Dancing Back to Life: Six Small Delights

A parcel from a childhood friend in San Francisco was a much needed reminder of a world beyond the doorstep both in time and place in the middle of lockdown. A little book in the post on a day when only the rain was allowed outside showed me how to celebrate. Inside, Ross Gay’s Book of Delights is a series of whimsical, serious, thoughtful mini-essays of things that brought him delight. Here are a few I discovered in that same spirit to share with you.

Inside the swallows’ nest

Swallows fill me with joy and pleasure and worry. They are so very small, and their mud nest perched atop a downspout underneath the eaves seems so fragile. Last year was wet and cold and cold and wet and they might have hatched a brood despite it all, but this year they have managed not just one but two sets of hungry little feather balls. All of which are a cause for delight, but today the little ones are poised on the edge of fencing near their nest — out but not far, winkling their wings and pulling little bits of fluff-feathers out of the way for the sleek flight feathers they need to get all the way to Africa and back. While these little not-quite-fledged-yet birds sit there flexing and preening, their parents feed them. I peered through the window watching and admiring their grace. With my camera poised, I held my breath, framed the busy family, and clicked the shutter. The camera caught the younglings mouths agape, and both hard-working parents: a second parent just coming into frame as the first one leaves. A moment so secret and intimate and precious shared with me.

The heather turning purple

Each day is a bit different. Some days I could catch the colour shifting ever so slightly before my very eyes if I watched carefully enough, but that would spoil the fun of the surprise as the purple catches your eye. I have tried photographing the overall purple haze of it or a close up of heather blossoms, but the best effect is like a chorus line of purple spreading across the horizon that only your eye can take in.

This heather starts purpling up in August or later, at a time when most visitors are packing up and heading home, so it gets to be one of our little secrets in the darkening north.

An Unexpected Laugh in the Garden

My garden friend wrinkles her nose like a reluctant toddler as she tries a pea — a single pea — fresh from the pod. And, nose still crinkled, tries to sound like a grown up: ‘It is sweeter than …’ and we share a laugh that rolls up unannounced from deep down and mixes in with the bird song and wind-shoogle of the garden.

Low tide at Dunnet Beach

There is a beguiling of the eye that takes place when an idea/shape/colour texture hits you. Low tide at Dunnet Beach is always interesting: the mood of the waves coming in; the sand shifting shades as it dries or gets wet again. This day there was the gently curling meander of the water left behind: a little river of moonlight blue spots of colour arching coyly along the beach. Balancing the curving blue meander were ripples and patches of blue on the other side of the beach. With a boulder decorously set among the curves, it seemed a Zen master was at work here. My eyes darted back and forth, a grin spreading across my face.

Soft air

A breath of soft air. We are told not to define something by its negative. Soft air is not the aftermath of a storm buffeting. It is not an easy breeze to keep the midges away or take the last damp out of the clothes on the line nor is it un-salted sea air. It is a gift to lungs and heart and the balm for the all the days the air is not soft.

Essayette

Essayette was the term Ross Gay applied to his catalogue of delights, a term derived from the word "essay", which is related to the French word meaning "to try". The word does not carry the sense of success or failure, just trying. It sounds to me like a term from ballet like pirouette, so I’ve redefined it to mean the moves of someone dancing without regard for anyone/thing else. A move that comes from the centre. I once shared a dance with a man whose awkward movements had cleared the dance floor. The others tut tutting as they hurried to their seats. We danced. I could see the joy in his face. ‘My Huntington’s chorea is in remission, so I can dance again.’ And so we did. Essayette. Keep dancing.