Anyway, here's my slant: Summerland. I don't know if you've seen the movie of the same name?. It was released in 2020 (first year of Covid) and probably didn't get much exposure as a result, which is a shame because it's a first-rate film, an instant 'lost classic' as it were, with a great story line, terrific acting (Gemma Arterton and Lucas Bond in particular are excellent) and the cinematography is stunning. I won't spoil the plot, for do try and catch it if you can, streamed, on DVD, or whenever it crops up on your TV.
Summerland
Suffice to say the movie introduced me to the idea of the Summerland, essentially a pagan concept of an afterlife. Formalised to an extent in theosophical belief and writings (thanks to Swedenborg, Davis and Leadbeater inter alia ), Summerland would seem to represent the highest level or sphere that souls can aspire to between incarnations, before Nirvana is attained (for theosophists believe we are all on a cyclical mission to reach perfection). It is also sometimes referred to as the astral plane, a sort of sunlit upland for those who managed to live good lives before shucking off their mortal host. There is a lot more weird stuff associated with theosophy - like Sanat Kumara who is believed to be the spiritual deity governing Earth from the floating city of Shamballa, somewhere above the Gobi desert - but the movie doesn't get into that level of complexity. For researcher Alice in her cliff-top house and for blitz evacuee Frank, it simply posits the existence of Summerland, and the ability of those with sufficiently open minds to actually glimpse it in the ether as some reassurance in war-torn 1940 that existence goes on after death. Unlikely, of course, but charming nonetheless.Moving on back down to earth in 2022, my own 'house on the strand' (it's not actually on the sea-front but a short walk inland, as anyone who has visited will tell you), is oriented almost precisely east-west. The front faces the rising sun, which filters through the bedroom blinds on a summer morning. It's a splendid thing to wake up to, blue sky, gently warming bright air, the promise of a glorious day to come. By mid-day (give or take a seasonally-adjusted hour) the sun is right above, heading west, flooding the back garden while the front gradually becomes shadowy. It's a house of two halves. The front rooms are warm in the morning but cool in the afternoon and evening as the heat of the day intensifies; the back rooms and back garden are refreshingly cool in the morning but suffused with light and heat right through to sunset. I migrate between front and back as the mood or the need dictates. It works perfectly. Then there are the wrens.
Wrens are beautiful little birds, more often heard than seen because they are small and shy, but they have a distinctive sound and are far more populous than people think (estimated 11,000,000 in the UK). They are also territorial. I have two distinct families of them, one in the front garden and one in the back, with the house acting as a sort of buffer. Occasionally I hear the males singing at the same time, usually but not exclusively at the start of the day. It's a thrill and a highlight of summer mornings, and although I've written a whole blog and poem about this charming bird before (linked here, click on the title: Tails Up), I thought why not do so again from a slightly different, somewhat humorous perspective?
Wren Singing
This then, in first draft, is for wrens everywhere, even though they can't read...Wrens In StereoIf I awake at dawn, the norm for a summer morning,I can lie drowsy listening to the front-of-house wrenbelting forth his silvery song from the magnolia treebeneath my bedroom window, rallying all to the day.
Less distinct, being further away, the backstage wrenwill join the chorus, rehearsing some mercurial linesuntil he's note perfect in the shrubbery. If sometimes,I suppose it's just by chance, their modulations chime
to great effect, I can feel uplifted by the sound, rousemyself to stand equidistant on the landing, the better to balance both outpourings. They're not performing so for me, more likely to secure their territories anew,
but what a rare delight to be showered at start of playby wrens in stereo for ten or fifteen minutes, overtureto the quiet daily drama unfolding in a writer's house,better by far than an intrusion of radio or breakfast tv.
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