January - First Ink

I found a pack of postcards, their surface pristine, white like fresh early dawn snow, my fingers twitched, my nose itched, the unblemished smoothness cried out for pen, ink, line, and form just waiting to be drawn.

It’s a funny thing, you know, that itch to draw, to paint, it hangs around just out of reach, like the first January Catkin, just too high, that you long to gently touch and watch the yellow pollen spread and drift on the breeze and stain the air with lemon dust. Just out of reach. The cause, of course, for this natural pause, is too much 'in doors', too much cake and chocolate, too much general 'busy-ness' in life, too much being sociable and organising. Don't misunderstand me, I love to plan and shop and cook, I love to share with family and friends, to laugh and bond and re-bond and make memories, connect, but for me, after a while life becomes too loud, too social, too cramped. When at last quietness and stillness return it is like a blanket causing sighs and a lack of will power to move. There is a great need to pull on boots and coat and hat and run, run outside. But too long inside has left a contradictory reluctance to make the effort, to leave that indoor bubble. Little words like "it's a bit cold and damp out there", or "I don't know where my thermal socks are I'll only have to rummage," "effort!", I know I should, I know I can, I know how lucky I am that I can and that I am able to access my beloved natural world directly from my doorstep. I know that I can, and that reaching up to touch a leaf or stand beneath the tallest tree where the Song thrush sings, to simply stand and stare and breath fresh damp air will instantly kick start the 'outside me' and I know that it will take just one small sudden spark of unexpected beauty to burst that bubble of cosy over-indulgent laziness. Back it will come like the Jackdaws that never fail to rise from their night-time roost in a growing cloud, like tiny ideas that grow and spread, and you just need to join the dots to build the bigger picture.

Those postcards sat there on a mental shelf for a couple of days and then a drawing pen arrived to kept them company. A few days on and the weatherman said, "maybe frost tomorrow", I closed my eyes to block out the artificial brightness of the screen. When I opened them again the screen was dark, dusk was falling, the view though the open curtained window contained not just glass reflected fairy lights but a cloth of fading blue velvet upon which lay a bright, thin, sharply formed crescent moon kissing the top branches of a sharply drawn birch tree - use a number 0.1 pen I thought - and smiled. I slept unusually deep and late that night, until minutes before 7am I was woken by the rumble of the dustbin lorry trundling toward the distant town, the fading of this unnatural man-made noise was followed, gloriously, by the most natural noise ever heard, a dawn chorus that banished civilization and cascaded through to open window. Just like the flick of a switch, that was it, within minutes hot tea was swallowed, woollen layers crowded beneath good all-weather coat and boots scrunched satisfyingly through leaves and mud and in the still muted morning light my world shone bright again illuminating my winter dark dawn.

The first ink has touched the pristine surface of the first postcard, a doodle that says more than words flies, carrying love and a postage stamp, to a friend over the hills and far away.

Words and pictures by Artist and Druid © 2023