Persevering through February

The nice thing about writing a blog is that I can re read it myself, even if no one else does! I can revisit previous years and remind myself of past scenes and insights, so often still relevant. This February seems to have been very gloomy, our weather, and local and world wide events as well as my mood. Looking back over previous years I realise that February can often feel that way for me.

This time last year I was exploring Wendel Berry’s poem which starts “When despair for the world grows in me…” even though at that point we did not know what lay ahead, (probably just as well!) But reading it again today reminds me of his answer to “come into the peace of wild things”. Some of our daily walks recently have been wet, muddy and slippery, but we have encountered some wonderful natural beauty in spite of the gloom, and felt some of the freedom Wendell Berry writes about.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

During the grey days I have also been glad of my continuing participation in an online Stitch Club. The most recent workshop by Jude Kingshott included a stitched fabric book made from scraps and recycled cotton lawn. I found hand stitching on very thin almost translucent fabric quite a challenge. It felt so insubstantial and unstable. Flimsy was the word. It felt like my hopes for the immediate months ahead, unpredictable and uncertain. But stitch by stitch I plodded on and I have now finished a little booklet of bright cheerful flowers, albeit flimsy.

The cover…

And pages…

“Perseverance” is the name of the space craft which has finally reached Mars this week. I have not achieved anything quite so remarkable, but it is a familiar theme. Even my art journaling echoed it.

Perseverance seems the order of the moment, so let’s keep keeping on, stitch by stitch, step by step, flower by flower, and we will get through the February mud and gloom to more solid ground and clearer skies.

The odd sunflower

This time last year, August Bank Holiday Monday, the weather was warm and summery, and we were off on holiday. I remember watching the sunrise over the M25 en route to the airport, and feeling excited. We we off on a long planned trip to Canada to stay with family.

This year things are different. The sun is shining here but the weather forecast is distinctly cool. Holidays and traveling are not on the agenda. Family visits are few and far between and socially distanced. Even a day out is a bit of an adventure. Things are not normal and certainly not as exciting.

As I look out of my window this morning, I can see our summerhouse. As usual there are hanging baskets on the corners, prettily planted with petunias and other appropriate hanging basket plants. But all is not normal there either, there is a misfit, an oddity, an unexpected appearance.

There is an unplanned, surprising sunflower, leaning at an awkward angle but opening its face to the world. It is hanging, suspended and confined, completely out of it’s normal comfort zone, but flowering anyway.

It is not very elegant, and looks like a mistake. But as I look closer it’s complexity and beauty becomes more evident.

These days things are strange, awkward and often difficult to manage. We find ourselves wondering when, or even if, things will ever return to normal. Normal, that word which comes from a carpenter’s measuring square, used to make sure things conform to a rule or pattern. Sometimes those old patterns seem a distant memory.

But this morning my non conformist sunflower greets me with a smiley face. This unplanned, abnormal flowering reassures and encourages me that perhaps things don’t have to be normal to still be OK!

The rain spoke to me…

It’s been a while since I last wrote here. Things have happened – a joyful family wedding for example, with some unexpected fun and surprises despite all the restrictions. When I last wrote we still didn’t know if it would go ahead… But it did.

And now in mid August the garden is dry and parched, and the colours as well as the temperatures are hot, with a few white spots of relief.

Flowers in the garden yesterday.

It has become more and more difficult to sleep at night in the continuing high temperatures, and during the days we have been preoccupied with finding shade and keeping cool. Other areas of the UK have had heavy rain bursts and flash flooding. Apart from a few thunder rumbles and short showers here we have had no reprieve from the heavy and oppressive atmosphere. Energy has been depleted, and it has been hard to stir myself from overwhelming lethargy.

But today we woke to mist and murk, with low cloud outside the windows. And then a steady fine drizzle rain. The kind of rain which wets, but does not bash and break. In fact I was drawn outside by the beauty of it. The gentle touch on my skin was refreshing, but it was the patterns it revealed which delighted me most. Cobwebs made visible like festoons of fairy lights, lacy designs on leaves and flowers, and tiny mushrooms peeping through the wet grass.

