Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Homewards, I drive. Fog makes heavy work of driving, makes you concentrate to find the road. It gathers like a paste in the valleys, dissipates on peaks. As I guide my car up onto Bodmin Moor the view expands beyond the expected. A bridge of startling light all across the night sky, a bridge between worlds! The Aurora Borealis has me questioning my sanity until I'm home and everyone else can see it too. Even monochromatic it swells with magic: through a camera lens all the colours that a human eye can't catch are there.  We pull on boots and warm coats and walk into the middle of a field to see the whole sky open- and then clouds close the show, and cold pinches our skin. But we are satiated, happy to return to the cosy hearth, hearts full of wonder. 

It’s a misty commute. In several spots visibility dims to fog levels (less than 1000 metres if you are curious about the definition of fog) but there’s morning sun so it’s a bright obstruction. In fact here and there the air clears and sunlight is the cause of extreme squinting.  Last night’s journey was hazy like some weirdness was erasing the landscape- perhaps I would arrive home to find nothing there? I was intrigued. In the obscured I feel wrapped up rather than separated. I am in my hermit era. I am a soul happily cackling in the mist, on my own path.  But!  Every now and then I connect with outside life and a question sneaks out- What does lie ahead, beyond the fug of modern uncertainty?  And the answers bounce back like this:  the only place we can influence the future from (or the past) is the present: the best place to begin is here; the best time is now.  Small stuff adds up.  What seems set in stone forever is swept away by weather; certain...

Mr and me sit on our two piece sofa, one either side and each with a damp dog huddled beside. It has been healthy chaos here. Muddy prints spiral from the front door, soggy chew-toys are draped over carpet and tile.  Mr has been bundled up, fighting off a cold with rest and home remedies, while I have pottered through a rare day off: hid upstairs and remade a lightshade, boxed away some Xmas clothes, daydreamed. Downstairs, remade the fire, served up leftovers for lunch, walked the happy houseguests.  Mr drops into sleep, rumbling snores. The dogs begin their dream twitches.  If the clock worked I'd be listening to its tick. It does not work so we have set it at midnight to summon moon magic. So, in a way, the clock is functioning perfectly. 

Daylight feels cold, the ground is frost crusted. Underground, into this chill murk, spring bulbs are stirring. All the seasons have their transformations of course, but this the time when people also look ahead and make plans and hope for change. Which is why I am also reflecting on the opposite, on why some people put effort into avoiding, why they prefer to fester... and these are my notes- Because if you try, you might fail. Because the work to change is difficult, it makes you tired, and you might fail. Failure is the loss of what you could have been, over and over. And there are some who would rather be a liar than a failure. If you are not humble, and do not see a small life as a beautiful achievement, if you would rather pretend that this not-trying is a grand adventure, a thing beyond the ordinary, this is avoidance. If a plain life seems beneath your ambitions, you don't feel the need to try: this is avoidance. But you will be stuck and afraid and angry that we see you, t...

First we had the coffee, then we did the thing. An orderly beginning, especially as the thing was a list.  A list is one of my favourite structures. It should be (ours is, hurrah) simple, fluid, evolving. Ticking off items is dopamine rich. And if at the year’s end there are tasks leftover you can burn that nonsense and start again. Failure is only failure if you refuse to start again, again, again. (Yet some folks fear it so much they can't even begin.)  We aren't thinking ‘New Year New Me’ we are more taking stock of where we are, checking our route to where we'd like to be, taking note of seasonal chores. Lucky us, already on a journey. Doesn't mean we will never feel lost. But if we do, okay, maybe first we mewl and curse, but then we brew the coffee. 

On social media, if you have picked a flower, you can display it in a vase , take a picture, you can angle the stem to hide the slug bites, you can artfully light them. You curate, you edit. The flower is of course something from your life - happy or sad, it is proffered up to be examined, appreciated, related to, shared. But every flowerbed requires fallow time to thrive. Real life shrivels from the overshare, virtual life becomes a facade, a lie. I have been fallow awhile online, beautifully busy offline, with small complaints like a leaky roof , like sometimes the weather wasn't right. I always have bruises (either from training or tree related) but didn't get ill once. I was not hungry. Our plans for the land are taking tangible shape, I am working on three novels, I am making pretty things out of broken stuff, I am enjoying the work and the rests in between. Next year the idea is to record and share more of the Paddock Garden Orchards adventures- I will be curating, I ...