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A glorious autumn
23/10/22 16:28This season has saved my sanity this year what with one thing and another. Being out there puts all the sad and crazy and demands into perspective, so I thought I’d share a bit of it with you. xxx
That which comes to us all
13/9/22 20:25I've been thinking a lot about those no longer with us recently, and those whose days here are short. I'm pretty sure that the coverage of the Queen's death in Scotland last week has reached all corners by now and the grief in the country is palpable. Everything is a little bit reserved and quieter in deference to her loss and the grief of her family - not many people can command the mourning of an entire nation, but it seems to be genuine and freely given. It brings some perspective and a sense of scale to the grief of my own family though recent days.
My life seems to have been touched by the death or illness of several key people recently. I wrote last year of the loss of my sister-in-law and since then I have dreamed of other deceased family members several times. My grandfather, a funny, king, family-loving man in particular has been a presence in my dreams a couple of times. I find such meetings unsettling but rewarding and calming too, on reflection. I guess it is just a time in my life that my older family members are beginning to reach an age where some of them will sicken and die naturally.
My mother in law was born in the same year as the Queen. Her life is winding down; she is tired and introspective, trapped in a world where she is a part of life and yet not. She is very deaf and her memory is short yet she loves to see us all, on Skype or in person. She has lived a long and amazing life, with a wealth of stories and memories and a big family. She speaks openly of having lived too long now and we smile and chide her for her dramatics but there is a genuine feeling behind her words. Her friends are mostly gone and her beloved husband left us a decade ago - she still misses him, I think.
Now she has to face the fact that she might outlive her son, who retired age sixty at the beginning of the year to focus on his fight against a cancer that he has been battling for a decade or more. My brother in law moved to the other side of the world to start a new life thirty years ago, and now he is there and we are still here, waiting for news on his condition, how he is that day, what he is feeling and how much pain he is in. It's brutal and upsetting for them and for us. His wife, despite the support of all the visitors and their neighbours and friends, is facing a life alone in a place filled with memories of her soul mate. He loves fast cars, beer, cycling, sailing, the environment and the Stranglers. He is not old. He worked all his life for nine months of illness instead of retirement.
So what is my point? I'm not sure, to be honest. Other than my grandparents when I was quite young, I haven't had to face a lot of deaths, and only once, devastatingly, of a young person. My feelings are the classic mix of anger, confusion, despair, guilt and a hollowness that no amount of words will fill. I tell myself it is part of life - I know it is - it is the surest part of the human condition - it happens to all of us and we all experience it when it touches those who we know and love.
None of these things help right now.
But in a few months, I will be listening to the radio, or be walking by the sea, or working in the garden and some aspect of their lives will flicker across my mind - a rose, a song, a recipe, a sailboat, a phrase or an old joke, a moment that has made it into family lore. A word. A dream.
A memory.
And I will smile as I realise that they have not travelled so far away after all.
My life seems to have been touched by the death or illness of several key people recently. I wrote last year of the loss of my sister-in-law and since then I have dreamed of other deceased family members several times. My grandfather, a funny, king, family-loving man in particular has been a presence in my dreams a couple of times. I find such meetings unsettling but rewarding and calming too, on reflection. I guess it is just a time in my life that my older family members are beginning to reach an age where some of them will sicken and die naturally.
My mother in law was born in the same year as the Queen. Her life is winding down; she is tired and introspective, trapped in a world where she is a part of life and yet not. She is very deaf and her memory is short yet she loves to see us all, on Skype or in person. She has lived a long and amazing life, with a wealth of stories and memories and a big family. She speaks openly of having lived too long now and we smile and chide her for her dramatics but there is a genuine feeling behind her words. Her friends are mostly gone and her beloved husband left us a decade ago - she still misses him, I think.
Now she has to face the fact that she might outlive her son, who retired age sixty at the beginning of the year to focus on his fight against a cancer that he has been battling for a decade or more. My brother in law moved to the other side of the world to start a new life thirty years ago, and now he is there and we are still here, waiting for news on his condition, how he is that day, what he is feeling and how much pain he is in. It's brutal and upsetting for them and for us. His wife, despite the support of all the visitors and their neighbours and friends, is facing a life alone in a place filled with memories of her soul mate. He loves fast cars, beer, cycling, sailing, the environment and the Stranglers. He is not old. He worked all his life for nine months of illness instead of retirement.
So what is my point? I'm not sure, to be honest. Other than my grandparents when I was quite young, I haven't had to face a lot of deaths, and only once, devastatingly, of a young person. My feelings are the classic mix of anger, confusion, despair, guilt and a hollowness that no amount of words will fill. I tell myself it is part of life - I know it is - it is the surest part of the human condition - it happens to all of us and we all experience it when it touches those who we know and love.
None of these things help right now.
But in a few months, I will be listening to the radio, or be walking by the sea, or working in the garden and some aspect of their lives will flicker across my mind - a rose, a song, a recipe, a sailboat, a phrase or an old joke, a moment that has made it into family lore. A word. A dream.
A memory.
And I will smile as I realise that they have not travelled so far away after all.
Tags:
- acceptance.,
- age,
- grief,
- hope,
- loss
I've recently been in hospital for what they call an elective operation - that always strikes me as odd. Elective makes it sound like something cosmetic or frivolous! All I can say is that if I had had a vote, I would not have chosen to do that!
... All of which is beside the point, which is that today I went walking by myself for the first time in three weeks. It was early and the sun was up. I walked down to the stream and marked that all the wild flowers had changed in the time I have been out of action. The purples and pinks were gone and now there's a hundred shades of white from pristine and glowing of white campion to the clotted cream colour of wild carrot and cow parsley. A cuckoo was calling repeatedly, something that always gives me mixed feelings. I love their call and my dad and I have an annual contest for who can hear the earliest cuckoo and who can find the first catkins, but I know that some poor confused birdy parents are working themselves to death trying to feed this monstrous baby that looks nothing like them and was their only 'offspring' this season.
It was a nice walk, short and slow, but early morning is my favourite time of day to be out and being able to take the time to listen to the birds and watch the stream was just what my soul needed. But how can it almost be midsummer already? Crazy!
I've been thinking more about the thin places that I mentioned last time, so expect more rambling on that soon.
... All of which is beside the point, which is that today I went walking by myself for the first time in three weeks. It was early and the sun was up. I walked down to the stream and marked that all the wild flowers had changed in the time I have been out of action. The purples and pinks were gone and now there's a hundred shades of white from pristine and glowing of white campion to the clotted cream colour of wild carrot and cow parsley. A cuckoo was calling repeatedly, something that always gives me mixed feelings. I love their call and my dad and I have an annual contest for who can hear the earliest cuckoo and who can find the first catkins, but I know that some poor confused birdy parents are working themselves to death trying to feed this monstrous baby that looks nothing like them and was their only 'offspring' this season.
It was a nice walk, short and slow, but early morning is my favourite time of day to be out and being able to take the time to listen to the birds and watch the stream was just what my soul needed. But how can it almost be midsummer already? Crazy!