Raindrop fairyland

A few minutes paying attention to such beauties has moved me from my stupor, at least enough to write this post. And it reminded me of some words from a poem by Mary Oliver

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!

Mange tout?

One of my early childhood memories is of picking peas with my grandfather in his vegetable garden. Sweet peas too for the house. I can remember sitting podding the peas, and surreptitiously eating lots of the sweet green jewels which plopped into the bowl.

This week we have been picking peas in our own vegetable garden. These are tiny sweet petit pois. They produce a greater volume of pods than peas. But are still worth it for the flavor.

Other peas we have been picking his week are ‘mange tout’ and can be eaten pods and all. Whether they are the flat mange tout or the fatter sugar snap, there is much less waste, with no pods to throw away.

And it’s not just veg we’ve been picking and eating. More treats are starting to appear. Not much wasted here, although cherry stones are definitely not edible!

But no garden waste is wasted. The food wrappings in the garden are either mange tout or biodegradable. Unlike the food packaging from our recent supermarket click and collect. Although we specify “no bags” on the order there are always a few, and so many of the groceries are still packed in plastics or other materials. Although we have good recycling collection provision where we live, it is still so sad to see the amount of plastic waste.

This week the challenge from a textile art stitch club I belong to was to stitch a design using cut up plastic waste. Rummaging through some of my accumulated plastic wrappings I found a variety of colours and stitched this design.

As I stitched with the plastic I became freshly aware of the the amazing efficiency of nature in reusing every scrap of organic matter. It is a system where everything depends on its ability to decompose and there is no use for permanence and indestructibility. The waste pea pods are on the compost now, ready for the process which will see them feed the soil for new generations of life and growth. The destructive failure of plastics lies in their arrogant inability to decay and die.

My stitching is at least an attempt to find a creative way to help recycle stubborn inorganic waste. But nature’s impermanent beauty is far more beautiful, and wonderfully nourishing, whether we can eat it or not.

A posy picked from the allotment. Not “mange tout“ but a feast for the eyes and totally biodegradable.

Stories with and without words

A week of contrasts in the media. The aftermath of last weekend here in Dorset was one of horror, and disgust at the chaos caused by tens of thousands of day trippers who crowded in to local beauty spots. The folly of a few caused life threatening injuries to themselves, and in addition put their rescuers lives at risk too. And then there was continuing distress in the days that followed as the clear up operation revealed the foul deposits and overwhelming volume of rubbish left by those who appear to take no thought for the consequences of their actions.

Then more events which have unfolded in the media before our eyes in America have continued the theme of horror, disbelief and repulsion. The brutal destructive actions of some, as others stand by and watch, has convicted us all of our complicity in this injustice and irresponsibility. Now there is a rising international outcry at patterns which we know are deeply entrenched in our culture, hearts and minds.

In the face of horrible media news I find it hard to know what my response should/could be. This week I have been following a pattern of writing Earthellos each day, using an acrostic form HELLO. Discover more here.

The first step is to check in on myself starting with Here I am…. I have been aware of emotions or anger, disgust and fear, all contributing to an agitation and tension.

The second line starts with Earth you are… This stages invites me to observe and become aware of the earth, the environment around me. It changes my perspective completely as I find myself looking outwards. I have been surprised at what I see through my own window which helps me become aware of the continuing beauty of the earth inspite of the losses of setbacks and destruction. And TV has helped too. BBC Springwatch this last week has provided wonderful glimpses into environments I cannot access from my own doorstep. Try watching some of the 90 second “Mindful Moments” videos for a different take on the world. They require no explanation or commentary.

In our garden we have suffered the ups and downs of losing a beautiful clematis to “wilt“ and reddening cherries to “June drop”. Roses and peonies bloom and then lose their petals, but the seed heads remaining are interesting in themselves when I take time to look. Recently for an online textile arts group I made some little seed containers to hold some the seedcases that litter the ground in our garden. They remind me of the continuing story that seedcases tell in themselves.

Seed containers for pine cones, clematis head, beechnuts, a peony seed head and a rose after its petals have dropped.

