The Speed of Light
The days pass faster as the light lengthens. I still don't know why this is, and I've seen it many times now. Winter seems to take too long to end, spring flashes into life, and suddenly you've blinked and the August Bank Holiday has rushed past. Put on the light, and then put on the light.
April is the cruelest month...
There are signs of lilacs already. The snowdrops at Kingston Lacey are wilting now. My mother didn't see them this year. She did, last year, believing that it would be for the last time, but she was almost wrong. If she hadn't suffered an ulcerated leg she would have been taken there again this year. All being well, she will see the Bluebells at Duncliffe again. She is in that happy state known as remission, when, although death is inevitable, it will come because of old age, not because of an unexpected growth.
I have been amazed to find some unexpected growths around in the gardens. Honesty was still flowering until the snows came. Daffodils have sprouted from two compost heaps, boasting that they can go anywhere they please. Birds are singing in the trees beyond my windows. One of them has learned to imitate the Nokia ring tone, and Little Petal has spent an angry evening learning how to use the menu system and reset her phone to make an old-fashioned jangling bell. That's progress for you, when the only sound the birds can't copy is the Victorian Alexander Graham Bell peal.
And this is why the days pass faster as the light grows longer: more things come to life again, and there is only a small amount of attention to go round. Come the Autumn, come the darkening evenings, small creatures and flowers will nod their heads and curl away somewhere, leaving only us smarter beings to play with the attention. Sitting in our caves above ground, tapping away on pur keyboards, playing ups and downs with each other, dancing in the dark.
Make the most of the light.
April is the cruelest month...
There are signs of lilacs already. The snowdrops at Kingston Lacey are wilting now. My mother didn't see them this year. She did, last year, believing that it would be for the last time, but she was almost wrong. If she hadn't suffered an ulcerated leg she would have been taken there again this year. All being well, she will see the Bluebells at Duncliffe again. She is in that happy state known as remission, when, although death is inevitable, it will come because of old age, not because of an unexpected growth.
I have been amazed to find some unexpected growths around in the gardens. Honesty was still flowering until the snows came. Daffodils have sprouted from two compost heaps, boasting that they can go anywhere they please. Birds are singing in the trees beyond my windows. One of them has learned to imitate the Nokia ring tone, and Little Petal has spent an angry evening learning how to use the menu system and reset her phone to make an old-fashioned jangling bell. That's progress for you, when the only sound the birds can't copy is the Victorian Alexander Graham Bell peal.
And this is why the days pass faster as the light grows longer: more things come to life again, and there is only a small amount of attention to go round. Come the Autumn, come the darkening evenings, small creatures and flowers will nod their heads and curl away somewhere, leaving only us smarter beings to play with the attention. Sitting in our caves above ground, tapping away on pur keyboards, playing ups and downs with each other, dancing in the dark.
Make the most of the light.
Labels: spring is here again - again
posted by Sopwith-Camel | 11:36 am
2 Comments:
I wouldn't like to bet that no bird can imitate the old phone bell - I've heard them come up with some remarkable imitations.
I have a nice jazz version of Tiger Rag on my phone (well, I would, wouldn't I?) and I doubt whether any avian Percy Edwards can get its beak around that but, well, you never know...
I think the trouble with the seasons is not the seasons themselves but our attitude to them. We tend to think of spring and summer as the livable part of the year and autumn and winter as something to put up with until the sun shines again. If, instead of that, you see the year as a roundabout going alternately through light and dark, each with its specific pleasures, it makes better sense. Well, to me, anyway. (But you're weird - Ed.)
"The days pass faster as the light lengthens."
I'd have said just the opposite. Perhaps I'm more nocturnal than I realized.
In the summer the days seem to last forever, I'm active the entire day and still not sleepy at night.
Good to see you posting again, it's been longer now that there's more light.
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