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https://emersoncentral.com/texts/nature-addresses-lectures/nature2/language/

The use of natural history is to give us aid in supernatural history: the use of the outer creation, to give us language for the beings and changes of the inward creation. Every word which is used to express a moral or intellectual fact, if traced to its root, is found to be borrowed from some material appearance. Right means straight; wrong means twisted. Spirit primarily means wind; transgression, the crossing of a line; supercilious, the raising of the eyebrow. We say the heart to express emotion, the head to denote thought; and thought and emotion are words borrowed from sensible things, and now appropriated to spiritual nature. Most of the process by which this transformation is made, is hidden from us in the remote time when language was framed; but the same tendency may be daily observed in children. Children and savages use only nouns or names of things, which they convert into verbs, and apply to analogous mental acts.

2. But this origin of all words that convey a spiritual import, — so conspicuous a fact in the history of language, — is our least debt to nature.

It is not words only that are emblematic; it is things which are emblematic. Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact. Every appearance in nature corresponds to some state of the mind, and that state of the mind can only be described by presenting that natural appearance as its picture. An enraged man is a lion, a cunning man is a fox, a firm man is a rock, a learned man is a torch. A lamb is innocence; a snake is subtle spite; flowers express to us the delicate affections. Light and darkness are our familiar expression for knowledge and ignorance; and heat for love. Visible distance behind and before us, is respectively our image of memory and hope.

Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour, and is not reminded of the flux of all things? Throw a stone into the stream, and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence. Man is conscious of a universal soul within or behind his individual life, wherein, as in a firmament, the natures of Justice, Truth, Love, Freedom, arise and shine. This universal soul, he calls Reason: it is not mine, or thine, or his, but we are its; we are its property and men. And the blue sky in which the private earth is buried, the sky with its eternal calm, and full of everlasting orbs, is the type of Reason. That which, intellectually considered, we call Reason, considered in relation to nature, we call Spirit. Spirit is the Creator. Spirit hath life in itself. And man in all ages and countries, embodies it in his language, as the FATHER.

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“Second only to air is light as an essential for growth, health and recovery from sickness — not only daylight, but sunlight — and indeed fresh air must be sun-warmed, sun-penetrated air. This should be meant to include colour, pleasant and pretty sights for the patient’s eyes to rest on — variety of objects, flowers, pictures. People say the effect is on the mind. So it is, but the enlightened physician tells us it is on the body too. The sun is a sculptor as well as a painter. The Greeks were right as to their Apollo.” — Florence Nightingale

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Yet truth, like love and sleep, resents

Approaches that are too intense

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As the days get warmer and longer, I take my walk down to the ocean. The walk alone has been my steady anchor, Coogee beach, my faithful muse. I’ve made this walk almost rhythmically, every day from about 4pm as if my body is pulled like the tide to the shore. The sky is a brighter shade of blue than it was when I started these walks in winter. It’ll only get warmer and brighter. The roads will fill up with noise and kids in school uniforms.

While we’re coming to the end of what has at some points has felt unbearable, the topic of picnic conservation has been: are you ready for life to go back to how it was?

With two weeks to go until restrictions lift, there’s is a part of me that wants to hold on.

Weeks earlier, I had felt like I was crawling to the finish line; struggling to concentrate, bereft of inspiration for evening meals and spending too much time shopping for coloured activewear from Italy that I knew was unlikely to arrive in good time.

Now, we have dates in the diary, a holiday to look forward to and the guarantee not to have to make choices with such constraint.

These past months we’ve not been in control of much outside those tiny things we can yield influencer over: the daily walk, who we phone, what we watch in the evening and cook on a Saturday night. The boundaries of our worlds have zoomed in. Our social lives have been restricted to a 5km radius, the amount of steps our legs can handle in a day and our proclivity to walk in the rain. But in these microcosms, our personal choices have reigned supreme.

So what will we take with us as life changes? And what will we leave behind? And can we hold onto the calm we were able to protect?

I want to protect my daily walk past the mid century homes and the community gardens to the headland where I watch surfers bob or the old women in wetsuits do their laps.

