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What silence revealed
Following an unexpected family visit over the weekend and a busy household, this week brought a very different kind of experience: silence.
Our usual walks along the river felt strangely still, as though the birds had left or were keeping out of the heat.
At Skipwith, all we saw was a lone roe deer fawn and cinnabar moth caterpillars greedily munching their way through the ragwort and few young chiffchaffs bathing quietly amongst the reeds near what was left of the flagship pond, seeking relief from the heat.
The ancient gnarly oak provided some shelter from the heat of the mid-afternoon sun.
The English Longhorns and their calves lay motionless in the shade, barely acknowledging our presence as we walked by.
The local ponds have all but disappeared, except for one beside the river which seems to shrink a little more each day. Even the dragonflies have vanished from the water's edge.
The fields have turned from a vibrant green to parched shades of yellow and brown. The broad beans that the cows so enjoyed eating, have withered.
One evening, our usual route was interrupted by a family riding scrambler bikes along the lane. Looking for somewhere quieter, we walked on to the next village before returning along the river. It felt eerily peaceful. The only sounds were our footsteps crunching over gravel, dirt and dry straw. Even the cows, usually impossible to miss, were nowhere to be seen.
There had been so little to photograph all week that, for the first time in months, I made a decision.
The next day, I left my camera at home.
And, of course, that was the evening that nature had other ideas!
Some moments, it seems, are simply just meant to be witnessed.
A lone copper dragonfly patrolled the lane in search of food.
Dozens of gulls swooped low over the river and pond, pausing to float and drink before taking to the air once more.
A peregrine falcon shrieked from the Wistow side of the river, effortlessly leaving behind the crow trying to mob it - our first ever sighting of one in the wild, and far too distant for a phone camera to do it any justice.
A determined sheep hobbled after its flock, every step looking painful but it refused to be left behind.
A kestrel burst into flight as we came over the bund, passing over a heron perched high in a tree while a cormorant stood on watch from its familiar lookout.
A hare darted between the reeds as though being chased, before disappearing behind a willow tree on the river’s edge.
A roe deer doe and her two fawns that had been stood on the path bounded across the recently cropped barley field, pausing only for long enough to make sure we had kept our distance before continuing on their way.
The familiar wheezy chatter of greenfinches had returned as they sat on telegraph poles, bringing with them a reassuring sense that not everything had disappeared.
Swallows skimmed low across the ground before settling briefly in the middle of the road.
It was the wrong evening to leave my camera behind.
It reminded me how quickly we can create our own stories about what is possible, or not.
After several quiet evenings, I'd concluded that there would be nothing worth photographing.
I had mistaken silence for emptiness.
Nature, as she so often does, proved me wrong.
I wondered just how often we do this in life.
We assume that opportunities have gone.
We decide that nothing is changing.
We convince ourselves that because things feel quiet, they must also be empty.
Yet beneath the surface, life continues to move.
Sometimes the changes are simply quieter than we expected, or the white noise from our lives prevents us from pausing to notice them.
Coaching doesn't create those possibilities. They already exist.
What coaching often offers is the space to notice them again. To pause long enough to listen beyond the noise - or even, as I found out this week, beyond the silence - and to recognise choices, opportunities, and new directions that may have been there all along, yet unseen. As well as the consequences of missing them.
Sometimes clarity arrives with a sudden breakthrough.
But more often, like a peregrine glimpsed unexpectedly across a river, it appears when we least expect it.
The quiet wasn't empty after all. It was simply waiting for me to look again.
lovely post - I felt I was there. Nature's moment are fleeting - I found myslef thinking leaving the camera behind what you noticed in nature - more or less, my camera has me searching and looking deep but hands swinging and free there's a sense of freedom and aliveness (?)