I was listening to birdsong at 6 am this morning, and was struck by how much of it seemed to be made up of distinct sentences made up of distinct words or tweets. Are blackbirds saying things that we don’t understand? It seemed very likely.
It all kicks off at the crack of dawn, and lasts about quarter of an hour. The blackbirds move from one place to another. And this morning one of those places was right outside my window, and I was surprised just how loud it was.
It reminded me of Rudyard Kipling’s Rikki-Tikki-Tavi when the birds all sing, “Ding-dong-tock. Nag is dead,” after the mongoose kills the snake. It was one of the first books I read as a child, and remains a vivid memory. I remember being taught to read by my mother, and thinking that it was all just pointless gazing at sheets of paper, and I had better things to do. I changed my mind after reading my first story, and started reading avidly.
It was the same after my mother taught me to write. After that I started writing my own stories about cats and mice that lived around an old mill pond. I wrote whole books of stories, the main character of which was a cat called Twinkle, in my barely-legible handwriting.
After that I carried on writing all my life. I felt that writing helped me to slow down my thinking as I searched for the words to express myself. I filled reams of paper with words.
Writing a blog was a natural continuation of that.
But these days I seem to have less and less to say.