The storm may roar without me,
my heart may low be laid;
but God is round about me,
and can I be dismayed?
(Anna Letitia Waring, ‘In Heavenly Love Abiding’ (1850))
Sunday, February 9:
Monday, February 10:
8.00 am: A Communion. 8.45 am: The daily and weekly overview. There was the possibility of achieving a balance between time allocated to teaching, research, and admin this week, with some left over for small buffer periods – to accommodate the unexpected. Ideal! I find it uncomfortable working in a ‘Drop everything and do this instead, NOW!’ environment.
10.00 am: I picked up with where I’d left off on Saturday, making notes from Edmund Jones’s book. On my second pass, I was more sensitised to subtler expressions of sound. My instinct is that I’ll be undertaking plein-air field recordings of natural sounds in preparation for a number of the new compositions:
Periodically, what felt like the tail end of the storm pelted the study Velux window with hail. I recalled Jones’ accounts of spirits casting numerous small stones upon. and sometimes within, Welsh cottages in the eighteenth century. The lunchtime weather prospect:
As I read his narratives of spirits, witches, and fairies that, supposedly, frequented the mountains and hills surrounding my home town in South Wales, my heart and imagination returned to those tracks that I’d walked in my youth:
In the midst of study there are, sometimes, moments of prayer. The instinct is involuntary. Perhaps they’re inspired; or, perhaps, no more than a psychological knee-jerk in response to a memory. But I’ve learned to always respond to these promptings, and believe that no intercession ever falls on deaf ears. The bush burns still:
6.30 pm: Practise session. 7.30 pm: I began inserting my new-found references to sound into the existing matrix. Some form of tabulated cross-referencing may be required. In tandem, I pushed on with the text to my paper, while the wind and rain pressed angrily against the house.