Once again I am brought back to the awareness of the inadequacy of words to tell the whole story. Sometimes it’s better just to stop, look, observe and say nothing. But even so I’ll offer you my Earthello for today.

Perfidy and perfume

At the bottom of our garden is an important area where sometimes there are smells which might not be pleasant. At my husband’s compost bins this rarely lasts long as the worms get to work, and his frequent turning and aerating helps the decomposing process, producing an almost sweet smelling, essential and richly nutritious growing medium.

This week I have been thinking about smells, pleasant and less so. Early in the week it was the rank whiffs of treachery and untruth in our national government which were troubling me, and even keeping me awake at night. I found the political rumours and statements, with media quick on the scent to hunt out lies, were very upsetting both emotionally and physically.

Covid 19 is now known to affect our sense of smell, even blocking it altogether. Unpleasant odours are often an important clue warning us that something is “off” or not quite ok. What our noses can detect is not as sophisticated as most other animals, but they are very sensitive, literally and metaphorically none the less.

https://medicalxpress.com/news/2020-03-coronavirus-loss-smellbut-wont-permanent.html

It feels to me like some of us are infected not just with a physical virus which stops us smelling, but metaphorically too. We are being encouraged to not only cover our mouths and noses to avoid spreading disease, but to hold noses and twist our tongues to obscure and hide dis-ease, and whiffs of untruth.

It was a friend from our allotment site, with a life time of growing experience as well as political wisdom, who described this week’s political stink as perfidy. I have certainly found the smells of betrayal and distrust, utterly sickening.

However the compost bins teach me that the waste, mistakes and difficult clippings of our lives don’t necessarily have to decompose into this kind of a foul stinking mess. With acceptance, honesty and TIME even apparent nastiness can produce healthy growth. In fact other parts of the garden prove that the very plants fed by a natural decomposition produce perfume extolled through out history. This week I picked our first sweet peas, and my husband made fragrant elderflower cordial from flower heads in the garden. We picked sweet strawberry fruits and crushed aromatic catmint leaves from the allotment. Every step brings new smells, from delicate jasmine, to the heavy scent of roses.

This coming week I am joining in with Satya Robyn’s Dear Earth e-course. I am already finding that her idea of writing “Earthellos” is a process which is helping me acknowledge where I am, lean into the wisdom of the earth, and breathe the deeper perfumes of Life. Perhaps you too may find it encouraging to sniff out some sweeter scents among the horrific stinks which pervade our global atmosphere, and allow the longer deeper processes to begin their work in us all.

But not quite yet…

Already my part of the world is seeing crowds moving, people who have been on lockdown for weeks are surging towards the coast and beauty spots and causing anguish to locals and those who are trying to police the area. Social distancing, 2 metres apart, and only meeting one on one in a public open space with a member from a different household, seems to be an optional rule, disregarded by many this week. Who are these guidelines for I wonder? As I write there are questions being asked about a powerful government advisor who appears to have decided weeks ago that following such was not necessary for him.

The front page of a national newspaper showing our local beach this week, and a plea from our county councillors who are trying to keep everyone safe.

The garden is showing signs of one stage of spring coming to an end and things moving on. Flowers dropping and seed heads forming. A staple of our winter diet, Swiss chard, is running to seed, and is almost at an the of producing a crop for dinner. The new plants, while forming small new leaves, are not yet ready to feed us. Early broad beans are almost ready for tasting, but not for regular picking. Strawberries are forming but not fully ripe. There are buds on the sweet-peas, but they’re not yet open, and currants are hanging in strings but they’re still green.

Added to the suspense and promise of good things to come are the constant threats of predators, black fly, aphids and drought! No rain here for weeks is becoming a problem, and we are having to work hard to keep new seedlings alive.

Black fly on the beans, blister aphids on currants. Luckily not hugely dangerous to plants, but strength sapping none the less.

It’s a time of in between, waiting, promise of better things, but nagging hints of difficulties not yet over. The hope that the sacrifice of patient waiting and following guidance will be for the good of everyone in the midst of the Covid crisis, is right now being brought into question by the behaviour of some who should be setting an example. The excuses, lies and inconsistencies make me angry and worried, and I know I’m not the only one!