I've been thinking more about the thin places that I mentioned last time, so expect more rambling on that soon.
Tags:
The Thin Places
7/4/22 21:20I've been watching a programme about the islands around Scotland and their links with the early Celtic church. Many Irish monks who became saints travelled these islands 1600 years ago, spreading the word of their god. I was not watching for the religious content, but for Scotland itself, it is a place that is important in my life although I struggle to explain why, but then an idea in the narration grabbed my attention and it hasn't left me since.
Many people in the footage, both religious and otherwise, explain their connection to the islands off Scotland - how they had felt drawn there and at peace there. How they had had different lives but somehow longed for these places without ever having set foot upon them before. They spoke of an idea of a 'thin place'. Now, ideas differ as to whether this is something the saints spoke of, whether it is a Celtic state of awareness or if it is a poem or a song or the writing of someone inspired by these places, but the concept is the same.
The thin places, as they explained it, are places where you can feel that the wall between you and your god or some higher power or an awareness of the spiritual is much closer than in your day to day life, as if you could reach out and touch them. Being scientifically minded and an atheist , I thought I might dismiss such fanciful notions but they resonated with me because I have experienced these places and although I was not moved to explain these sensations as being nearer a god, nonetheless I was brought up short by them.
Some of these places have been in Scotland, some in the mountains of Europe, one, very strangely, in a city in Italy. Many of them have been close to water - rivers, lakes, the sea - and almost all of them have been in nature. They are places that have removed the chatter of my daily life from my mind, places to rest, to exist more simply, even for a few moments. Their colours seem brighter, more pleasing, their sounds more soothing. They refresh your soul and lead you to a place of deep calm where perspective is restored and the irritations and distractions of daily life drop away as if they had never been there. Sometimes they are specific to a time of day or a change in the light. Sometimes they move you to tears although you cannot say why. And these places are rare.
I would suggest that there are some places that most people would recognise as being special or apart from others, even the most pragmatic of souls can feel the difference. Some people I think are more sensitive to such locations - or perhaps there are these places for everyone and they don't all look the same or have the same elements which they are made from.
To me it feels like lightness - like a weight I hadn't even known I was carrying around with me has been lifted. It brings to mind music and gives a clarity of thought and a surge of creativity. In such places, I am patient and slow of thought instead of driven by reaction to my environment. I am quiet in mind and of speech. And now I know why. I know what these places are - these are my thin places - rare and priceless.
Many people in the footage, both religious and otherwise, explain their connection to the islands off Scotland - how they had felt drawn there and at peace there. How they had had different lives but somehow longed for these places without ever having set foot upon them before. They spoke of an idea of a 'thin place'. Now, ideas differ as to whether this is something the saints spoke of, whether it is a Celtic state of awareness or if it is a poem or a song or the writing of someone inspired by these places, but the concept is the same.
The thin places, as they explained it, are places where you can feel that the wall between you and your god or some higher power or an awareness of the spiritual is much closer than in your day to day life, as if you could reach out and touch them. Being scientifically minded and an atheist , I thought I might dismiss such fanciful notions but they resonated with me because I have experienced these places and although I was not moved to explain these sensations as being nearer a god, nonetheless I was brought up short by them.
Some of these places have been in Scotland, some in the mountains of Europe, one, very strangely, in a city in Italy. Many of them have been close to water - rivers, lakes, the sea - and almost all of them have been in nature. They are places that have removed the chatter of my daily life from my mind, places to rest, to exist more simply, even for a few moments. Their colours seem brighter, more pleasing, their sounds more soothing. They refresh your soul and lead you to a place of deep calm where perspective is restored and the irritations and distractions of daily life drop away as if they had never been there. Sometimes they are specific to a time of day or a change in the light. Sometimes they move you to tears although you cannot say why. And these places are rare.
I would suggest that there are some places that most people would recognise as being special or apart from others, even the most pragmatic of souls can feel the difference. Some people I think are more sensitive to such locations - or perhaps there are these places for everyone and they don't all look the same or have the same elements which they are made from.
To me it feels like lightness - like a weight I hadn't even known I was carrying around with me has been lifted. It brings to mind music and gives a clarity of thought and a surge of creativity. In such places, I am patient and slow of thought instead of driven by reaction to my environment. I am quiet in mind and of speech. And now I know why. I know what these places are - these are my thin places - rare and priceless.
Tags:
I'm reading a book at the moment - well two... okay, four books.... but the one I wanted to write about today is a book about refugees.
It's called the Bee Keeper of Aleppo and it's a bestseller - you may have seen it around. It's beautifully written and very emotive. The problem is that I hate reading it.
I am forcing myself to continue out of guilt, because the topic, however carefully and delicately framed is the inhumanity of humanity. It's written about Syrian refugees from the civil war that has raged there for a decade but it could be about any displaced people from anywhere. They are just people who had lives and families and homes and jobs and who now have nothing - and worse than nothing, they have those who prey on them for sex or cash or labour, or use them as a political tool. In a lot of ways the reaction to these poor people is as bad if not worse than that which they suffered in their own countries. They were forced to leave and come looking for safety and a chance to heal and thrive but all they find is bureaucracy and contempt and indifference. It is heartbreaking - this book is a work of fiction, but I know that the author worked with refugees, so I believe that a lot of what she has put in there comes from real life accounts.
So I am struggling through this book because to look away and to hide from the brutality of a refugee's life would be the easy thing to do - it's awful - everyone knows that, but my awful and what those people have endured are two very different things.
I read a chapter or two, then I put it down - I go outside and I look at the violets pushing up everywhere and I listen to the skylarks, telling me that it's spring and I am grateful for never having had to know the things I am reading, for real. There but for grace, right?
It's called the Bee Keeper of Aleppo and it's a bestseller - you may have seen it around. It's beautifully written and very emotive. The problem is that I hate reading it.
I am forcing myself to continue out of guilt, because the topic, however carefully and delicately framed is the inhumanity of humanity. It's written about Syrian refugees from the civil war that has raged there for a decade but it could be about any displaced people from anywhere. They are just people who had lives and families and homes and jobs and who now have nothing - and worse than nothing, they have those who prey on them for sex or cash or labour, or use them as a political tool. In a lot of ways the reaction to these poor people is as bad if not worse than that which they suffered in their own countries. They were forced to leave and come looking for safety and a chance to heal and thrive but all they find is bureaucracy and contempt and indifference. It is heartbreaking - this book is a work of fiction, but I know that the author worked with refugees, so I believe that a lot of what she has put in there comes from real life accounts.
So I am struggling through this book because to look away and to hide from the brutality of a refugee's life would be the easy thing to do - it's awful - everyone knows that, but my awful and what those people have endured are two very different things.
I read a chapter or two, then I put it down - I go outside and I look at the violets pushing up everywhere and I listen to the skylarks, telling me that it's spring and I am grateful for never having had to know the things I am reading, for real. There but for grace, right?