I want to preserve an awareness of what is forming me: the shows I watch, the books I read and the lives I let speak into mine. From Karen Swallow Prior, I’ve become interested in how literature shapes character. From George Saunders, how narrative holds you til it makes its point. From Chekhov’s In the Cart, I’ve learned the transformative power of memory, which can locate joy from the past and transport it forward even to the humdrum of rural Russian life.

And in this time of hum drum, I’ve learned that often it is memory we are exercising to locate that joy and bring it forward in symbols. It could be a Niçoise salad from that holiday in the south of France, the spaghetti bolognaise that reminds you of the red sauce restaurant in the city or the ginger chicken that smells of the one your grandma served in small blue bowls. These memories have been sources of light and hope for me.

These, along with my third place, the beach where I walk and occasionally wash anxieties that don’t need to sit with me. I read today that in transition, we grieve the loss of routines.

And there’s probably a grief as we lose the security of lockdown; the safety we’ve had, the control we’ve wielded over small spaces, even as we’ve got a new premier who is changing things very quickly. And so the question remains — what will I hold onto, and what will I leave behind?

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We got this bookshelf from gumtree on the weekend, and I have honestly felt that the colour of these books, plus the many beautiful bunches of flowers I received for my birthday, have brought a feast to my eyes. I had seen this blank lounge room wall so many times. I’ve felt excited about reading again and I feel excited about what I’ll read next. I’ve become interested in the way literature forms you from Karen Swallow Prior, and how it holds you to the end of the page to make its point from George Saunders. Anton Checkhov’s In the cart rang particularly true in this time. His short story is about Marya, who had found herself living alone, working a job that tired her in a town that neglected to manage its roads or much else very well. She found herself in the hum drum of rural life before the turn of the century. The story’s turning point, the crux, was a feeling of joy and triumph, brought on by memory. Marya recalls her parents who had loved her before they passed. She remembers the warm glow of the apartment, the buzz of city life and a feeling of delight. I have known the power of memory to shift a mood. And in this time of hum drum, I have felt that sometimes it is memories we are locating: a Niçoise salad in memory of that holiday in the south of France, a spaghetti bolognaise that is strong on stock, like the red sauce restaurant in the inner city, or the ginger chicken stir fry that grandma used to make. These have been some of the sources of light and hope for me.

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6.

In Sarah Winman’s novel Tin Man she writes:

‘The chaines des Alpilles, at the southern edge of Saint-Remy are strung out blue in the early light, and mist rises from these hills. I begin my walk. Roads and scrubland and farmland. Olive trees scattered along the way, their grey-green leaves catching every ripple of June’s seductive breath.’

Every ripple of June’s seductive breath.

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5.

We wound down Rue de Soleil a day or so later, to drive into our last stop, Marseille. I fell in love with the streets of the old town, La Panière. On our last night, we had rosé and olive tapenade on the popular Le Panier Square. Watched the Marseillais having ‘after work drinks’ in their shades of fuscia, orange and lime dresses, wandered through the graffiti clad streets with old, paint-peeling windows and geraniums falling from window boxes. We drank another glass of Kir, scoffed the most delicious eggplant parmesiana I’d ever eaten, and on a whim, I bought a black boned silk taffeta dress that I’ve never since worn.

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4.

One afternoon, it was the afternoon in St Remy. After we visited the the asylum where Van Gogh painted his magnolia branches and blossoms. We dropped off the car, exceptionally tired. I was tired mostly from my angst driving on the other side of the road, so spent the afternoon in the garden. Our host said we could swim in the above-ground pool. We slathered sunscreen over ourselves, lay back on lilos that bumped against the pool’s tiny rim. I read snippets of Peter Mayle’s Dictionary of Provence and realized the possibility that lay ahead of me. Colour re-entered my vision.

It was at some point then, some point among feeling so loved that I realised a couple of things: I realised I had more power than I thought I did. I realised that – the news, five minutes earlier, that my friend was engaged – was something I could celebrate in a way where my previous flux-and-scared-of-missing-out-self might not have had been able to. And, I realised, just this: just the fact that I could go on a trip, a for-no-reason trip that my previously purpose-oriented self couldn’t find a reason for, just for the sake of it – was a form of love.

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3.

