Halcyon days

What seems to happen at this time of year is a search for words to interpret the flood of treasured moments that unfold. Think about your favourite expression to describe the scent of hay, freshly cut, gathered and marching as round bale platoons seemingly calling to the sky just as they vanish, rolling over crests of honeyed stubble on fields forever longing.

Or how about the speckled light that strikes the chrome handlebars of your bike as you cycle through the embrace of sumac that tunnels the Millennium Trail? To watch as the humble mew gull, the Common gull, blossoms into majesty as it takes flight over breakers on the end-of-day lake. Then again to hear the coyotes then the mourning doves and then again the raven’s call and once more the house wren’s chatter as the earth turns and night consents to day; and then….

A young child’s response to sounds and images is generally facial signals; a smile of recognition, eyes wide open surprise or puzzled curiosity; often it’s jaw-dropping wonderment. When there is something to be uttered verbally the language is of its own where it seems adult ears can only interpret by way of tonal measure. Sorta like birdsong in a way, understood but not understood.

Higher expression of the monumental is often captured in the language of the arts. There a felt dialogue can take place within and between our higher selves. My favourite form is children’s art where there are no rules: the intended subject is larger in frame regardless of perspective; figures romp free in imagined anatomies telling of spirit; you don’t need to analyse the work to determine if characters are happy or sad; kids deliver the message straight up whereas the adult viewpoint can be heavily weighed down with the baggage of correctness. Remember having to stay within the lines as the teacher instructed to draw the letter ‘a’ and so on? It’s not only about craft of execution that determines the power of communication.

One of the most renown of 20th century multi-discipline artists, Pablo Picasso, was tutored by his father when Picasso was seven. The evolution of his thinking or rather non-thinking but more or less his impulses throughout his lifetime are telling of the search for release from boundaries of the common and to push through to interpreting the extraordinary. “It took me four years to paint like Raphael but a lifetime to paint like a child,” Picasso said. At fourteen his learned skills were explicit: once the fundamentals are understood then to go beyond the technical and re-find the air of freedom, expression sans preconceived notions of public acceptance and especially of oneself is the higher sanctuary I feel. Generally, as adults, it is fear of notice that imprisons our natural want to exercise our authentic voice.

I find that these halcyon days of summer fuel playfulness. The responsibilities remain and also while I enjoy winter I remind myself of the fireside inner promises of warm weather freedom, a call for celebration as much as the release from school was for me a ticket to run.

The ready access to nature in our present surrounds and the host of moments to take in is invigorating. This column is inspired by my signing up to the simplest of nudges and going for it, to simply play. My accomplice in the scheme is Chloe, my orange 1975 made-in-France Solex bike. Chloe is related to the many such bikes with a tiny putt-putt motor driving the front wheel that star in French genre films. Okay, I agree it’s a bit of a cheat on the true cyclist’s culture, but honestly, without my dependable twowheeler, I cannot be exploring the way I currently am. You see with Chloe I retain the lung power to sing while I ride; I don’t need spandex wear for streamlining, in fact I have the chance to count the cattle in passing fields as Chloe crawls up hills, admittedly so slow the vultures will often begin to circle.

Chloe invites me to sunsets at the beach; to ice cream and iced lattes; especially I get to places of discovery that enthuse me to rummage through my bag of descriptives to render the feelings that I take away, that I can carry home to add to my sock drawer of unfathomable impressions, moments that can be hauled out on any rainy day. So I’m not running with the Harleys or the ten-speed outfits, but the truth is. Chloe and I seem to share a childlike wonderment sans frontier.