Enduring hope
6/3/22 14:16The world is in tough times, there's no two ways about it. War, climate crisis, hate, intolerance, poverty - the lesser or greater degrees there are very few people right now who can say they are living the sweet life. There are even those who, like, me, find it impossible to put up emotional barriers against the onslaught of desperate news that we are bombarded with, day in and day out. I find myself so affected by the suffering and the inhumanity of some that I have to actively avoid the news or workplace chat or social media to protect myself from it. And if it's not humanity as a whole, it's on a more personal scale. Within my circle of closest friends I have a divorce after 30 years, an advanced case of breast cancer and someone who has had their life's saving scammed from them by people purporting to be their bank. Some days are just too hard to bear.
This week I was looking forward to meeting up with my reading club friends who I met at work some years ago and found a mutual appreciation of a good book. We gathered at our usual pub, bought pots of tea and settled down to catch up with each other before we discussed our last read. I was asked first, so I explained some stress and tension at work, some minor health issues that were niggling, my plans for the year - normal stuff. My friends however had such terrible stories to share that I was left in shame that I had even imagined that I wasn't one of fortune's favoured ones. One lady has a sister in law in a flat in Kyiv, remaining with her elderly and ill parents as the bombs explode all around them, waiting for the one that doesn't miss. Another friend has a partner who has an unidentified wasting illness after a brush with Covid - she herself had it over Christmas and had lost so much weight from being forgotten up in her bed and feeling too ill to get up to feed herself.
They both did their best to steer the conversation away from these awful stories but we were a subdued bunch that discussed our last book and chose the next. I drove home depressed and sad, and had nightmares, back to back all night.
I got up early the next morning and took my dog for her usual walk. I knew that this would most likely clear my mind and give me some peace. I had already decided to donate to a refugee charity that I have supported in the past but walking along the streets of my village as the sun began to rise, I saw that there were already notices about collections points for donations and people who had left boxes outside for people to leave items for babies and hygiene necessities to pass on to people in the local town who had hired vans to drive to Poland to deliver what was given.
My heart was already filling with hope as I walked towards the field path to home, the crows making their noisy way to their day's haunts. The trees which had been felled by the terrible winds of the week before were neatly chopped and snacked, their driveways cleared by neighbours and friends after the massive trunks had blocked the routes and as the hedges ended and the field opened ahead of me the sun was visible, low on the horizon and partially hidden by clouds, but a beautiful pink/red that streaked the sky and made even the tattered, grey rain clouds glow purple and magenta.
I made my donation online when I got home and added items to my shopping list to take to the donation points, took a deep breath and carried on with my day. Not better, but hopeful.
This week I was looking forward to meeting up with my reading club friends who I met at work some years ago and found a mutual appreciation of a good book. We gathered at our usual pub, bought pots of tea and settled down to catch up with each other before we discussed our last read. I was asked first, so I explained some stress and tension at work, some minor health issues that were niggling, my plans for the year - normal stuff. My friends however had such terrible stories to share that I was left in shame that I had even imagined that I wasn't one of fortune's favoured ones. One lady has a sister in law in a flat in Kyiv, remaining with her elderly and ill parents as the bombs explode all around them, waiting for the one that doesn't miss. Another friend has a partner who has an unidentified wasting illness after a brush with Covid - she herself had it over Christmas and had lost so much weight from being forgotten up in her bed and feeling too ill to get up to feed herself.
They both did their best to steer the conversation away from these awful stories but we were a subdued bunch that discussed our last book and chose the next. I drove home depressed and sad, and had nightmares, back to back all night.
I got up early the next morning and took my dog for her usual walk. I knew that this would most likely clear my mind and give me some peace. I had already decided to donate to a refugee charity that I have supported in the past but walking along the streets of my village as the sun began to rise, I saw that there were already notices about collections points for donations and people who had left boxes outside for people to leave items for babies and hygiene necessities to pass on to people in the local town who had hired vans to drive to Poland to deliver what was given.
My heart was already filling with hope as I walked towards the field path to home, the crows making their noisy way to their day's haunts. The trees which had been felled by the terrible winds of the week before were neatly chopped and snacked, their driveways cleared by neighbours and friends after the massive trunks had blocked the routes and as the hedges ended and the field opened ahead of me the sun was visible, low on the horizon and partially hidden by clouds, but a beautiful pink/red that streaked the sky and made even the tattered, grey rain clouds glow purple and magenta.
I made my donation online when I got home and added items to my shopping list to take to the donation points, took a deep breath and carried on with my day. Not better, but hopeful.
I have been out walking a couple of times this year. Not just a dog walk, in a rush or out of obligation, but a proper hike, planned and prepared for. I have a tricky knee and in order for us to be fit enough to tackle some longer walks later in the year when we have some holiday, I am trying to build up my stamina and the muscles that support and strengthen the knee joint.
This weekend's walk was only twenty minutes drive away. The sun shone and reflected in the mere that gathers in the marshy places each winter. It was busy with water birds, locals and visitors. The highlight of this walk, according to the guidebook, was the largest church in the county. It must have been built for a much larger village than the one it serves today. Either that or it was built by a family whose reputation or devotion required such an imposing place. Made of flint, set on a small hill and very beautiful, it was interesting to stop and gaze at it and wonder at all that it had seen.
However, earlier in the walk we had stumbled across the complete opposite act of devotion and the impact it made on me was more profound and is still echoing inside me. Walking along footpaths and field edges, we saw very few people on our walk, but as we walked a boundary between two fields and with the river a meandering silent line of trees just beyond, we came across a tree stump incorporated into the hedge that marked the field edge. It was about 1.2 metres high and must have been an impressive tree in its prime. On the flat top of the tree stump there was a pile of stones. At first I thought it was a cairn - a collection of stones that people place when they have scaled a high hill or a mountain or attained a far-flung point. But this was just a hedgerow between two fields, and when I looked closer I could see that most of the stones were flint, clearly chosen for their colours or their shapes. Tucked between the stones there were other offerings or gifts or foundthings - feathers, some pretty grasses, now dried out and brown, a spoon, a collection of acorns. Clearly this collection had been curated, these things chosen for this purpose or donated by someone who happened to have them and who was moved to add to the... shrine?
I have seen clootie trees at Avebury, where people bring a piece of ribbon or material to tie to specific trees as an offering for health or luck and I have watched people drop coins into fountains and wells and pools. I have done so myself. It is an old compulsion and something that we do almost without thought, but it is an act of devotion none the less - one lost in time quite often.
I have no idea who would have come to a muddy path in East Anglia and chosen a flint with a pretty pattern, or donated a shiny lost thing or tucked a special feather into the pile on that tree trunk. I don't know if it was the tree or the bend in the river or the hedge or nothing at all that marked this place as special, but the chime it rang inside me is still not quiet.
The church was impressive as a building, as a piece of workmanship, as a symbol. The tree trunk was something you might walk by without even noticing, but I know which one moved me most and made me reflect.
