New year waking

Field note - 1

This year I’m sharing midweek field notes: short observations from walks in the woods and hills. They’re not essays or teachings, just ways of staying awake to what’s around us. Longer reflections and practices will be for paid readers, but these notes are for everyone — quiet threads you can follow through the year.

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Oh, it’s been a hectic few days! The Christmas chaos was quickly followed by my dog, Indy, getting sick — unable to stand, shaking like a leaf. We rushed her to the vets, who had little idea what was going on: perhaps an inner ear infection, perhaps a brain issue. Antibiotics and anti-inflammatories were administered, as well as a hefty bill at precisely the wrong time of year. The day after, Indy was still walking drunk. But her condition had improved slightly. This morning, just before dawn, we went for a stroll in the woods, which Indy did sideways. I’m hoping that tomorrow she’ll improve a little more, and I’m dreading that she won’t. We’ve been inseparable for a quarter of my life.

At 7.30am the sky is just beginning to lighten here. There is a cold wave forecast for the next few days, subzero temperatures, clear skies. Authentic winter.

Not yet. Thick clouds are still dragging their underbellies across the summits and it’s mild enough to not wear a jacket. The light came up grudgingly, the path through the woods barely visible at first, blackbirds spooking from their roosts, a single robin shaking off its sleep, perched on a hazel branch. The rest of the wood silent, no cars on the road, a distant amber light in an upstairs cottage window. Rushock Hill painted its shape onto the gloom like a picture slowly appearing in a photographer’s darkroom.

Hard to recognise the beginnings of endings, or if they’re endings at all. The only thing to do is stay with the present, stay awake to it, to the streaming abundance of it.

The elderly dog stumbling up the path, following you now, not running ahead as she’s done for 15 years. The birds going about their business as if nothing has happened at all, as if everything happens at once.

Giving the world their all.

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This weekend’s long post, published on Saturday, is about the practice of waking and walking, giving your attention to your community of place, and building resistance to attention theft. It’s the first of a series of practices that will build over the year for paid subscribers. You’re welcome to join us!

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