Wye at Hay, firesmoke and St Mary’s Church tower. Photo by me.
For clarity, just in case people don’t understand this word I now use instead of Environmental Ethics in the field of Philosophy.
I contend there is no such thing as an external ‘environment’, based on new/ancient understanding of the interconnectivity of all, within and without. We are symlings among symlings, inhaling, ingesting, excreting, respiring, transpiring what is without and within. All is flow in the nagorasphere.
In a sense, environmentalism never truly reflected reality, and so was always going to fail in the long run. Evidence abounds.
Sym ~ assimilated from Greek form of syn- word element meaning “together with, jointly; alike; at the same time;” from PIE (proto-indo-european) ksun or sm meaning “together”. … Read more
Beavers are Fluminists. By Ginny Battson. First published by Zoomorphic October 9th 2017.
Spring 2005, and I peer through my living room window to check the weather. It’s looking good, the sun is out. My husband has left for a day’s work at UMaine Orono, so I lower my baby girl into her papoose and strap her in. We are through the fly screen door and out onto the road.
The residential lots of leafy Gilbert Street are studded with blue and red flags, remnants of last winter’s political war that saw Republican oilmen G.W. Bush and Dick Cheney take charge of the Whitehouse for a second term. … Read more
If you haven’t heard Melissa Harrison’s The Stubborn Light of Things, you’re missing a treat; it is a salve for our times. It began at the start of lockdown here in the UK, intent on bringing the natural world, at least in audio, to those more unable to get out. This week (number 25), I’m honoured to be taking part.
Melissa is an award winning nature writer, novelist, diarist, and now podcaster (with a wonderful supporting team), and I possess all her books. I look forward to adding her latest to my shelves, a collection of her beloved Nature Notebook columns written for The Times, now to be published in hardback this coming November by Faber & Faber, also named The Stubborn Light of Things. … Read more
I am in my new, rented, Victorian back yard, refreshing the pot garden and pond in the fading light, though there’s a spectacular beauty who already presides here, and I acknowledge I am in her realm. She is known by the taxonomists as Araneus diadematus, garden orb-web spider, but I call her Queen. Queen has made her home inside the head of my sea horse wind chime, and I have to remember to avoid her incredible web at all times as I carefully potter about in her shadow.
White markings on her abdomen in the shape of a cross are made from cells containing the protein guanine. … Read more
Coal spoils at Llanbradach, South Wales. Photo by me. Please click on the photo for more information from the Wildlife Trusts on the nature of Llangwellas known so far as Brownfield Sites.
A while back, I was asked by my good friend, Jo Cartmell, @watervole and @nearbywild on Twitter, to think about creating a new word instead of ‘brownfield’ when referring to abandoned industrial or waste land after development. As she rightly points out, some of these places can be buzzing with the most amazing wildlife, often small and beyond of our consciousness at first, due to the exquisite evolutionary process of primary succession. … Read more
I haven’t been to Bodenham Lake for a few years. Last time, I sat with my little girl in a bird hide on a cold wintry day, with Bendog at my knee, bewitched by barnacle geese feeding and preening. Today, Gracie started sixth form college, so I decided to mark it with a wilder walk on my own.
My intention was for a quiet moment of reflection. But, ah, to wander the old quarry lake worked hard by the Wildlife Trust for the benefit of gentle waders, with their stick-thin legs and crackable eggs. With internal combustion engines at full blast, and the other crushing, whiny sounds of bulldozers and chainsaws travelling loud across an expanse of flat, steely grey, there were no water birds to be seen. … Read more
Wye at Hereford – mute swan paddles through reflections of the Bishop’s Palace. Photo by me.
From our big sky vista to a small Victorian brick yard, my pot garden is ruffled, but not dead. Plants, some bagged for ease of carry, are limp over algae concrete sloping to a small drain cover I already cleaned.
I couldn’t face a last fare-thee-well to my Cardiffian birds. I looked up briefly through the crack in the door, hand on steering wheel, as I lowered into the driving seat. A few gulls and pigeons peered down at me from the balcony wall, and I felt rightly judged. … Read more