This weekend's walk was only twenty minutes drive away. The sun shone and reflected in the mere that gathers in the marshy places each winter. It was busy with water birds, locals and visitors. The highlight of this walk, according to the guidebook, was the largest church in the county. It must have been built for a much larger village than the one it serves today. Either that or it was built by a family whose reputation or devotion required such an imposing place. Made of flint, set on a small hill and very beautiful, it was interesting to stop and gaze at it and wonder at all that it had seen.
However, earlier in the walk we had stumbled across the complete opposite act of devotion and the impact it made on me was more profound and is still echoing inside me. Walking along footpaths and field edges, we saw very few people on our walk, but as we walked a boundary between two fields and with the river a meandering silent line of trees just beyond, we came across a tree stump incorporated into the hedge that marked the field edge. It was about 1.2 metres high and must have been an impressive tree in its prime. On the flat top of the tree stump there was a pile of stones. At first I thought it was a cairn - a collection of stones that people place when they have scaled a high hill or a mountain or attained a far-flung point. But this was just a hedgerow between two fields, and when I looked closer I could see that most of the stones were flint, clearly chosen for their colours or their shapes. Tucked between the stones there were other offerings or gifts or foundthings - feathers, some pretty grasses, now dried out and brown, a spoon, a collection of acorns. Clearly this collection had been curated, these things chosen for this purpose or donated by someone who happened to have them and who was moved to add to the... shrine?
I have seen clootie trees at Avebury, where people bring a piece of ribbon or material to tie to specific trees as an offering for health or luck and I have watched people drop coins into fountains and wells and pools. I have done so myself. It is an old compulsion and something that we do almost without thought, but it is an act of devotion none the less - one lost in time quite often.
I have no idea who would have come to a muddy path in East Anglia and chosen a flint with a pretty pattern, or donated a shiny lost thing or tucked a special feather into the pile on that tree trunk. I don't know if it was the tree or the bend in the river or the hedge or nothing at all that marked this place as special, but the chime it rang inside me is still not quiet.
The church was impressive as a building, as a piece of workmanship, as a symbol. The tree trunk was something you might walk by without even noticing, but I know which one moved me most and made me reflect.
Another New Year
20/1/22 20:22Here we are at the beginning of another challenging year. Continuing my journey to find a spiritual path that I can believe in, without feeling like a fraud, I think I'm in a better place than I have been for some years.
This last few weeks have had me thinking about the people who have passed on before me, most likely because I lost two people in 2021 who made a deep impression on me. One, I was prepared for. I knew I admired and loved her - she seemed to have her life together and an answer for anything that came her way (even for Pancreatic cancer, as it turned out.) She was forgiving and accepting and she had taken some years to become this person, so, as such, she wasn't quick to judge, but seemed more focussed on someone's intent that in their achievements. She was my sister in law and she is still with me now, when I find myself at a crossroads in whatever I am doing that day. She never claimed to have the answers, but she always knew what the right thing to do was in a moral sense, in a way that was true to her and what she believed in. And she knew that I loved her because I told her that in every letter I wrote to her.
The second person I lost has also taught me a valuable lesson. Her part in my life was small in many ways - in fact, in a lot of ways, her role has become larger since she moved on. We were friends - not close - but friends. We would walk together in our village when we were both free, both with our dogs. C was a troubled soul - I though I knew the extent of it, but until I attended her funeral, I now know, I only knew a fraction of it. I would sometimes get called upon to comfort her when she had had a trying day, when she felt that things were unfair or when she was low. By contrast, I am the kind of person who puts on a front to all but my closest family. No one else is trusted with or is privy to my insecurities and my anxieties. I would cheer C up and she would marvel at my ability to be so buoyant all the time. And I am a positive person most of the time, but not to the extent that C saw.
When she died, I was away, visiting family. I didn't hear about it until a few days after I returned. A couple of years older than me but with a completely different life experience, she had covered up the extent of her illness from her children, her partner, her parents. I know that she had friends in the village, but they too had been shocked by the suddenness of her leaving. For someone who was so blunt but so easily hurt, who wrote terrible poetry and was brave enough to send it to her family, who was passionate about where she lived and about her children, who was not afraid to speak her mind, it was shocking that no one had had the chance to say goodbye or tell her how much she meant to them. If I had known, I might have thought harder about what C meant to me, how she had inspired me. It would have surprised her, I'm sure.
One love I had a chance to speak of, the other I did not. I think I carry both of the lessons they taught me. P's was obvious, beautiful and calm. C's was obscure, hard to hear, but just as inspiring. It comes to me in scraps and realisations - it grows with me and with each day that she has gone.
When I walk in the fields that she loved or around the roads of our village, I think of C. I am glad I knew her and I wish I had had the time to make sure she knew that before she'd had to go. Her lesson for me is one I am still working on.
This last few weeks have had me thinking about the people who have passed on before me, most likely because I lost two people in 2021 who made a deep impression on me. One, I was prepared for. I knew I admired and loved her - she seemed to have her life together and an answer for anything that came her way (even for Pancreatic cancer, as it turned out.) She was forgiving and accepting and she had taken some years to become this person, so, as such, she wasn't quick to judge, but seemed more focussed on someone's intent that in their achievements. She was my sister in law and she is still with me now, when I find myself at a crossroads in whatever I am doing that day. She never claimed to have the answers, but she always knew what the right thing to do was in a moral sense, in a way that was true to her and what she believed in. And she knew that I loved her because I told her that in every letter I wrote to her.
The second person I lost has also taught me a valuable lesson. Her part in my life was small in many ways - in fact, in a lot of ways, her role has become larger since she moved on. We were friends - not close - but friends. We would walk together in our village when we were both free, both with our dogs. C was a troubled soul - I though I knew the extent of it, but until I attended her funeral, I now know, I only knew a fraction of it. I would sometimes get called upon to comfort her when she had had a trying day, when she felt that things were unfair or when she was low. By contrast, I am the kind of person who puts on a front to all but my closest family. No one else is trusted with or is privy to my insecurities and my anxieties. I would cheer C up and she would marvel at my ability to be so buoyant all the time. And I am a positive person most of the time, but not to the extent that C saw.
When she died, I was away, visiting family. I didn't hear about it until a few days after I returned. A couple of years older than me but with a completely different life experience, she had covered up the extent of her illness from her children, her partner, her parents. I know that she had friends in the village, but they too had been shocked by the suddenness of her leaving. For someone who was so blunt but so easily hurt, who wrote terrible poetry and was brave enough to send it to her family, who was passionate about where she lived and about her children, who was not afraid to speak her mind, it was shocking that no one had had the chance to say goodbye or tell her how much she meant to them. If I had known, I might have thought harder about what C meant to me, how she had inspired me. It would have surprised her, I'm sure.
One love I had a chance to speak of, the other I did not. I think I carry both of the lessons they taught me. P's was obvious, beautiful and calm. C's was obscure, hard to hear, but just as inspiring. It comes to me in scraps and realisations - it grows with me and with each day that she has gone.
When I walk in the fields that she loved or around the roads of our village, I think of C. I am glad I knew her and I wish I had had the time to make sure she knew that before she'd had to go. Her lesson for me is one I am still working on.
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Winter's grip.
