winter solstice

These past two years I've backed away from rituals and goal setting for obvious reasons, and am tentatively opening up to these practices again.

This morning I wrote down eight things I'm ready to let go of and eight things I wish to invite in. I burnt the first pile in the garden, watching as each piece of paper became a fragile shadow of itself.  The second pile I carried to a favourite sycamore tree in Scarthin wood. I told the tree my intentions one by one, carefully folding each piece of paper and placing it within the tree trunk for safe keeping. 

The tree can shelter my intentions and let them breathe within the wood. Lets see what 2022 brings.

magnolia

As parts of the UK experience the first chill and snow of winter I marvel at magnolia buds revealed by stormy winds. Until very recently my small magnolia tree (a 50th gift from a friend) was in leaf and the hopeful buds grew concealed. It was a thrill to notice them and this week one leaf remained - I considered plucking it as keepsake but resisted, leaving it do its own thing. Today the young tree is bare of leaf and full of bud and I love how at winters threshold the fizz and pop of spring is patiently biding its time. Next years promise held tight throughout winter, wonderfully visible and breathtaking.

This observation will turn me into a bud and shoot spotter; the gorgeous fur of magnolia bud and heart swelling green of daffodil leaf tip. Nature reminding all that the only constant is change and nothing stands still. 

What a difficult two years we have had, collective trauma, ongoing pandemic, variants and alarming news. What hope in the bud, the shoot? Many may feel frustrated and thwarted, plans scattered, the veneer of control fallen like autumn leaves. Each time I notice a bud I'll remember to take a deep breath, to value signs of life and celebrate keeping on keeping on. The future is locked up tight, safe, renewal on the horizon. For now though, I'll willingly lean into winters nudge towards introspection and acknowledge the necessary endurance of these times. 

visit to epping forest

While in London this week I met a friend for a walk in Epping Forest. We walked from Chingford Plains to High Beach and it was thrilling to experience an unfamiliar aspect of the forest and notice many instances of sympathetic management and habitat creation. Since I left the area in 2018 greater numbers of English Long Horn cattle have been released and we saw small herds grazing and relaxing in the grass. This sight is part of a thousand year history of people having commoner rights to graze cattle in Epping Forest, a working landscape. 

The forest where I grew up has a different feel: huge pollarded beech tress, deep leaf litter and wide tracks. This part felt more intimate and varied with winding, slow streams, boggy areas and clearings. It's been years since I walked in Epping Forest and my eyes felt fresh with the wonder of it, realising anew that this is a very particular place and surprisingly, that I'd forgotten something of its power and beauty. I would love to visit again with more time for exploration. 

haddon hall chapel

I could happily visit Haddon Hall every week! 

Within the grounds of Haddon Hall I always head to the St Nicholas Chapel first, tracing a 'map' of my first visit many years ago. I'm fascinated by the foliage and flower dry fresco paintings and love to gaze up, noticing how each large motif skilfully fits into the others surrounding it to create a continuous pattern that climbs the walls. I marvel at the skill involved in painting consistently to this scale over a large surface. Wondering at the daunting first brushstroke, the mixing of pigments, at the scaffold required to work at hight, imagining arm ache and the physicality of this labour. How marvellous to become absorbed in marks made in the 1400's. How I'd love to peek into the process, see the start of a days work, observe the everyday of that era.

And then, within feet, I travel to 1894. The death of a 9 year old child, the eldest son. Eyes drawn to the tender depiction of feet and hands and incredible carved drapery.

'For ever wilt thou grieve and he be fair.'

Detail of chapel fresco

Three skeletons of a Medieval morality tale

whoops

Whoops - I intended to share a picture of my sunflower in flower last month - see this instagram post for a full bloom shot! 

Seeds are forming, and a teeny new flower head is sprouting - such riches.

When ripe, I'll take a few seeds for next year and leave the rest to the birdies.

Thank you sunflower 💚

bees on echinops

 Such a treat to watch bees buzz around the tall globe thistle 🙂

Buff-tailed bumblebee

Honeybee

White-tailed bumblebee

Red-tailed bumblebee with mites on it's back hitching a lift

dinosaur pals

These delightful post-it note drawings sat by the side of the path between railway and houses in Belper today. Wisely, they'd chosen a shady spot on this scorching day. Crouching to photograph them I wondered at the event of their creation - a guessing game? something to delight a child? to while away a bus journey, illustrate a conversation? Literally 'throw away' drawings on post-it notes, momentary, speedy while also showing a confidence with line and proportion. I'm a fan of the artist. 

The addition of a googly-eye gives an air of intent to the stegosaurus - it's going places. The brachiosaurus has appears wistful, looking back at where it's been. 

They make a balanced team.

 

small things are big things

A few months ago I left a packet of sunflower seeds in the stairway of Haarlem Artspace (where I have a studio) inviting others to pick a seed and grow a sunflower. I staged it as a competition of sorts - envisaging studio holders planting our sunflowers in the flowerbed by the studio building and watching as each grew into itself with its own special attribute.

At the moment mine stands alone, though I'm hopeful my sunflower will have company.

It grew on my studio windowsill for a month or so and 7 days ago I planted it out. I've been grateful for the rain that has fallen this week and today went to check on the beautiful and hopeful flower-bud that is forming. I'll have bated breath until it flowers.

Tomorrow I am providing homemade vegan victorian sponge and ginger nut biscuits to celebrate the sunflower and my intention of joining studio holders in a communal flowery endeavour. It's not quite taken off this time, there is always next year...

full

At the cemetery tap people leave the milk bottles full of water for the next person to carry to their loved ones grave. Such a teeny thing really, but it gladdens my heart when I lift the bottle expecting empty and discover water winking away in the sunlight. Someone has thought of me and my watery errand.

