The Nightjar – A Call to Presence

Last year, I discovered that nightjars live on the common right behind my house. At first, I thought I was hearing frogs—but may friend Camilla told me it was a nightjar. It was the most extraordinary thing. I was struck by the fact that I’ve lived here for 15 years and never noticed them. I hadn’t heard them before—or maybe I just hadn't been paying attention.

That realisation was quietly disconcerting. It made me feel disconnected from the natural world around me—and disappointed in myself. I listened again for the nightjar but didn’t hear it.

Until one day, a year later

I was so excited, I called Julian and Jess to come and listen. The night was still and warm. Maybe that’s what made the nightjar call. That moment of shared listening stayed with me—simple, beautiful, and full of meaning.

Life feels more precious now. Change is all around—some of it joyful, some of it difficult. There are moments of struggle, transitions that stir up emotion, and quiet miracles unfolding. It all invites a deeper awareness, a sense that time is moving, and that paying attention matters more than ever.

All of this has made me more sensitive to the quiet things.

The call of the nightjar has taken on a new resonance for me. It’s connected to twilight, listening, presence. The unseen things. I’m learning to honour the silence, the spaces in between. To not be afraid of the dark, or stillness, or the unknown.

It’s strange and beautiful how a single moment in nature can anchor so much emotion. The nightjar has become a symbol of longing for me. A blend of feelings: nostalgia, yearning, presence, absence. A craving for something both near and far. For something just out of reach but achingly familiar.

Longing is a complex emotion

It’s elusive. It can’t be forced or solved. It has to be witnessed.

The nightjar reminded me: you don’t have to see something to feel it.

This deepened awareness, this practice of listening and holding space for the unseen, is beginning to shape my art in new ways. I find myself drawn to liminal moments—the twilight tones, the sense of presence within absence, the soft edges of emotion that can’t quite be named. My work is becoming less about representation and more about evocation. It’s a reflection of longing, stillness, and connection—a visual echo of the nightjar’s call, reminding us to slow down, listen deeply, and honour what we can’t always explain.