14/12/21 20:55Some people use the term 'in the grip of winter' to describe freezing temperatures and weather worthy of the warnings and that makes sense. But to me the grip of winter is less dramatic or sudden, and more insidious, creeping into your daily experiences and sapping your energy. Perhaps it is the lack of vitamin D that makes this part of the year so tricky to navigate. In the East of England we get seven and a half hours of daylight at this time of year. It's dark when I get up, dark when I walk the dog, the sun is only rising as I drive to work and by the time I get home to walk the dog again the sun is already skimming the horizon - getting enough vitamin D is no easy feat with the way we live now. I have friends in Scandinavia who live in the dark with only a glow on the horizon at midday, so I know that my precious 7 hours are undreamed of riches to some.
Our dark walks are muddy, brown, tired green and cold at this time of year. I console myself with the thought that the earth is resting and how would we appreciate the beauty to come if we didn't have the grey days now, but sometimes it is hard to believe that there will ever be anything but mud and sickly greens. The autumn colours are gone, the berries have fed the birds. Once in a while we will wake to frost and for a few magical hours the glitter and texture of ice breaks the monotony of winter - the urge to take out my camera and capture some of that magic re-emerges but the sluggish sun eventually warms up enough to melt the frost and it leaves no trace of having been there at all.
Midwinter is almost here and our attention turns indoors. Early darkness is an excuse to draw the curtains, light candles, craft or keep up hobbies, read, eat warming, hearty foods. It is an excuse to put up a light against the gloom, to bring nature inside with a tree, holly, ivy, all the evergreens and berries you can find, a reason to invite friends to drink or eat with you, to play games, to catch up on tv shows you missed. If nature is taking a pause, then so am I. Like the earth, I abide, waiting for the sunlight to wake me from my rest and to keep me busy later into the evening. We too pause, reflect, share what we have and what we know, forgive and remember and wait for the sun.
Our dark walks are muddy, brown, tired green and cold at this time of year. I console myself with the thought that the earth is resting and how would we appreciate the beauty to come if we didn't have the grey days now, but sometimes it is hard to believe that there will ever be anything but mud and sickly greens. The autumn colours are gone, the berries have fed the birds. Once in a while we will wake to frost and for a few magical hours the glitter and texture of ice breaks the monotony of winter - the urge to take out my camera and capture some of that magic re-emerges but the sluggish sun eventually warms up enough to melt the frost and it leaves no trace of having been there at all.
Midwinter is almost here and our attention turns indoors. Early darkness is an excuse to draw the curtains, light candles, craft or keep up hobbies, read, eat warming, hearty foods. It is an excuse to put up a light against the gloom, to bring nature inside with a tree, holly, ivy, all the evergreens and berries you can find, a reason to invite friends to drink or eat with you, to play games, to catch up on tv shows you missed. If nature is taking a pause, then so am I. Like the earth, I abide, waiting for the sunlight to wake me from my rest and to keep me busy later into the evening. We too pause, reflect, share what we have and what we know, forgive and remember and wait for the sun.
A Time of Changes
7/11/21 15:35There's no season as showy as autumn. It's hardly the subtle power of spring or the rolling bounty of summer. Nature steps aside in winter and leaves the big gestures to the weather, enduring whatever it brings. But autumn you cannot ignore; the combination of the shorter daylight hours, the cooler mornings and evenings and the plants and trees preparing to sleep the dark and cold away. Change is everywhere at this time of year and it means business.
For me, this is a time to prepare - to get ready for what comes next. This extends to many areas of my daily life - not only is it time to make sure that the house is fit for the cold, making repairs, changing curtains and rugs for something warm, buying candles and matches for cosiness and for the occasional power cut, ensuring that there is fuel to combat the chill, but also on a more personal level than that.
Some scholars believe that for the ancient peoples of Europe, Samhain was the beginning of the year. Summer's end is one proposed translation of the celtic word for this time in November. It is the end of the harvest, the third harvest festival. The cereals were in, the tree fruit was in, the roots and berries that would see them through the dark months were safely stored in the hope that they would last. In my family it is the beginning of the season of anniversaries and celebrations - weddings, births, deaths - for some reason they seem to cluster around this month and the next, as if all the business of living had time to bloom now. It is a time of change - my spirits rise as the days get cooler and the leaves fall, new plans are hatched, creativity has time to bubble up and dark afternoons give me time to read, write, bake, sew and craft like no other season. It is truly when I feel most able to express myself, to dream and make plans. Before the cold comes and after the work of preparing is done.
I think this is an ancient drive, the habits built by hundreds of generations of my ancestors. I take comfort from the thought that in my 21st Century way I am still honouring and showing respect to what the changes in the year might bring.
For me, this is a time to prepare - to get ready for what comes next. This extends to many areas of my daily life - not only is it time to make sure that the house is fit for the cold, making repairs, changing curtains and rugs for something warm, buying candles and matches for cosiness and for the occasional power cut, ensuring that there is fuel to combat the chill, but also on a more personal level than that.
Some scholars believe that for the ancient peoples of Europe, Samhain was the beginning of the year. Summer's end is one proposed translation of the celtic word for this time in November. It is the end of the harvest, the third harvest festival. The cereals were in, the tree fruit was in, the roots and berries that would see them through the dark months were safely stored in the hope that they would last. In my family it is the beginning of the season of anniversaries and celebrations - weddings, births, deaths - for some reason they seem to cluster around this month and the next, as if all the business of living had time to bloom now. It is a time of change - my spirits rise as the days get cooler and the leaves fall, new plans are hatched, creativity has time to bubble up and dark afternoons give me time to read, write, bake, sew and craft like no other season. It is truly when I feel most able to express myself, to dream and make plans. Before the cold comes and after the work of preparing is done.
I think this is an ancient drive, the habits built by hundreds of generations of my ancestors. I take comfort from the thought that in my 21st Century way I am still honouring and showing respect to what the changes in the year might bring.
Seeing the signs
18/10/21 21:11Autumn this year is doing things old school!
We have three types of fungus growing in the tiny wild corner of our garden, I was pleased to see this weekend when we mowed and sowed new wildflower seeds for next year. They are amazing, one growing on the stump of the chopped-down Rowan tree, one beneath the bird bath we made and another with just one specimen - I must identify them while they are still growing.
There are Starlings in the field behind the house - just hanging about on the telegraph wires and the grass. Walking the dog today, they moved before me like a big, dark blanket, shaking out ahead of me before returning to the ground again and again. Then they took to the sky in a swirling mini-murmuration. Beautiful and spell-binding.
The hedgerows are filled with the bounty of a fair summer - haws and hips and blackberries. We have our latest vintage of Slow Gin started on the kitchen counter,already turning garnet and burgundy.
And the sunrise this morning! They sky was burning crimson and magenta textured clouds that shaded to peach and lilac before it became that fragile robin's egg blue. A great way to spend fifteen minutes, charting the changes.
In two weeks it will be Samhain and the business of winter will begin in earnest, so I will savour these moments before then.