But as I walk the garden this morning there are other messages too. The example of nature is always there, beauty and sweetness is not far off, we just have to be patient for the buds to open (even if the greenfly enjoy them too!)

Two of my favorite roses not far off opening this morning, sorry I don’t know their names!

Un-easing the lockdown

This last week has been a strange mixture. Firstly on the weather front. The days here have been warm and sunny, I have drunk my breakfast coffee in the summerhouse most mornings. The nights on the other hand have been very cold. Low temperatures were forecast on a couple of nights and we decided not to plant out beans and sweet corn on the allotment as both are vulnerable to frost. But other plants like courgettes and squash were already planted out, so we had to make special trips to cover them under cloches and fleece. Tougher plants like the potatoes got nipped by the frost, their leaves were blackened in places but they weren’t seriously affected. The broad beans just carried on regardless and are producing their first small beans.

Now the danger of frost seems to have passed and we are planting out our tender beans and corn. But they are still under threat! This time from rabbits. Our sunflowers were gone within a few hours planting. All the allotment holders are losing plants, eaten as soon as they are put in the ground. So our bean wigwams are now wrapped in protective fleece to try and prevent rabbit ravaging. At home the cherries are swelling on the trees, but we have been swathing them in netting to protect them from the birds. It feels like as soon as the weather is safe, we’re constantly on the look out for new dangers.

The parallels are obvious I guess! This week has also seen the the “easing of the lockdown” against Coronavirus in England. Another strange mixture…

Easing is a word which to me suggests rest, relax, the dangers are passed. But on the contrary the message is “Stay Alert”.
Hardly reassuring…
And then the conflict and confusion when we aren’t sure what we can or should do, and the strong feelings which arise when we disagree! (Families and politicians)
Hardly easy…

How best to protect ourselves against the virus will not be easy to work out. It all depends… on our age, state of health, and our vulnerability of all sorts. And, like gardeners, some of us hold back and are cautious, some take risks and don’t worry too much about set backs. I have had to learn that gardening is not an exact science, often frustrating in its unpredictability and uncertainty . I feel equally uneasy about the ambiguities and unknowns around the lifting of some lockdown restrictions.

But meanwhile I have been experimenting with some protective measures, not fleece around beans, or nets on cherries, but simple masks for when I go shopping. The discussion around mask effectiveness, patterns, materials filters, is endless and confusing. I am experimenting with a few to find one that works for me and I find easy to use. It’s been an uneasy week, staying alert for new threats, and trying to decide what’s best for us. In the meantime nothing seems to stop my hair growing, and the flowers in the garden are showing no signs of holding back…

Hidden patterns, bigger pictures.

These days I seem to wake early and I often listen to my little radio through my earphones while hiding under the duvet. Yesterday I listened to Open Country on Radio 4 an audio diary by Brett Westwood made in his urban garden under lockdown. It was wonderful to listen to someone who knew about the different insects and plants, just reveling in the variety and profusion in the small space of his garden.

It inspired me to try walking differently around my garden. Usually I take my phone to clock up steps on my pedometer, (and I’ve walked 100 km since I started doing my daily circuits!) But yesterday I took my mind off my steps target, and walked slowly like Brett Westwood. I carried my phone, but with my camera ready. And there was much to marvel at.

The rhododendrons are beautiful at the moment. Most weren’t planted by us, but have been gradually restored to strength and vigor over a couple of decades by the careful maintenance and nurturing of my gardening husband. He frequently has to cut away large branches which “revert” to the old common rampant purple rhododendron, and which threatens to overcome the more delicately marked flowering and subtle beauty of the different varieties. It has been the work of years.

These branches with their beautiful purple blooms had to be pruned out yesterday to protect the pale pink blooms of the rhododendron they were growing in!

