two women

As a physically able woman I can't help but notice people struggling with heavy bags or shopping trollies on London Underground stairways. I've never learnt to drive so am used to heaving belongs on public transport, my arms dropping off with the weight, my shoulders aching with the effort of dragging a loaded trolly up steps. Fortunately I am strong enough to do this. Maybe, also, since my Mum died I particularly notice older or elderly solo ladies simply getting on with it, so after a moments observation I offer to help. At Stratford Station recently I assisted a woman navigating busy downwards steps with a trolly. Taking the trolly I lifted it with my right arm so it rested against my back, and the lady walked ahead as I descended the stairs swiftly behind her. When handing her the trolly, she said in an Irish accent, 'Thank you, you are a real lady'. The crowds were swarming around us and we parted, and I wished I'd had the opportunity for a quick chat. Being called a real lady brightened my heart with its old fashioned sound, I felt a harking back to her childhood and family values... and smiled inwardly.

One winter morning while waiting at the bus stop for the W14 I spotted a diminutive elderly woman dressed in black on the other side of the road. Leytonstone High Road can be difficult to cross for the fleet of foot, and this woman had a stick and was unable to rush. She patiently awaited her chance. I watched as a young woman stood beside her and crossed the road, I willed her to notice my lady but she didn't. So I crossed and asked if she needed help. Luckily this timed with a break in the traffic, and as we walked she placed her black gloved hand in mine. Her smallness, her trust, her need of assistance moved me, my eyes became wet and I felt a wave of emotion in my chest... for mothers, for daughters, for trust, for loss. On a later bus journey I learnt that her name is Rosina, and as I approached the bus stop on another occasion I witnessed a young woman with two small daughters giving Rosina and kiss on each cheek. It is wonderful to see that she is connected and known in our community.

cactus

Among the row of plants on my bedroom windowsill is a cactus that has fallen to the floor on two occasions. Each time parts of it have broken away and now it sits, precarious and lop sided in its pot. I've always eyed it with a little sadness, remembering how it was, its potential and promise. My friend saw it last week and called it dramatic. Her clear vision has totally reframed how I look at my cactus, now I see its beauty rather than its missing parts. I've reflected upon this all week, and have observed my joy when gazing at this flourishing survivor. Words are so powerful, my response altered with a single one. 

getting my hands dirty

My day was spent volunteering at OrganicLea, a workers cooperative growing food on London's edge in the Lea Valley. There is a pleasant ache and tiredness in my body after weeding and mulching rhubarb crowns and potting on rooted blackcurrant cuttings. 

Being close to the soil, helping in simple ways, chatting to my companions while working together on a shared goal is mulch to my soul. 

Being the first to step outside after lunch I watched as a fox in beautiful condition sauntered through the grounds. At first it was accompanied by a solitary magpie but this flew gracefully into the bare trees. Walking on and partly obscured by bushes the fox leapt playfully in the grass and then disappeared from view. 

It was a rewarding day in many ways.  

 Blackcurrant Ben Nevis 

 2/2/18

 Rhubarb

  Productive space

 Structure and approaching dusk

 Greenhouses 

Gateway to Hawkwood