We have three types of fungus growing in the tiny wild corner of our garden, I was pleased to see this weekend when we mowed and sowed new wildflower seeds for next year. They are amazing, one growing on the stump of the chopped-down Rowan tree, one beneath the bird bath we made and another with just one specimen - I must identify them while they are still growing.
There are Starlings in the field behind the house - just hanging about on the telegraph wires and the grass. Walking the dog today, they moved before me like a big, dark blanket, shaking out ahead of me before returning to the ground again and again. Then they took to the sky in a swirling mini-murmuration. Beautiful and spell-binding.
The hedgerows are filled with the bounty of a fair summer - haws and hips and blackberries. We have our latest vintage of Slow Gin started on the kitchen counter,already turning garnet and burgundy.
And the sunrise this morning! They sky was burning crimson and magenta textured clouds that shaded to peach and lilac before it became that fragile robin's egg blue. A great way to spend fifteen minutes, charting the changes.
In two weeks it will be Samhain and the business of winter will begin in earnest, so I will savour these moments before then.
Pictures of the sky
3/10/21 11:42This week for the first time since February-ish I have been up before the sunrise to walk our doggo. It's not as easy to persuade myself it is time to go outside when it's still a strange de-saturated world waiting for me, but by the time I am walking home again for breakfast, the sun is emerging and I am treated to the sunrise in whatever guise that might be. I've seen ghostly white sunrises through mist or high cloud, that look more like the moon. I have seen burning golds and ambers that flare for a few minutes before they are swallowed, rising above the horizon and into a layer of dense cloud, stealing the glory for the bird's eyes only. I have seen slow, fat, lazy sunrises where it seems to lumber reluctantly into the sky. And I have watched the sky aflame, paling to the most delicate, fragile pastel colours as the night ends and the birds wheel into the air for the first time that day.
The truth is that I am a bit of a sucker for the sky. Since I moved to East Anglia, eight years ago, I have accumulated hundreds of photographs of the sun, moon, clouds, dawns and dusks. In an age where we carry the means to record each moment in our pockets, I have entire albums of photos of the big skies over my county. Is that because I never noticed them before or is it that I lacked the time to appreciate them? I lived beneath the Downs for most of my life, so when I raised my eyes, they were the first things I would see. Maybe the sky was overshadowed by the undulations of the chalk hills, the light and shade on the grass. I don't know the answer, but I know that I am grateful every day for the fact that my house backs onto fields and that I have a grandstand view of nature's first miracle of each day or night.
The truth is that I am a bit of a sucker for the sky. Since I moved to East Anglia, eight years ago, I have accumulated hundreds of photographs of the sun, moon, clouds, dawns and dusks. In an age where we carry the means to record each moment in our pockets, I have entire albums of photos of the big skies over my county. Is that because I never noticed them before or is it that I lacked the time to appreciate them? I lived beneath the Downs for most of my life, so when I raised my eyes, they were the first things I would see. Maybe the sky was overshadowed by the undulations of the chalk hills, the light and shade on the grass. I don't know the answer, but I know that I am grateful every day for the fact that my house backs onto fields and that I have a grandstand view of nature's first miracle of each day or night.
That's right - we can all stop pretending it is summer now. We can embrace cardigans and socks again. We can light candles and draw the curtains at 8pm. We can eat comforting soups and stews instead of salads (is it just me or do salads make anyone else feel chilly?) No more garden watering! No more deadheading. I love September - can you tell?
Already we have had mists on the field behind our house - particularly beautiful when it drifts across the mown meadow. It was so low yesterday, people walking on the field were only visible from the waist up. And the hedgerows are giving up their bounties already with haws and hips and sloes - not many Elderberries around here but there are a good crop of blackberries.
I swear there is something very old and primal that moves within me at the sight of straw and hay bales or a harvested field. We don't rely on the harvest as viscerally as we used to, we believe our food comes to us from supermarkets, not fields or trees anymore - the huge and saddening disconnect between what we eat and nature or farming. But there is something calm and grateful and safe that rushes beneath my skin when I see that the harvest is in. I don't come from farming stock, so this must be something older, something deeper that connects us to the land - particularly here in the rural and agricultural area of East Anglia. The kids learn colours from tractor liveries - I used to work in a school - I was there! My primary class used to talk about Countryfile on a Monday morning (A UK television programme that airs on Sunday nights which highlights farming life, crafts, issues that affect rural communities and people. It is incredibly popular!)
So, welcome September - spiders and mists and glowing hedgerows and cool nights. I'm so glad you're here.
Already we have had mists on the field behind our house - particularly beautiful when it drifts across the mown meadow. It was so low yesterday, people walking on the field were only visible from the waist up. And the hedgerows are giving up their bounties already with haws and hips and sloes - not many Elderberries around here but there are a good crop of blackberries.
I swear there is something very old and primal that moves within me at the sight of straw and hay bales or a harvested field. We don't rely on the harvest as viscerally as we used to, we believe our food comes to us from supermarkets, not fields or trees anymore - the huge and saddening disconnect between what we eat and nature or farming. But there is something calm and grateful and safe that rushes beneath my skin when I see that the harvest is in. I don't come from farming stock, so this must be something older, something deeper that connects us to the land - particularly here in the rural and agricultural area of East Anglia. The kids learn colours from tractor liveries - I used to work in a school - I was there! My primary class used to talk about Countryfile on a Monday morning (A UK television programme that airs on Sunday nights which highlights farming life, crafts, issues that affect rural communities and people. It is incredibly popular!)
So, welcome September - spiders and mists and glowing hedgerows and cool nights. I'm so glad you're here.
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The dog days of summer
25/8/21 15:07Autumn is just over the next hill - it's in the berries on the trees and in the hedgerows - it's in the cooler evenings and the over-ripe bedding displays - it's in the misty mornings and the farmers busy-ness. It is my favourite time of year.
In the old calendar archaeologist think that Samhain was the new year - the first celebration of the season. It is the last of the harvest festivals. The food has been grown and nurtured and brought in for the winter months when the world becomes cold and wet and inhospitable. You can see how this way around, the seasons are tilted towards the human experience in a way that appeals to me and feels more natural than celebrating at the deepest point of a season.
Mabon will be on the 20th September this year - the middle harvest. It is a time to reflect on what has gone well this year and what could be improved. Our potatoes and tomatoes for example. For some reason this year was terrible for both - very little yield. Later this year we are undertaking a garden project that will give us a more structured place to grow fruit, vegetables and herbs. We are picking out dwarf stock versions of plums and apricots, blueberries and more, so let's hope that next year is a better harvest and that our dedication will be rewarded. This harvest time, I will reflect on how the love and care we put in is what we get back. In all areas of life.
In the old calendar archaeologist think that Samhain was the new year - the first celebration of the season. It is the last of the harvest festivals. The food has been grown and nurtured and brought in for the winter months when the world becomes cold and wet and inhospitable. You can see how this way around, the seasons are tilted towards the human experience in a way that appeals to me and feels more natural than celebrating at the deepest point of a season.