The image of Van Gogh’s Sunset after Millet etched itself in my mind. It’s the work he does once he’s settled in Arles. Or perhaps it is St Remy de Provence. It’s an incandescent reinterpretation of his original studies of the Peasants in the Netherlands. Hues of golden yellow, purple and orange. A peasant man, harvesting in the field, under a buttery sun. It’s different to his original pencil studies of the sower from Holland. There’s warmth, there’s colour.

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2. In the South, the days were sticky and warm. Conversation took place against the low hum of cicadas, the faint waft of lavender. We swept our fingers over the chalky stone of the Luberon Valley.

I’d read so many times before but felt internally, explicitly, the transformative power of that beauty. It was as if this very landscape was wrapping itself around what had been my cold heart. It was as if it was taking the watercolor stain - or mist, or fog - that layers of grief had left over me and repainting it in chroma colours.

In moments, like sunning on the balcony, listening to jazz, nibbling at olive tapenade on bread, I felt loved. I felt loved in warm goat’s cheese with melted honey. By the sound of cicadas, the heat of the south, in the fact that each time I drove around the Luberon’s bends, my life – despite my anxious driving on the other side of foreign roads – was spared.

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1.

I closed the chapter, headed to the South of France where I hoped I’d experience the warmth of the Sun the way Van Gogh had when he did his masterpieces.

“Here we are,” says Ellis’ mother at the start of Tin Man. She’s telling him about Van Gogh. “Near Avignon. Saint-Remy and Arles. That’s where he painted. He searched for light and sun, and found both.”

On the plane, I couldn’t believe that I – having done nothing but attempt to write for half a year – was able to go too. I squeezed the hand of my Dutch friend who met me for the trip on Rue de Soleil in Bordeaux. We settled in for a glass of vin rouge, then wandered the streets swapping stories of life and love that we had missed over the past two or more years.

On the train from Biarritz to Toulouse, we sat next to an old French lady who had to stay with her daughter in law while she had medical appointments nearby. We practiced our French with her for longer than we’d expected and talked about Pascal, the beauty of Lourdes, and the psychological effects of praying.

We passed fields of sunflowers — Tourne-Sol, in French. I closed my eyes, suggesting we end the conversation and felt the steady movement of the train. As we passed through the foothills of the Pyranees, I felt something ineffable, like a mystery was taking place inside of me. In my mind’s eye I was actually on the train to what felt like a train to (if that were possible) the inner rim of God’s heart.

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— Sunrise, by Louise Glück

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“I abandon my addiction to the certainty of life

And my need to know everything

This illusion cannot speak, it cannot walk with me at night

As I taste life's fragility

I am looking for a savior I can see and know and touch

One who dwells within the midst of us

May a broken God be known within the earth beneath our feet,

Let our souls behold humility

Let our souls behold humility

When our plans become the casualties of getting through the day

And we begin to know our weakness

And denial isn't strong enough to hold our fears at bay

And we can't escape our emptiness

I see the sympathy of heaven in the earth and wind and trees

I see hope within the morning sun

I am searching for meaning

I am looking for healing

I am haunted by your reflection

I was blinded by my addictions

I am torn apart by the dying

I am giving up on escaping

Will I learn to live without taking

Will I learn to see beauty in the making

I can't pretend to know

The beginning from the end

But there's beauty in the life thats given

We may bless or we may curse

Every twist and every turn

Will we learn to know the joy of living”

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I think there’s something about lingering a bit longer when you feel the sun on your face in this moment. This Covid-19 inside time.

There’s something in a David Whyte “everything is waiting for you” way of seeing the world. Where the constant feeling of listlessness is replaced by allowing every moment to be imbued with purpose, intention.

I’m not at that place yet. And I’m fortunate to get out of the house for more than an hour, see friends and so on. Still there’s something in seeking out and storing up treasures right now.

The sun becomes the gift that lets you feel more spacious inside, particularly when you spend all your days and nights in the one place.

So of a morning, I remind myself to hang a little longer while I sit with my coffee still hot. I’m fortunate to experience the sun crawl up my body in the sunroom, the lightest, warmest part of the house. This becomes a ritual, a liturgy.

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well, yes brilliant wendell berry

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Who do you notice first? The couple or the girl in the window?