The alarm clock wakes us before sunrise. This time of year it’s a less ambitious start than in the height of summer. None the less, leaving the comfort of a warm bed on a chilly morning remains a challenge. Bleary-eyed, we hustle together picnic blanket, thermos and woolly hats. Bundling in to the car, we drive to the furthest West point of the Island, to tramp up to Headon Warren in time to watch the light grow all around us. It’s cold and windy, but wrapped up in a blanket, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, I can settle comfortably to watch the world wake up.
As I sit, my focus shifts, noticing different elements to the surrounding scene. First, the wind, it’s insistent whistling through the gorse seeming to drown out every other sound. This is not the spot to notice the gentle waking of songbirds, but rather to respect the wild power of the wind on this exposed downland. I notice the texture of the heather beneath me, their twisting twigs and dried blossom. A moment later, a kestrel hovers overhead for just a flash before swooping obliquely down beyond my sightline. Flocks of some unknown tiny bird appear on the scene. Skylarks perhaps? With my limited ornithology, all I can do is watch their small sharp silhouettes tussled amongst the gusts of wind, clueless as to their identity.
After all, this isn’t an exercise in identification. This ‘sit spot’ is an exercise in sitting still, taking ten quiet minutes to observe my surroundings and notice what emerges once I cease my stomping and leave space for life to show itself. Taking even a moment to pause on a walk and notice the sounds around feels like a worthwhile moment. But to sit and take ten requires a more definite intention. It seems strange to me how the feel of ten minutes can change depending on the activity. I can easily lose that little chunk of time scrolling through social media, but to sit and ‘do nothing’ for ten minutes can feel incredibly long and drawn out. That’s the beauty of it. I feel almost like a master of time, able to stretch out a mere ten minutes to feel so full of space.
Anywhere will do, to simply sit and soak up the scene. Some favourite spots usually spring to mind, a sunny clearing in Brighstone Forest or a perch above Freshwater Bay. It could be a quiet park bench or a corner of the garden. In the forest it’s often quiet for several minutes of sitting, before the birds regain their confidence and resume normal chit chat. To think that without this time we can often walk through a corridor of quiet, as the nature around us stills to a hush as we come crashing through. Lying back amongst the leaves, the smell of the earth wraps around. With time to spare, there is time to notice every sense anew.
Emerson once said “Adopt the pace of nature; her secret is patience.” Not necessarily easy advice to follow. But if ever there were a way to achieve such a pace, perhaps it is amongst the meadow grass or piney carpet of a favourite sit spot.
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