Mabon will be on the 20th September this year - the middle harvest. It is a time to reflect on what has gone well this year and what could be improved. Our potatoes and tomatoes for example. For some reason this year was terrible for both - very little yield. Later this year we are undertaking a garden project that will give us a more structured place to grow fruit, vegetables and herbs. We are picking out dwarf stock versions of plums and apricots, blueberries and more, so let's hope that next year is a better harvest and that our dedication will be rewarded. This harvest time, I will reflect on how the love and care we put in is what we get back. In all areas of life.
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It's true to say that the world is in uproar. We have devastating flooding events in Germany and Belgium. We have wildfires across Greece and wide swathes of the Pacific facing USA. The experts say that we cannot assert that one weather event is caused by climate change but they all agree that a trend towards more extreme events happening more frequently is exactly what we are seeing. The magic 1.5 degree rise in global temperature is only a handful of years away and still our governments argue and debate and lie about the effect that the human race is having on the world. And that we MUST stop it.
We have grown complacent in the west with our want it/have it society. We waste Earth's resources at a rate that is sickening and unimaginable to those living more sustainably in other parts of the globe, and an impossibility to our own great grandparents. No one is saying it will be easy to change that culture, no one is saying it will not come without hardships and a huge mental shift in our outlook but the scientists are saying we MUST - if we want to survive, if we want to have a planet to hand on to the next generation and the one after that, we MUST change and adapt and work together to reverse the damage we have already done.
It's not political. It's survival.
Honouring the wheel of the year is something I have done unconsciously for many many years and consciously for maybe five or six years. And even in that time I have noticed how much further from the essence of those celebrations we have come. Harvest comes sooner with our newer crops, Yule isn't the coldest part of the year, the lambs are born whether it is warm and grassy or not and Ostara can be under snow or 20 degrees. It is a struggle sometimes to see that nature is is as it should be, and in many ways it is not. But it is tenacious and it gets there in its time.
Our wheat is short this year - we had a long cold spring and it didn't begin to warm up until well after Beltane. Instead of being to my waist, it had grown to my thigh, but it HAS grown and it has ripened. In East Anglia where I live, Ash die-back is an everyday sight - pale skeletal branches which were once lush with mid green - we have one in our garden which is still healthy and strong, but only a mile to the south there is a road where these dead Ash stand like waymarkers along its length. It will not be long then before my beautiful tree will sicken for a few years and then die too. Like the Elm did in the 1970s. Ash and Elm, two of our most iconic trees; without them our land is changed and lessened. Our bees are threatened, our wild flower meadows all but gone, birds that were common when I was a child are infrequent sights, even here in rural East Anglia. It seems impossible that it can all go and no one is screaming that is happening.
We have a chance to save ourselves. We need to do it now. It's not nature we are saving - nature will find ways - it has the benefit of time and places we don't ruin. It is us who will become endangered, extinct if we don't listen to the planet and hear her pleas and her warnings.
We have grown complacent in the west with our want it/have it society. We waste Earth's resources at a rate that is sickening and unimaginable to those living more sustainably in other parts of the globe, and an impossibility to our own great grandparents. No one is saying it will be easy to change that culture, no one is saying it will not come without hardships and a huge mental shift in our outlook but the scientists are saying we MUST - if we want to survive, if we want to have a planet to hand on to the next generation and the one after that, we MUST change and adapt and work together to reverse the damage we have already done.
It's not political. It's survival.
Honouring the wheel of the year is something I have done unconsciously for many many years and consciously for maybe five or six years. And even in that time I have noticed how much further from the essence of those celebrations we have come. Harvest comes sooner with our newer crops, Yule isn't the coldest part of the year, the lambs are born whether it is warm and grassy or not and Ostara can be under snow or 20 degrees. It is a struggle sometimes to see that nature is is as it should be, and in many ways it is not. But it is tenacious and it gets there in its time.
Our wheat is short this year - we had a long cold spring and it didn't begin to warm up until well after Beltane. Instead of being to my waist, it had grown to my thigh, but it HAS grown and it has ripened. In East Anglia where I live, Ash die-back is an everyday sight - pale skeletal branches which were once lush with mid green - we have one in our garden which is still healthy and strong, but only a mile to the south there is a road where these dead Ash stand like waymarkers along its length. It will not be long then before my beautiful tree will sicken for a few years and then die too. Like the Elm did in the 1970s. Ash and Elm, two of our most iconic trees; without them our land is changed and lessened. Our bees are threatened, our wild flower meadows all but gone, birds that were common when I was a child are infrequent sights, even here in rural East Anglia. It seems impossible that it can all go and no one is screaming that is happening.
We have a chance to save ourselves. We need to do it now. It's not nature we are saving - nature will find ways - it has the benefit of time and places we don't ruin. It is us who will become endangered, extinct if we don't listen to the planet and hear her pleas and her warnings.
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Summer so far...
28/7/21 16:01With Lughnasadh at the weekend I though I'd pop on here and review the summer so far.
I spent Midsummer on the Suffolk Coast at Walberswick. It was a bit of a drech day but I made a special point of touching all the most beautiful oak trees to thank them for their shade and the oxygen they produce. It was gorgeous. We had lunch in our favourite pub with leaves fresh from the garden and good food, served beautifully in portions that are neither too big nor too small and I spent it with my feller, so that's a low-key, perfect celebration in my book.
Lughnasadh will be a little different - it is my mother in law's birthday. She can be a little difficult. She lives in our old home village in Sussex along with my parents. So we will stay with them. P is flexing her chef's credentials and making a birthday cake covered with Icing sunflowers and gerberas. Some of my partner's brothers and sisters will be there, so I will spend this celebration with family no matter how the rest of the weekend turns out. With cake!
Scotland was glorious! Weasels, puffins, red deer, seals, sky, water everywhere! Stunning. I want to go back.
I spent Midsummer on the Suffolk Coast at Walberswick. It was a bit of a drech day but I made a special point of touching all the most beautiful oak trees to thank them for their shade and the oxygen they produce. It was gorgeous. We had lunch in our favourite pub with leaves fresh from the garden and good food, served beautifully in portions that are neither too big nor too small and I spent it with my feller, so that's a low-key, perfect celebration in my book.
Lughnasadh will be a little different - it is my mother in law's birthday. She can be a little difficult. She lives in our old home village in Sussex along with my parents. So we will stay with them. P is flexing her chef's credentials and making a birthday cake covered with Icing sunflowers and gerberas. Some of my partner's brothers and sisters will be there, so I will spend this celebration with family no matter how the rest of the weekend turns out. With cake!
Scotland was glorious! Weasels, puffins, red deer, seals, sky, water everywhere! Stunning. I want to go back.
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Lithia looms large
14/6/21 20:36Almost midsummer and we are so grateful that it is warm and that nature is catching up. Our garden is full of birds with their fledglings and it is immensely loud at 4 in the morning when it is already light and they are all out looking for breakfast. The light evenings and mornings are a gift, and although they make it hard to sleep (despite special curtain inserts) it does fill you with purpose and enthusiasm. It feels wrong to waste the gorgeous daylight hours slumped in front of the TV.
