The cumulonimbus archives - excerpt 2

Thirlmere is one of the lakes in Lake District.

All the lakes are considered to be gems, like jewels set inside lush green mountains. Most people eulogise (actually rhapsodise) about Derwentwater, Buttermere and Ullswater. One poor man gave out of his want, to see that Derwentwater was not touched by tourist influences and for its upkeep; he was absolutely mesmerised by its unsurpassed beauty. Buttermere is one of the most beautiful of the lakes, and on the shore of Ullswater, there are daffodil banks that surely inspired Wordsworth's immortal poem, Daffodils.

(probably one of the daffodil banks that inspired the poem. Photo courtesy John Butler. The lake seen here is Ullswater)

The other lakes, though not thought of in the same breath.......are also favourites. It's like each man has his favourite. There's Rydal Water, with that lovely green slope leading into the water. Grasmere has this grand old oak right on its shores. Bassenthwaite looks the most peaceful. Ennerdale Water is dramatic, with mountains hemming it in. Crummock Water looks lovely in the rain. Coniston Water and Loweswater also have their moments of glory. Even Wast Water, the most chilling and sinister of the lakes, has its gentle side. Haweswater, though little more than a man-made reservoir, has a lovely little island right in the middle. Finally there's Windermere, the largest, which is not lacking in beauty, if only people would stop kayaking up and down in motorboats.

Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons, a picturesque and idyllic tale of children adventuring in the woods, generally accepted as happening along Windermere's shores, but sometimes resembling Coniston Water as well (Wikipedia). Matters very little which of the lakes it really is.

This post is about none of these lakes.

Derwentwater, the lake that inspired a poor man to part with his earnings for its preservation. Photo courtesy John Butler.

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Have you ever felt chilly inside of the heart?

When winter's frost descends. An opaque, sleety white enshrouds all. Apparently, before Herge composed Tintin in Tibet, he had dreams of white, where everything turned to white and he would wake up screaming. Not the PALE WHITE of death, but just icy, pure, white. Like a snowflake.

Under the snow, water freezes. I have this picture of Ullswater and the surface is frozen. The lovely ptarmigan is seen. Snowy buntings and snowy owls. Like the white of tropicbirds.

The heart freezes. It doesn't die; it just stops. The physical still beats, but the heart of the man has stopped. It doesn't matter anymore to keep moving. It's rather time to look around, and see what the white looks like. It's no longer you, but the white around. The crude word people use is hibernation.

It's no time for energy, action, DOING, moving, production, industriousness, enterprise, war or food. It's just stop-ness. Still. Silent. Watching the white come down and enshroud, silently, wordlessly. STOPPED. Not INTERRUPTED, not PAUSED, nor STOPPED DEAD. Just S.T.O.P.P.E.D.

You realise that moving would be wrong. To do would be to disturb the stillness. To expend energy would be such a tragedy. You don't really want to go anywhere or see anyone. You don't WANT. You're not upset or angry, or disturbed or hurt, or ANYTHING. You've just stopped. Slowly, you put things away. All instruments of energy are slowly folded away. The cabin's boarded up. The phone is off the hook. "Gone south for the winter".

Underneath the chilly white sheet, there is life. No one can see the gentle soothing river that flows, but it trickles into your being. Like the Brook of Cherith....in a dry land. It makes no sound, but flows gently over stone-hard rock, softening it and warming it under the chilly white sheet. Healing comes. Depleted mineral stocks replenish. Life slowly eases back into veins. Summer slowly percolates into the deep recesses of winter, underneath the chilly white sheet, waiting its turn..... but for now, no movement.

On the surface, gale force winds blow. Cumulonimbus clouds gather. Icy white and harsh, silhouetted black criss-cross. But nothing moves. You can't tell that anyone lives there.

The dark, dark, dark chilly night of the soul. You do not know whether there is a way out, but you trust in God. Your fears batter you and beat you to the ground, but you have found your refuge. You are not out of the woods yet, but you know God leads you.

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I don't know that my words strike a chord, but underneath the chilly sheet of white, life slowly forms.

I saw this photograph in 2003. Actually I discovered John Butler's site on a frantic search for pictures of the Lake District. Earlier, in the nineties, I saw a picture of an island on Thirlmere, and a leaf in the chilly water. Then came John Butler's picture, taken through the trees on this rise called Raven Crag. Thirlmere looked silent, frozen, still. Not dead, just still. The trees on Raven Crag had bare, frosted branches, creating a bizarre, poky haze. But through the boughs, I saw silent, still Thirlmere.

Thirlmere isn't my favourite lake; Derwentwater is. Or probably Bassenthwaite. Or even Crummock Water. But Thirlmere is more me than Derwentwater is today. Silent, still, unwilling and unable to move a muscle. Inside me, life slowly takes root. Where it may lead when summer comes, I don't know and I don't care. There might be harvest, or there might be colour. Green, maybe, after the frost has cleared.

But for now, Thirlmere lies silent and still.

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Steve Miller and Ben Sidran wrote this absolutely lame, three-chord thing for their album Book of Dreams in 1977. I heard it in 1988, in (!!!!) winter. I didn't know about Thirlmere then. But my heart was already on Raven Crag, looking at that frosted-over surface in the chill of winter.

I wouldn't say it's a beautiful song. But it does say something real and absolutely right. There are times you need to stand back from your life and let those that rush on go right on ahead. We need silence. Stillness. Solitude. They're not indecisiveness; they're just agents of rejuvenation. Things take time. The world is not such a peaceful place where you will get time to reflect and learn, for your future. But you got to create your Thirlmere. You got to get to Raven Crag all by yourself, and take no one along, and then look through the trees. Then you got to let the silence sink in.

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I would like to thank John Butler, and his site on the Lake District, and for that IMMORTAL photo of Thirlmere. I don't know if any other photo I've seen of the Lake District has impacted me as much.

I also thank Steve Miller and Ben Sidran, for their two-penny effort which has gone so far.