Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

22/1/22 Saturday Frostless and still, this morning. Garden stationary, like statuary. We are not: there is writing, land work, and home improvements in motion. There’s a spark, a waking up. The doomsday clock chugs, the human world sits like a frog in heating water, yet here our small world whispers hope. ‘The secret of change,’ Socrates said, ‘is to focus all of your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new.’ Mr plans to go to the land, I will hear his tales of today when I get home. I have come to work where Saturday is hydrotherapy day, a half-hour session with the little warm salt pool to ourselves. We had a slot after the newborn class; relaxed vibe; and before a party of 8 yr olds; disco vibe.  23/1/22 Sunday Luckily I set an alarm or we might still be asleep, and after a sober night too. Blaming the cold for making our bodies hibernate. At work, a YouTube fire flickers in a stone surround: cold out, cosy in. The flat seems chilly so I put the real-life heaters...

15/1/22 Saturday Whizzed through housework this morning, possessed with a motivation to live in a pleasant home. No frost to ogle. Sky, and sea, when I view them on my commute, are the same muted steel; one patch of cloud glows like a furnace. The hydrotherapy pool is open again so my co-worker and I load the car to take our care client, she is keen-keen-keen to get in the water. Feels tropically hot. After this, we are all hungry and relaxed. On the drive back a three-quarter moon looms in the pale sky, bobbled clouds of grey darken, rain dribbles down the windscreen like rivulets of mercury.  16/1/22 Sunday Drive to work with my new bright yellow raincoat on the front seat next to me. Sky is Wedgewood blue, clouds ripple like the low tide sand, horizon hazy-white. It is unlikely to rain but I want to wear my rubber duck coat. We take a short stroll; after which I hang my prize on the back of a chair, put a rainy day scene on YouTube, and eat a pot of tiramisu.  17/1/22 Monda...

8/1/22 Saturday Arrived at work via the Hospice Charity shop donation site, having made a push to clear space in the home office/storage room. This is part of our tussle to become tiny-house-ready, therefore it counts as land journey progress.  I showered this morning and, wary of cold creeping in, had my wet hair shoved inside a woolly hat; glad of the warmth as I was dashing through rain to gift a pile of picture frames.  At work: Outside the rain is sloshing. We can hear some sort of banshee wind. Dark drops suddenly. I’ve let my hair down, it’s still damp. I ate the last leftover Xmas satsuma and made tea from the peel. I’ve checked moon cycles for the best pruning dates.  I’ve ordered myself a superb raincoat and it’s out of stock. 9/1/22 Sunday Zipped to work hopeful of collecting driftwood on the way down but time and weather gently gathered into a Not-Today. On the way home I notice the absence of Xmas lights- usually someone forgets- and think fondly of how the ...

1/1/22 Saturday Last night just before midnight, Mr & I strolled down the dark lane, wine glasses in hand; spotted constellations, watched distant fireworks. This morning Dog had done several splats of foulness on the living room carpet. HNY! Also this morning: In bed, chinking coffee cups, we say- what will this year bring? We hope it’s a track and a toilet shed. On the way to work, I stop for a walk at Carlyon Bay. Far from frosts, a warmish wind blows, the sea is a stirred milky blue, the air damp. At work, I eat chocolate and mince pies and a bag of spinach.  2/1/22 Sunday 5am: Dog does dusty poop in the kitchen. Mr rises and mops. 7am: Dog arrives in our bedroom, she’s not sure why. I rise, briefly, relocating my snooze to the recliner chair while she settles on the sofa. 8am: coffee in bed, reading gardening books.  Not looking at the clock: walk before work, around the lanes in the unseasonably warm grey fuzzy air. No snowdrops to be seen, only the plucky wild straw...

Let winter be winter, be ice and fallow. Let yourself be settled, wrapped in warmth.  It need not take all of the months; it may only want a moment of your focus, that part of you that needs to seclude. Then, bring your plate to the feast. Be satiated. Feel it radiate.  Listen to your heart, listen to all of the hearts that beat and want nothing unreasonable, only to be heard.  Use the long nights to dream. This is not a luxury.  Light a candle, let yourself see from the flame to the shadow.  Ask yourself ‘Where is my hope?’  And there your feasted, rested soul begins the work.

This year again time is pressed upon by other matters such as fieldwork, family time, and getting this blooming novel writ- I was upset at the thought of not making a 2021 Yule Tale but then I looked back and there are these previous stories for avid readers to revisit, old friends to reacquaint with if you will. Some are lovely, some are silly, all are from me to you, all have hope of bringing peace and/or cheer. Whether you gobble them all up in one go or eke out the fun, your choice.  Today is the second day of calendar winter: I am sat under a duvet writing this, the window ajar to dry out damp, my head is wrapped in recycled polythene as I'm dying the grey bits green, and our elderly (though mostly sprightly) Dog has embarrassed herself causing me to now cease writing and go wash a blanket. Happy holidays xx Here are the links: The Vain Little Tree Ice In The Evergreen How The Snowdrops Bloomed The Porcupines In Winter A Slightly Parallel Cinderella Titania's Curious Other...

Typing badly due to having (accidentally) given my thumb a lid. Have taken the plaster off now for air to assist healing. Earlier, with wound protected (under a plaster, inside a latex glove) I drove out to Paddock Garden (our land - the name has stuck) to plant strawberries and a fern, and scatter evening primrose seeds. The sky was like grey inks painted on wet paper; leaves spun fire colours from branch to ground.  This injury is inconvenient, annoying, and on my mind, so I p ondered wounds as I drove: I thought of: How I have used stoic principles to survive circumstances with grace and learning, which has served me well. (A stoic would say this, of course.) How also I had become so accustomed to nobly suffering from secret wounds, sometimes still it is hard to comprehend how to live without hurt. Hurt is comfortable. Hurt is a habit. Hurt is reflective and meaningful. Pain can be a blast of life. You (you being me, I’m talking to myself) need to stop, to assess. To recall tha...