"Responding to Nature," Iain Robinson

I've mentioned UK writer Iain Robinson before (here, in relation to notebooks). I subscribe to his Substack, "This Party's Over," where he keeps a country diary far more extensive than the few observations I write in the morning.

He's an activist and teacher besides being writing, and his posts are always thought provoking. It's interesting to see differences and similarities in nature-minded people writing nonfiction elsewhere in the world.

Recently (meaning the past few months), of course, global relationships among countries are shifting. In his Country Diary #51, he laments being able to create big changes.

Instead: “Going out into nature and responding to its truth feels like the only thing I can do in this troubled, broken age.”

drifts

Below is a version of the comment I left. I read this six weeks after he wrote it, right around the turn of the year, and I still feel this way.

Sometimes I have to force myself to the page, but I need to write. It's where I find comfort and belonging, as well as challenge and purpose. Luckily, I can write privately. I've been writing extremely short nonfiction and working on my novel--because none of that is to share. 

It's writing in public where I've gone mostly quiet. Like at this website, but also on various social media. I have nothing substantive to add to the outcry--yet remaining silent feels false.

So I notice the light (sunrise is visibly moving north along the horizon!!) and share that. We've had a several-day snowstorm, and I'm sharing photos of that.

It's important to me--to my mental health and to my current life situation--to spend more time "in the moment," as they say. Quiet mornings with my husband. Quiet evenings with books and conversation. 

porch lines

Quiet, so I can hear the wind whistling and howling. The creaking of the house as it shifts, the ductwork sending warm air around into the rooms. The scolding squirrel and squabbles of the chickadees. The way the sunlight in the morning and evening lies along the snow.

There's a comfort and sense of perspective in watching the rhythms of a place you love. It may sound like despair, but it doesn’t feel like it, to take comfort in the fact that the sun and moon will rise and set after all of us are gone. (“Rise” and “set,” I suppose.) Attention to the good, to the eternal. I'm leaning into that.