Marvel of nature
STOPPING for a quick coffee and walk at a nature reserve near by, my husband accidentally happened upon a dusk murmuration of starlings; he was so enchanted that, a few days later, he took me back to experience it.
I have seen starlings flock before (is there a verb? murmurate?), but have never stopped to witness the whole thing. It was breathtaking: the sky gradually filling with thousands of birds that moved as one, the changing cloud of them seeming to breathe as their pattern stretched and compressed, now giving a deep shadow, now letting in the light: nature’s pointillism in motion.
It was utterly silent except for the moments when, on a collective whim, they changed direction above our heads with an audible swish of wings. Finally, in perfect synchronicity with the sun, the mass of them poured themselves down into the reeds below, and in seconds the show was over.
I hope that this will become a tradition of our winters — although I suspect that it will never be as magical as the first time, when it came as a surprise.
Protective custody
MY CONTINUING research into the tombs and inscriptions of St Mary’s has led me to encounter James Oakes, diarist, who lived in Bury St Edmunds at the turn of the 19th century.
Tantalisingly, the index of his two-volume diary contains the names of many of his contemporaries who are also buried in the church. Disappointingly, however, most of these entries consist of a list of people present at his dinner table: no hint survives of personality, opinion, or conversation. The other occupants of the chancel will keep their secrets, muted by a lack of interest in everyday encounters. Unlike more famous diarists who wrote for posterity, Mr Oakes was clearly not envisaging a 21st-century writer rifling through his private papers in the hope of colourful anecdotes.
A friend of mine lives in a house once occupied by the most famous diarist of all, Samuel Pepys. He and his wife take care of the museum in the front part of the house, while living in the back. Since Pepys recorded that he had once lost some gold in the garden, I turned up with my metal detector to see if we could help my friend to find it. Buzzing with the opportunity to detect in a historical property — such permissions are vanishingly rare for amateurs — I thoroughly enjoyed my time in their vegetable patch, digging up several nails of uncertain age, and an old bit of garden gate.
Turkey nuggets
ONE of my “firsts” for last year was an invitation to a proper American Thanksgiving dinner. The table was resplendent: three different kinds of dessert with every possible type of cream; a bacon-covered turkey with all the trimmings; and delicious mac ’n’ cheese for the vegetarian (me).
Every guest was asked to draw around their hand, turn the resulting outline into a turkey, and write on each finger/tail-feather something that they were thankful for. It was interesting to compare the enthusiastic optimism of the young (“That I’m awesome!”) with the caution of the adults: one couple both wrote “No house moves this year”, testimony to previous upheaval.
My favourite turkey/hand was penned by my husband, who wrote, “Happy wife. Kids coping. I’m not a vegetarian.”
Wheels of wonder
A MIRACLE takes place outside my house every morning. A taxi pulls up, and my daughter emerges from the front door wearing her uniform, gets into the taxi, and goes to school. This has been going on since the start of the September term.
After a series of struggles to get the right educational provision, the filling-out of endless forms, a year of worsening school refusal, and a term of driving a 40-minute commute while somehow getting her brother to a different school in the opposite direction, the ease of our school mornings now will for ever be a shining, wondrous thing.
And so — here comes a sentence that, last January, I could never have predicted needing to type — on one tail-feather of my turkey/hand, I wrote “Taxis”.
Heaven in ordinary
A FEW years ago, I joined the tradition of prayerfully selecting one word for the year ahead. In previous years, I have tended to forget the word after a few months; but, last year, for the first time, I remembered it: my word was “rich”’.
It came to me in a church service, listening to the parable about the man who builds extra barns for his unexpected rich harvest, but dies the same night; and so it will be, Jesus says, for anyone who stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God. The phrase “rich toward God” stuck in my head for weeks afterwards. What could it possibly mean to be rich toward a God from whom all good things come?
At the other end of the year, my conclusion is that our only possible generosity towards God is gratitude. The man in the parable lacks the awareness of where his harvest comes from. To be rich toward God is to nurture a deep thankfulness for a panoply of unexpected riches, hidden in the corners of everyday life: a harvest of surprises in the ordinary.
May this year be full of them, but, even better than that, may we notice some of them as they whistle by above our heads.
Amy Scott Robinson is a writer, performance storyteller, and ventriloquist.