The drip of moisture from branch and eave this campervan morning. The atmospherics appear to be such that the usual moan of the motorways can’t be heard. Heavy white cloud overhead. An absence of Starlings, but smaller Sparrows and a solitary Robin colour the soundscape. No sign of any of the bigger birds. A pair of Blue Tits dart into view and then vacate as quickly as they arrived. As if to make a liar of me a Magpie drops into the Oak, directly above my head for a few moments of noise and then disappears. There is a wee bit of a chill, but it’s been colder. A mild frisson of excitement from me as there is an outside chance of wee drop of snow. The last clout of winter. The moisture seems to vacillate between nothing and rain and then back again, making me a wee bit indecisive as to whether to stick it out or retreat to the van. And the Starlings finally fly into the Ash. Another busy day of drumming yesterday, gives way to a much quieter day today. A long catch up conversation last night with a dear friend left a warm glow. It always amazes me that for a job of creating community and bringing people together, it can be quite isolating working on your own. So the catch up was much needed. That said there is much to be said for being alone and to experience freedom of time and of thought.
My conversations of yesterday have me reflecting on personal narrative and the various narratives that we use to make sense of the world around us, the people, situations and experiences. The personal narrative itself that is built around your own experiences from a young child to now. The fact that these are only approximations, they are not the truth, they are just filters that allow us to make some sense of the world we have around us. How I present, reflect and write about my experiences here is through the filter of my own personal narrative. The author Patricia Hampi in her book ‘The art of the wasted day’ espouses the power of reflection and writing. She writes :
“ Words are partly thoughts, but mostly they’re music, deep down. Thinking itself is, perhaps, orchestral, the mind conducting the world. Conducting it, constructing it.”
The process of narrative, experience, reflection, writing and making sense of the music deep down. As Patricia Hampi writes, “ To locate meaning between the irretrievable then and the equally unfathomable now “. Lovely days people.
“ This is how memory works: not as a transcription but as an attempt—as an essay is an attempt . . . to locate meaning between the irretrievable then and the equally unfathomable now.” Patricia Hampl
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