Morning light; a cloud seen from inside; a skylark

The loss and the gift

Spring sunlight over Birsay Bay

Spring, always a latecomer to these latitudes, has finally begun to make itself felt here in Orkney. The light is lingering a little longer into each evening. It peeps around the bedroom curtain a little earlier each morning.

There is, if you concentrate, just a little warmth in the pale sunshine. The water pops out sparks of light like a glitterball. The starlings line up along the ridge of the shed roof, chittering and bickering. Walking with a friend at the weekend we saw our first skylark of the season. The tiny black speck ascended on flickering wings into a sky of pearlescent blue, scattering droplets of song over the tired, brown land and our pale, upturned faces.

Last week’s painting ‘Cloud, seen from inside’ 2024, acrylic on cradled board, 51 cm x 61 cm

The sparkling early Spring light is coming into my painting this week too. I just finished one, a vision of a cloud as if seen from inside looking out, towards light and clarity, through a diffuse and shimmering fog of water vapour.

Soon the light will all come in a sudden rush as we speed towards Midsummer. A glut of light will overspill our days and bleach our nights, blanking out the stars. It comes like this every year and yet every year it takes us by surprise. Every year it feels startling, a delight after the long darkness of winter as the light pours over and into us.

‘Cloud, seen from inside’ close-up detail

But it feels incongruous, too, that we should be flooded with light when there’s so much darkness gathering in the world. I am woken in the small hours by wordless anxiety, a foreboding that stays with me even as the morning sun lights up my breakfast jam like a jar of rubies. 

So I was thankful for

Sophie Nicholls

reminder to let the light pour in:

“As I look for those first signs of colour, I’m thinking of everyone for whom there is no colour right now, just grey ash and dust and rubble. I’m holding their suffering in my heart and at the same time I’m paying close attention in order to be sure not to miss the big, difficult and blossoming gift of being alive this February.

Because both these things are true.

The loss and the gift.

The sorrow and the thank you.”

And I’m thankful also for this poem by Anne Sexton:

The lack of a comma in this poem’s title turns it from a greeting to an instruction. It’s a call for us to welcome each morning, to remember thankfulness, to welcome joy and never let it go unspoken or unshared.

This, it seems to me, is good and worthwhile work for us to do as artists, as writers. Even as we acknowledge the dark, we can turn our attention towards the light, rise up towards it like the skylark, raining down praises as we go.

The Life Raft Co-Working

Hello from Hoy!

There won’t be any co-working this week. I’m taking a break for a couple of days over on Hoy, another of Orkney’s islands. By the usual time of our meeting, I will be sitting exactly where you see me above, beyond the reach of Zoom, beyond even the reach of the road, drinking coffee while gazing at this view below over Rackwick Bay:

You can however watch the replay from last week’s co-working. If you’re considering joining us we’ll reconvene next Wednesday 3 - 4 pm GMT and you can check us out in the replay. You’ll need the passcode: +ur6nzEH

And finally, my heartfelt gratitude to those of you who took out a paid subscription last week, or before. I’m reluctant to put in a paywall that excludes those who can’t pay. But as a self-employed artist and writer, I cheer every time a paid sub comes in. I am truly thankful for every single paid subscriber. You know who you are. Thank you.

Until next week,

Sam

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