The Language of Quiet Places.
On writing, creating and being still.
With love, it always begins. With love for walking through the fields, through those slow, steady wanderings that let time slip loose from the wrists, dissolving into wind and sky. The hills rise gently ahead of us, shrouded in grasses both gold and green. We can hear hush of wings and the faint rustling just beyond sight. It is here, among these breathing pastures and soft animal paths, that I feel most at home. The land listens, always. And I walk to hear it speak.
THE JOY OF MEETING WITH NATURE
We cross the ridge where deer often linger. One autumn morning, a young doe stood still at the forest's edge, mist curling around her thin legs like thread. High above, a stork tilted in circles, one long line of white and ink. By the stream, the blur of a jay between the shadows: turquoise, grey, and quick as thought. And if you take an evening walk you could hear an owl stirring, lifting silently from a mossed branch, her wings wide and soft.
But it’s the fox that steals my breath. She appears rarely, slipping through the long summer pastures. Her coat has a special hue of red. Red that speaks of berries and embers. There’s something in the curve of her body, the lifted paw, the flick of tail that reminds me of some old stories. And I feel like a small child. Waiting to hear it. Again and again. Night after night.
One morning, beneath the elder trees, my sister and I found a small antler—grey-brown, curled, almost hidden in the flowered field. Young stags and roe deer shed their antlers as spring turns to early summer. It is a quiet letting go, unannounced and effortless. The moment felt holy in its smallness. So we brought it home. It was a gift from the fields.
Flowers too transform in silence. Their summer colours—cream, blush, goldenrod—fade gently into sepia tones, into papery husks and brittle stems. We collect them in the fall, stooping between field borders and hedgerows, placing each bloom carefully into our wicker baskets. At home, we arrange them: in tall vases on the kitchen table, in small glass bottles that catch the amber light of late afternoon. They always speak from those tiny corners. They speak tales of bees and breezes, of slow days and seasons ending.
And then there is spring, and the wind. Standing in a valley of young barley, I stretch out my arms and let that wind wrap through me. The green waves move like water and I feel myself part of it, swaying, laughing, caught in the rhythm of something far bigger than myself. That sudden surge of energy, the lightness in the chest, the joy rising. It is wild, and full, and fleeting. And one of the best feelings in the world.
THE JOY OF WRITING
From those walks, from those moments, words rose. I sit down at my old wooden table, worn smooth by time, with some bright stains. A wool coaster, that I weaved with my hands last winter, holds my tea. Beside me, silence. Or rather, the deep quiet. I write because I must. Because I really want to capture these fields and memories. I want to tell their tales and speak of them to someone. To you I guess. To my children one day when they grow and read these words. Sometimes each word feels like an anchor. A thread between my soul and this world of hills and valleys.
THE JOY OF ILLUSTRATING
And then comes the colour. The illustrations. The joy of capturing everything I saw, wrote, felt. Of turning texture into pigment. The velvet underside of a mushroom cap, the sun-cracked bark of a plum tree. Golden and white lines of a straw bale in the orchard. Weaving of wicker basket and summer hat that we wear and bring to our walks. I draw what I have touched, what I’ve noticed. Often, I return from walks with my pockets full of field treasures: a small wildflower, a curling blade of grass, a seed head… I place them beside my paper, not just as reference, but as quiet companions. I study their curve, their colour, the way light settles on them and how the wind might have moved them. There’s a story in each stem.
Before brush touches page, I test shades trying to find that one exact hue the flower hold. I pinch the bristles of my brush between fingers, fanning them into a soft arc to mimic the flickering edge of meadow grass in motion. Sometimes, to make the clouds just right, I press white pigment with the tips of my fingers over a wash of sky-blue. Then dabbing and smudging until the soft, tufted clouds appear over spring hills. It is a tender process, built on patience and deep observation. I paint to remember, and to honour.
Some moments are almost invisible in the rush of the world. But on those walks I see all the tales nature speaks. A bird weaving twigs into her nest. A deer watching us through the veil of high autumn grass. Tiny mouse nest saying in soft wind among other dry grass blades. Birds and words. Ink and light. The land is full of stories, and I will keep walking, and writing, and drawing them out. With love, it always begins. With love for walking through windy meadows. With love for writing about fields and birds above them. With love for painting them all. With love it always ends too.
If you write, walk, paint—or simply look up at the sky I hope you find something worth keeping. And if you'd like, share it with me. 🌿
Little suggestions:
Read my laatest story, from the countryside; Plums & Stitches.
On little wonders from July.
About rituals, muses and other joys from time when July arrives.
you have such a beautiful way of describing nature! i particularly loved the part about the fox and the colors!