Grooving lines of the sun

Have read/listened to a few things this week where the word LINGER has been mentioned in a yearning, wistful way. So many of us just wanting to stop. Slow down. Be present. With ourselves and each other. A mother writing: “I spent years making sure my home was a safe harbour my children could return to. And they do from time to time. But they rarely linger anymore…”

Another article talked about the counter-culturalness of lingering. And the longing/resistance to just hang out, with ourselves, others, with God.

Unlike the Advent Adventuring, this Lenten Lingering has been a strange one for me. I was in a flow leading up to Christmas. Felt like stepping on an e-scooter and just going with it. Enjoying the weaving and writing, getting out and about, looking, listening, taking it all in.

This time has definitely been the ebb to all that. The e-scooter’s in the shed with a flat battery, v slowly re-charging. Without that sense of excitement and movement, it’s felt v desert-y. Very Lenten-y, I guess.

Feeling the heaviness of what’s happening in the world, losses near and far and griefs of different hues. Misunderstandings and too much head junk. A few sleepless nights.

What’s been most helpful in all of this has been the reminder to create. To do the things that brings a sense of lightness and looseness. Find a flow in the small things. Play about with linocutting (having bought all the equipment months ago). Make stuff.

An image I’ve had for a while now is of a forest clearing with the sun shining down and a kestrel swooping overhead. Negative clap-trap circles the space. The ooze, Gav and I call it. That’s hard to ignore. Hard not to get drawn into.

Rather than linger round the edges though, trying to fight it off, better to run into the clearing and play. Take up space. Be a holy fool if needs be. The ooze will always be there. As will the kestrel. And the sun.

Today’s felt like a shift anyway. Lingering with inks and rollers, paper and pens. Finding solace in grooving lines of the sun. And mixing colours of a kestrel’s wings.


Fiona P