We are going to Scotland on holiday in a few weeks and I have looked to see the sunrise and sunset times - there are less than six hours without daylight on the earliest days of our break as we are on the north coast. Can't wait.
We are going to Scotland on holiday in a few weeks and I have looked to see the sunrise and sunset times - there are less than six hours without daylight on the earliest days of our break as we are on the north coast. Can't wait.
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End of May
25/5/21 16:46It's the last week of May and the heating is still on! It's just not warm enough to switch it off yet. Walking around the village I see that people are still lighting fires in the evenings to keep warm. It's crazy. This is one weird year. - I wonder what future humans will think when they read these kind of blog entries from the time when the Earth was changing fast enough for us to be able to actually see it happening year on year.
Well, after the driest April in 60 years, we now have had plenty of rain and the temperature has actually risen a bit too, so the field behind our house has gone MAD!!!! The grasses have grown 20 cm in a fortnight and all the flowers are trying to bloom at once. The May is just beginning to go over now and most of the trees are in leaf. The lilacs are in full flower too.
Covid has kept me local for the last year, so I have missed seeing the Barn Owls and the hares and the ducklings for this year. That makes me sad.
Trying to find a good website for people who believe the way I do - humanistic paganism. There are general ones out there, but a lot of them are too spiritual for me. Will continue to look.
Well, after the driest April in 60 years, we now have had plenty of rain and the temperature has actually risen a bit too, so the field behind our house has gone MAD!!!! The grasses have grown 20 cm in a fortnight and all the flowers are trying to bloom at once. The May is just beginning to go over now and most of the trees are in leaf. The lilacs are in full flower too.
Covid has kept me local for the last year, so I have missed seeing the Barn Owls and the hares and the ducklings for this year. That makes me sad.
Trying to find a good website for people who believe the way I do - humanistic paganism. There are general ones out there, but a lot of them are too spiritual for me. Will continue to look.
It has taken an age to warm up this year. We are over half way through May and you wouldn't know it from the weather. Yesterday we had hail stones the size of marbles and downpours like stair rods. For a few months it had been dry and cold but now we seem to be caught in a pattern of cool temperatures and sudden showers. At least it has stopped falling so low at night in the last fortnight.
The flowers have all been late, but now they are starting to catch up and so are the trees. It has been a year of Cowslips, they seem to be everywhere this year. New spots and places where there were one or two are a vision of yellow nodding heads. We were in Sussex a fortnight ago and we sat Lady's mantle and Cuckoo's Pint, but up here it is forget-me-not, borrage, Solomon's seal and cow parsley everywhere with the Cowslips. I love to see it. And now my favourite - Lillac - is coming into bloom.
I only have to smell it to be called back to my grandparents house. Every year my nanna would tell me that it was unlucky to bring lilac branches into the house, and every year she would do it anyway because she loved it like I do. Their garden had an amazing apple tree like nothing I have tasted or seen before or since. My grandad would grow beans and marrows at the bottom of the garden and at the top there were flower beds. I wish they had both lived longer and that my partner had met them. I was only 13 when they died, one after the other. But I have the happiest memories of spending hours in their little garden, making mud pies and shelling peas.
The flowers have all been late, but now they are starting to catch up and so are the trees. It has been a year of Cowslips, they seem to be everywhere this year. New spots and places where there were one or two are a vision of yellow nodding heads. We were in Sussex a fortnight ago and we sat Lady's mantle and Cuckoo's Pint, but up here it is forget-me-not, borrage, Solomon's seal and cow parsley everywhere with the Cowslips. I love to see it. And now my favourite - Lillac - is coming into bloom.
I only have to smell it to be called back to my grandparents house. Every year my nanna would tell me that it was unlucky to bring lilac branches into the house, and every year she would do it anyway because she loved it like I do. Their garden had an amazing apple tree like nothing I have tasted or seen before or since. My grandad would grow beans and marrows at the bottom of the garden and at the top there were flower beds. I wish they had both lived longer and that my partner had met them. I was only 13 when they died, one after the other. But I have the happiest memories of spending hours in their little garden, making mud pies and shelling peas.
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Beltane has come and gone. I was lucky enough to spend it with my parents who are both in their 70s with all the health complications that come with it. They had no idea that I was celebrating - to them it must have looked a lot like me being happy to spend time with them (which I was of course), but I was also noticing the trees and the new blooms and the birds so busy with their chicks and eggs and nests. It's been so cold this year that everything has been a little delayed but even though we could not notice the changes in the light and the temperature, nature knows and responds accordingly.
I have been having a bad day today. Slept poorly. Woke to threatening emails from hackers. I have been loosing weight with Noom and I read my lessons each morning before I start work for the day. Some days the jargon is so dense that I can't get what they are talking about - it's written by Americans for American and being a Brit I just don't 'get' it sometimes and not understanding the questions makes it hard to write insightful reponses...
Anyway. Bad day.
I was rushing to get to my desk to work, tidying up quickly, putting on a load of washing and getting myself a coffee when I went to put out the laundry on the line... and I paused... and I breathed... and I found a moment to be grateful. It is too easy to fall into the busy trap - too busy with being busy! I hung up our clean damp washing with the wind tugging it on the line and the sun already warm on my back and on the fabric and I just did that. No to do list, no what next, no I wonder - I pegged clean clothes to dry in the sun and that was all I did other than be grateful to the sun and the earth and the wind for helping me in this tiny way.
It didn't turn my day around - it was still full and I was still clumsy and stressed but it did give me a spoonful of perspective, a quiet moment with myself for gratitude and being open to the experiences of my day.
I will continue to watch for these moments and treasure them when they come. I enjoy mindfulness but a moment that you have curated yourself and discovered among the mundane things is equally if not more rewarding.
I have been having a bad day today. Slept poorly. Woke to threatening emails from hackers. I have been loosing weight with Noom and I read my lessons each morning before I start work for the day. Some days the jargon is so dense that I can't get what they are talking about - it's written by Americans for American and being a Brit I just don't 'get' it sometimes and not understanding the questions makes it hard to write insightful reponses...
Anyway. Bad day.
I was rushing to get to my desk to work, tidying up quickly, putting on a load of washing and getting myself a coffee when I went to put out the laundry on the line... and I paused... and I breathed... and I found a moment to be grateful. It is too easy to fall into the busy trap - too busy with being busy! I hung up our clean damp washing with the wind tugging it on the line and the sun already warm on my back and on the fabric and I just did that. No to do list, no what next, no I wonder - I pegged clean clothes to dry in the sun and that was all I did other than be grateful to the sun and the earth and the wind for helping me in this tiny way.
It didn't turn my day around - it was still full and I was still clumsy and stressed but it did give me a spoonful of perspective, a quiet moment with myself for gratitude and being open to the experiences of my day.
I will continue to watch for these moments and treasure them when they come. I enjoy mindfulness but a moment that you have curated yourself and discovered among the mundane things is equally if not more rewarding.
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