Storm writing
Even in the Northeast, everyone is bracing for Hurricane Sandy. Back on Wednesday, before it had really registered as a force to be reckoned with, I read this episode in The Child from the Sea and thought it was just stunning. I’m not sure why it had such an impact on me, but it’s partly that it represents some fine nature writing.
I live inland and have never spent much time near the sea, but Elizabeth Goudge consistently enables me to feel the immensity and power of the ocean. It’s a presence in almost everything she writes, and I find myself longing for the sound of the breakers and the cold spray of salt water. The sea seems like a counterpart for some aspect of the human soul that has been tongue-tied or asleep in me.
This scene describes the evening before a storm in Wales. I don’t usually copy out long excerpts from books I’m reading, but this one seems appropriate for this period of waiting for Sandy. (A full review will have to wait till I finish the book.)
She stood knee-deep in tawny bracken and the vast sky above her was the dim gold of very old beaten metal, thunder gold. Yet there was no haze or oppression of thunder. The only hint of storm was the deep eerie boom of the tide in the caves below the cliff. The sea was calm gold, yet below the surface Lucy knew it must be stirring around the tree trunks of Cantre’r Gwaelod, the lost land under the waves. The orange sun was low over the sea, the path of its reflection trembling a little on the surface of the gold, but Lucy tonight would not see the green flash as it disappeared into the sea, for above the horizon was a bank of cloud the color of the fading heather. The sun reached it and sank slowly, and then all the cloud bank was edged with fire. It grew colder and the land darkened and it seemed to Lucy that the sky reflected the darkness. Then from somewhere far down below her, from some hidden cave, came a great and tragic cry, like some heartbroken prophet crying out in despair at what he had seen. Coming at such a moment the seal’s cry seemed dreadful to Lucy and she turned and fled inland.
It was then she became aware of the birds. They were coming down from the sky like drifting autumn leaves, martins, chaffinches, goldfinches and linnets, finding their way to the bracken-sheltered hollows and the warm dry hedges and the safe crannies of the rocks. Lucy had watched the bird migrations before but she had never seen one halted like this, halted as the warning sounded along the shore. She stood still, scarcely breathing, her arms out and her face turned up to the darkening sky, and they had no fear of her. A wing brushed her cheek and just for a moment some tired little being alighted on her hand, putting on one finger for ever the memory of a tiny claw that clung like a wedding ring. It was for her a moment of ecstasy, of marriage with all living creatures, of unity with life itself, and she whispered in Welsh, “Dear God, this happiness is too great for me!” Then she began to cry again and she no longer saw the birds, only heard them and felt them, drifting and rustling, their colors muted in the twilight, glad to drift upon the tides of the air, to fall and sleep.
What follows is a description of the storm and a shipwreck, the second shipwreck description I’ve read in a Goudge novel. It must have been a part of life for the islanders she writes about.
She writes with the exact and loving detail of someone who has observed carefully. She names the birds. She captures the colors and the emotional import of the seal’s cry. She takes her time with the stages of the sunset. The level of awareness, of literacy at reading the natural scene, is something to aspire to, something that only comes from spending alert, unhurried time outdoors.
I read the passage to my daughters, and they both made a little spontaneous outcry as the bird landed on Lucy’s finger. We’re helpless birdlovers around here, and the feeders will be full for any “tired little beings” who drop from the sky and wait out the storm here.
The pre-storm brooding is a very different experience for us, much farther from the source. But the gusts will reach 70 mph even here next week, the forecasters warn. This scene will be in my mind as we wait.
6 Comments
Barbara H.
I always lived in states with coastlines until we moved to TN. I miss not being near the ocean even though I didn’t get to the coast all that often in those states.
Hope you all stay safe in the storm.
Sahamamama
Here in New Jersey, we are bracing for quite a storm! With all our work done, we spent the afternoon outside, where the wind whipped and whirled autumn leaves. We loved the wildness of the weather today, and were so glad to be out in it. But I’m thankful for a solid roof tonight. Hang tight, this will pass.
Sahamamama
Janet, did you know that the clock on the comments seems to be set to Greenwich Mean Time? Hmmm. It’s actually 11:17 pm on Sunday.
The best sentence from the excerpt is, “It was then she became aware of the birds.” How wonderful it is to become aware — of anything, especially birds.
Janet
New Jersey! Batten down the hatches and take good care, Sahamamama.
Thanks for the tip about the timezone. I tried to change it in my settings panel — not sure if I succeeded, though.
Sahamamama
* That was some storm here in central New Jersey! I have never heard such wind in all my life — like a freight train coming through for over two hours on Monday night. I thought the roof would blow off. Amazingly, our house has no damage, no trees down, only leaves plastered to the house. Even our (mostly stray) cat is surprisingly clean and VERY happy to be fed. We have no power, though, and that will perhaps take days or weeks to restore.
* At the New Jersey shore, the storm has altered the landscape completely. Entire sections of the shoreline have become one with the bay and the ocean.
* I was thinking back this week to my time as a child, playing along the shoreline, digging for sand crabs, swimming in the surf — my mother always sobered us with the warning, “The Atlantic Ocean is more powerful than you are! Be aware of where you are and be careful!” This brainwashing has been a good thing over a lifetime of living near enough to the ocean to need a healthy respect for it.
* Usually, our experiences of nature are of the softer, more delicate variety — a sunset, a small bird, a falling leaf, an ant hill, moss on a rock. Now, I think nature study of the small things is wonderful, especially with small children, but if that’s all we do, our perspective of ourselves may become a bit skewed. We are not so “big,” after all. Hurricane Sandy — or Post-Tropical Cyclone Sandy (LOL) — proves how small and powerless we really are.
* It’s as if the tables are turned, and we are the leaf in the wind or the ant on the sidewalk. When the storm comes in, it’s good to get out of the way. Stay warm and dry.
Janet
I’m very glad to hear you’re all right! We were braced for the worst but didn’t get hit badly in upstate NY. Our hearts go out to those who were less fortunate.
I think in general the western nature writers, like John Muir, capture the powerful, vast aspects of nature more consistently. Something about the western landscape doesn’t let humans forget their smallness as easily. But I think humility is one of the trademarks of nature writers, wherever they live. All it takes is a thunderstorm or a river in flood to jog our memory of our limitations.
The hubris of humans is apparent in where they chose to build their homes — below sea level, in earthquake zones, in places where water has to be piped thousands of miles, on seasides. It’s not a surprise when nature flexes its muscles and humans feel the effects, but it’s tragic just the same.