Christine Valters Paintner, a writer I have mentioned before encourages the art of photography in spiritual journaling. Her emphasis is on using our cameras not to capture shots or scenes, but to receive moments. So I walked slowly, and stopped, keeping my eyes open for what might be given to me rather than things which I had to struggle to get. As I waited I became aware of smaller life forms just doing their thing quietly in front of me. Many are very beautiful even though I know what they do can be destructive to our plants and vegetables. There are many complex relationships here I don’t understand.

In my early morning sleepy state I had heard Brett Westwood on Radio 4 describing the Holly Blue butterfly. It is a butterfly which can have two generations in one year, but Brett mentioned that there are also longer cycles and deeper rhythms to be aware of. The population of the Holly Blue grows and falls, numbers fluctuating widely over a cycle of several years, apparently connected with its relationship with a parasitic wasp. More to read here.

On my slow walk, and with my decision to receive rather than struggle to find, I was excited when a Holly Blue flew past me. It landed at my feet on the soil by the rhubarb. I was able to photograph it just by bending down. Not a perfectly focused and composed picture, but it felt like a gift to me.

I am still pondering this gift to me of the Holly Blue, the other insects and the seasonal beauty of the rhododendrons. These are not automatic yearly cycles, there are much longer and deeper relationships at work, with complex processes which require pruning back and rejuvenating, involving destruction and death, as well as resurrection and new beginnings.

Whether plant or creature in the garden, I felt their gift to me on my slow receiving walk was to help me be more aware of the bigger pictures, and the many different perspectives on the ups and downs of life – seasons of growth, and seasons of diminishing. And, you will be glad to hear, tuning into the deeper hidden processes and patterns did not stop me meeting my daily steps target. It just didn’t seem quite so important in the big scheme of things that I am realising I am part of.

Stopped in my tracks

I am continuing to walk circuits of my garden as daily exercise, and am beginning to wear a track through the trees and across the lawn. So far my pedometer tells me I have covered over 70 km this month, simply walking through the shrubs and trees, past the poly tunnel and summerhouse, around the vegetable garden and fruit cage and back to the compost bins where I count my circuits in fir cones. It is a gentle therapeutic activity, when I can settle into a steady rhythm of soothing movement.

It is also becoming an automatic activity, and can be a habitual route which I follow almost mindlessly. But sometimes my unthinking steps are stopped, when I notice something new or different. This week I was surprised to notice a solitary lily of the valley flower beside the path. I remembered we had planted corms there several years ago, but had never seen a flower. I stopped to pay attention to it, and point it out to my husband. We marveled at its appearance. Why now? And why so long in coming? No answer was revealed. But we enjoyed it and hope for more in future.

Another not so pleasant stop to my routine and automatic movements occurred this week when my elderly well worn iPad, (constant companion and currently an important link with the outside world) suddenly broke beyond recovery. Its replacement is pristine and unmarked, but setting it up has made me realize just how much I had come to rely on predictable routines, with automatic passwords and access habits. This week I have had to wake up and pay attention to security and updates and all manner of unsettling small changes. It has also given me a fresh appreciation of the powerful technology at my fingertips.

It has made me ponder how much of life is routine and automatic, until something happens to bring me to a stop. Certainly the Coronavirus crisis has stopped us all in our tracks, and disrupted our lives beyond our imaginings. So many routines are changed and plans are on hold, some indefinitely. It raises the questions again. Why now? And what now? The answers are not revealed. It remains hugely uncomfortable and the grief and loss for many is devastating.

As I walk the beaten track around my garden this week I am aware that the daily routines bring structure and calm to this strange time, but they can also become habits which make every day feel the same and blur into one. But if I keep my legs moving automatically AND keep my eyes open then I can tune into deeper rhythms, daily changes as buds open, and colours emerge. The blossoms of last week have gone and tiny fruitlets are coming in their place. Sometimes there are new seeds in the poly tunnel germinating each hour. When I wake up from my automatic mode, stop and and pay attention I see things differently. The difficult questions remain unanswered, the circumstance are unchanged but I find myself noticing the tardy lily of the valley, the frog which was recently a tadpole, and tiny cherries forming. And I find a burgeoning hope, for nothing ever stays the same.