And in turn, I refilled for the next soul to discover they've been considered. 

Water our losses, and let's hold hands with others doing the same. From Doris and I (who haunts her grave) over and out.

lavender

The lavender I planted on Doris Hardy's grave is flourishing. I visited for frequent waterings during dry April and hardly at all in wet May. Today, in glorious sunshine, I went to admire the lavender's abundant flower-heads and watched ants doing their communal thing on the warmed concrete of Doris's, her aunt Mary's and grandmother Sarah's grave.

Have yet to sit and spin using a spindle by the grave, a nod to the word 'spinster' etched into the stone - I plan to do this on Friday.

doris hardy - spinster

This grave in Wirksworth Cemetery, Derbyshire fascinates me. Doris Hardy was added to the side of this grand gravestone and the first thing we know after her name is that she was a SPINSTER (in text that's on a right leaning wonk). Who buried her here? Who didn't take enough care over the text? Why is her marital (lack of) status so important?

Delving on Ancestry I discovered that Doris was born in 1894, the first child of Henry and Alice. She had four sisters and one brother and two siblings who died. Her family had deep connections to Derbyshire and the local area. She is buried with her grandmother Sarah who died in 1905, and aunt Mary (also a spinster) who died in 1934.

The grave was covered in overgrowth so one Sunday in April I spent an afternoon clearing weeds and intended to scatter bee friendly seeds and plant native plants. I soon discovered concrete under my trowel and was disappointed but wondered if I'd find any further clues about Doris and her family in it's surface. I did not.

Taking the seeds away I returned the following week and planted lavender in a soil filled circular hole within the concrete. Disappointed again as this hole was a tube as far as I could reach and felt sorry for the lavender knowing it's roots will be restricted. It's been a dry April so I've returned often to water the plant and help it settle into it's unpromising spot.

Ideas are forming and I plan to research Doris further to understand more about her life. 

Spinster, late of Starkholmes.

Was the concrete poured onto the burial plot in 1967?

Symmetrical pattern scored into concrete

Lavender planted in tube within the concrete

lovely lonely

Just now I intended to write lonely but my fingers typed lovely, a one letter difference which made me smile.

LOVELY

LONELY

LONELY

LOVELY

I'm someone who is at the end of her family line, the finale of the people who birthed people since the beginning of human time. Big stuff.

Without parents and grandparents, without uncles and aunts - all dead. Without nephews or nieces, I'm not an aunt. Without partner or children, I am no-ones mother and for a son or a daughter I will never bow my knee.

Lonely lives in my chest, unconnected by blood I'm self reliant and can cope with levels of isolation that would drive others bonkers. Pre lockdown I was lonely, post lockdown I'll be lonely. It's not something to pity or fix, it is an appropriate emotion in relation to my circumstances.

Obviously I've been unable to do the things that buoy me for over a year now, at times the isolation has been profound. Tentatively, with feelings of shame I've shared with particular friends that I'm spending a lot of time alone, or directly stating that I'm lonely. Responses have been interesting: 

Oh, we don't see anyone (friend who lives with partner and adult child)

I'm the same (friend who lives with partner/child and who's parents are living)

You can spend time with my daughter!!! (person who lives with husband/three children who's parents are living)

Oh, we just say say to each other do you want a cup of tea! (friend living with partner and dog)

I'd love to be alone, the children don't give me a moment (friend living with extended family - mother, brother, sister-in-law, nephews and niece)

These responses serve to deepen isolation and end the conversation, they also confused me. Not one person took a moment to acknowledge what I'd said, it became about them. This got me thinking does everyone feel lonely? Is my life so unimaginable and unfathomable that others have no way to relate? Am I expected to shut up? Am I not playing the game? Did I bring this on myself? The weight of Culture heavy as a leftover woman, a spinster, an old-maid. 

For those of us without partner or family how do we connect and relate to others in a family orientated and pro-natal world? A world where we are negatively portrayed. Is someone like me allowed a voice? Should I shoulder this alone? Is it shameful to admit to being lonely? Why does it trigger a defensive response?

Everyone is at the end of their respective tethers but I manage to not tell others how fortunate they are to have living family, could this empathy be returned?  

life and loss

For some, birth and death entwine, for some no three score and ten.

I was drawn towards a well tended grave at the edge of the cemetery. A son born and died on the same day. His parents had left cards on what would have been his 38th birthday a couple of weeks before I crouched at the foot of his grave.

Walking away, vaguely uncomfortable having read his parents loving words I felt bowed with sadness. Gazing around the cemetery the weight in my chest immediately transformed into a thought: loss is life. My shoulders unfurled recognising the love and longing made physical in stone, wreath and engraved text surrounding me. 

The pain of loss is witnessed in a graveyard. Loss lives here. It is important that losses live. They walk with us anyhow, matching our stride in patient silence.

The years are counted in a loved ones absence. I imagine these parents recognised their son in boys, and now men the age he would be. A particular shade of hair, a gait, the angle of a cheek - gut knowing, a catch in the heart. Would our boy have been like that? Is this him? A weary searching for... something...     

Loss has a life, it grows with us. It's facets revealed as we age and carry the weight of further losses. Recognising something of an-other when it's too late to say, 'oh, I get it now, I understand.' 

Grieving and living while the sun shines on our faces and the birds sing and it's beautiful and our hearts break all the same.   

a very late - hello 2021!

I'm shocked to realise that it's over 2 months since I posted here. Time seems to drag and also flash by simultaneously, which is very disorientating. I also wonder if I have much to say, or the energy to work it out, write it out.

Welcome 2021, lets see how this year flows. I have no expectations, but hope for health. 

Here is a photograph taken last month, the day after my 50th birthday. It's cool being half a century old, I'm fortunate to have got here and welcome the silver hairs and crone status.