when patterns repeat

ONE enlightening thing about living in a field is witnessing spring unfold so incrementally, like watching the seconds tick on a clock.

The longer we live in a landscape the more familiar the changes are and when we come to expect them. I start looking for wood anenomes and then, that day, I spot the first flower. Or when I’m wondering how long til the hawthorn blossom, I imagine it and then I see it. It’s a comfort to behold and also a polite, candid reminder of our place on this earth. *

The last few years, I have used notebooks as sketch diaries. The input is pretty irregular so that I don’t feel contained (being locked into systems is something I’ve learned I like to avoid, good or bad). I date the drawing, write a little line or a title according to what the subject is and a little on the feeling of that day. A visual record for nature’s joyful happenings, and mixed internal mutterings too. A secret letter between me and the daffodil.

It’s grounding to look back on years passed, almost by the day, and appreciate when patterns repeat right in front of me - listen to Laura Marling’s Patterns in Repeat while you read this. I now understand the importance of this analogue record and the spark that lights up my brain when pencil hits page; something I really really need. A trick to centring my skittish thoughts, quieting the noise or picking it apart, and beginning a work process. An instantaneous sketch often inspires a more polished and permanent piece; that’s a lovely next step but nothing quite compares to the moment it was bottled.

* Sara Teasdale writes a poignant poem, There Will Come Soft Rains, about the unwavering progression of spring in spite of war. It’s beautiful, melancholy, and all too true.