margaret stirland

On the weekend my sister and I moved to Derbyshire we went for homity pie at Scarthin Books of Cromford. It is a special treat to dine on thoughtful vegan food while surrounded by books! After our lunch we wondered around the book filled rooms and I discovered Feathered Playmates at Home on display in a windowsill and couldn't resist picking it up. As you can see from the photograph this book was awarded to Margaret Stirland in 1936 by the City Of Nottingham Education Committee as 4th prize for 3 hyacinths grown in a pot. 

I loved the title of the book, that it was for 4th place, that Margaret had grown hyacinths and that it appeared to have been kept for her lifetime. At 82 years old the book is in good condition, the stories interesting and illustration charming. I'll treasure this Margaret!

birthday

It was mum's birthday on the 13th October, she would have been 83. I took a trip to London with a packet of Snakes-head fritillary bulbs from my sister and bought a cyclamen on East Finchley high road to plant on her grave. Our previous plantings seem happy enough, the grave was bright with Bellis daisies and primrose.  

It was a beautiful morning and I could have spent the day in the cemetery. Its a fascinating place. Happy birthday Mum. 

matlock

Hello again. My blog has been quiet lately because two weeks ago I relocated to Derbyshire. This morning I took a short but dramatic and rewarding stroll, following The Limestone Way to a well placed seat overlooking Matlock. These images show my return walk down the hillside. It was good to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air and see the early autumn berry jewels in the bushes and trees. I imagine this walk will become a go-to when a quick nature reboot is needed before settling down to the working day. 

 Hawthorn berries redden the trees

 Thank you Geoff and family

 Matlock

 Hawthorn framing the style

 Beautiful damp moss

 Blackthorn sloes

 Abundant hawthorn berries, an unusual deep colour

 Holly sheltering the pathway

 Reaching branches

 Inviting

 Final descent into Matlock

Looking back at the walks end

rowan

A precious thing happened to me in 2017, I became a fairy godmother to a wonderful little creature called Rowan. On Wednesday he will have completed his first circuit of the sun and with this in mind, I stitched this celebratory bunting to decorate his room.

His parents are magic and he is magic, so all is well with the world.

scotland

 Burghead

 Roseisle

 Roseisle

 Burghead

 Findhorn

Findhorn Foundation

it is hard to lose your mother

Last Monday it rained ALL day. 

I'd planned to visit Epping Forest, near where my mum lived for 42 years but not fancying a soaking I postponed until the following day. So on Tuesday I traced the journey made on frequent visits during the final months of Mum's life, cycling to Leytonstone tube, traveling 6 stops on the Central Line to Debden, then cycling the mile or so to her home. Setting out on my journey I passed an undertakers and saw a wicker coffin being respectfully transferred from a van into their premises. It was like the one we selected for Mum last year. I felt little. There is a numbness in me at times, where I observe what I could be feeling but the feeling doesn't come. I'm aware of a level of self protection and wonder if the years anniversary of her death will allow a turning of this tide. The feeling is akin to holding my breath, and soon I may gasp for air and grief might bloom.  

Slightly to the side of and separate from reality, I cycled through Debden, turning left and swooping down Willingale Road, swerving to avoid pot holes and cracks in the road. Then right onto Etheridge Road, left along Colebrook Lane, then a final right onto Pyrles Lane. The roads were quiet and clear. I cycled up Pyrles Lane dropping gears on the incline. When passing Mum's house I felt nothing. It is a Council House and we always knew the keys would be handed back one day. The house is so familiar but Mum is no longer behind that door, watching TV in her chair, the memory already feels distant. A quick glance, noticing ornaments on the windowsills, the garden scruffier. While peddling I recalled this time last year and my fears about what I would find, turning the key and opening the door, gently calling Hello Mum, worried that I'd find her in distress, fallen, dead. 

Onwards to the forest, memories of walks over the years. Mum surprised me once by asking to join me on a walk to Theydon Bois and back with Jessie our beloved Battersea rescue dog. A photograph from that day sits in my living room of Mum holding Jessie's lead, posing for this now precious photograph. Climbing off my bike, I wheeled it into the muddy forest. There is a wide path into the woods and I enjoyed its familiar gradient, noticing the still bare trees and dark trunks caused by persistent rain. A tree creeper alighted onto the trunk I was looking at, I knew its name because my sister had told me on a walk in the forest a few weeks earlier. 

Delight! I was alone in the woods and all around me birds sang, revving up, stating claims for territory, for mates. Underneath their song an unseen stream ran at full spate, swollen from the previous days rain. This wood so familiar, a 10 minute walk from my childhood home and still the trees stagger me, old pollarded beech trees, human in their knobbly forms. It is a very special place, unlike any other forest I've experienced. This part of my life is closing down, my links to the area gone with Mum's death, the neighbours we knew gone also. The thing I dreaded has happened and I survive and move on. It is hard to lose your mother. 

A couple of weeks ago I attended a drop-in healing session at the Spiritualist Church in South Woodford. As the healing came to a close a radiant green light filled my closed eyelids and the words, It is hard to lose your mother came into my head. It was an incredible moment and filled me with hope. 

the 'c' word

A year ago today my mum and I went to the doctors on Pyrles Lane for her most recent blood test results. As we sat and waited for the taxi mum applied her lipstick and my heart leapt as I noticed her jaundiced skin against the pink shade. We had to swap shoes, as her swollen feet wouldn't fit into hers, so I unlaced my trainers and she just about got these on. It was a hell of a job getting her to the doctors, her legs so swollen it was difficult to bend them, so getting into and out of the taxi took monumental effort. It was at this appointment that it was obvious she was gravely ill. There were inflammation markers in her blood. The 'c' word was mentioned and I wanted to cover her ears, protect her, for the doctor to tell me and not her. 

My mum died of suspected liver cancer 19 days later. She endured with no complaint and didn't ask for anything. In the final weeks of her life my sister and I took turns staying with her, so she wasn't alone in the house. Her health declining fast we did all we could. She didn't want medical help so it was only when things became desperate that we asked for assistance. I'm still processing the shock of her death, and that she died from cancer. She was tough. She did it her way. She lived for 81 and a half years, just like her own mother. 

In the run up to the first anniversary of her death I'm counting down and remembering the anxiety and fear of knowing she was dying. I've always had a sense of protecting mum, as children, she used my sister and I as a shied against our violent and unpredictable dad, sleeping in our shared room. It was an unusual, topsy-turvy relationship. 

I couldn't protect her from dying, but, alongside my sister, I could be present and ensure what happened around her was the best it could be, especially in her final days on morphine and semi-unconscious. I've felt untethered this year, not part of the world. My life has a different purpose. I can no longer protect my mum and I've lost the job I was born into.