaps even that little ladybird encountering the chill of night. But that tranquillity remains. The shadows that haunt each of our lives will only stretch so far.  All of us will get through it. These rapids of roaring waters. As exhausting and disorienting as they may be, we will get through it.

The great threatening shadows that obscure our suns and cast our worlds in a chilling gloom do not stretch forever. There are other places where they can not reach and this same river is taking us to those places.  As overwhelmingly noisy as our lives at times might be, we are afloat in a world of unbreakable tranquillity. 

I think that that is as good a note to end this rather incoherent attempt to find coherency amid the noise. I have a feeling that life for the next two or three months is going to make producing a weekly podcast impossible. We are all ok, we are flourishing (if feeling a little beaten at the moment). I will try to get updates to you as and when time allows. Thank you for all your continued support. It is so lovely and reassuring to have you on our journey.  

Whatever the cares and concerns that crowd your head, the spoken and unspoken worries that roar, the towering shadows that cast gloom upon your futures, tonight, may you also find that sense of tranquillity of the swan gliding upon the waters of dusk and a golden sky.

SIGNING OFF

This is the narrowboat Erica signing of for the night and wishing you a very restful and peaceful and tranquil night. Good night. 

WEATHER LOG