kingfisher

our bit of canal

Kingfisher absolutely fucking streaking up the canal. a flash of orange and that aerodynamic determination. I live on the towpath, just sit at the front of our house and the whole of nature puts on a fine drama, every day a new gripping instalment.

I can hear something peeping, I can't find it, I think it's in Mary's holly tree. I stood there for ages earlier trying to spot it but lockdown explorers kept getting lost and looking bemused. I felt that pull of civic duty and kept pointing the way. I'm Welsh, it's unavoidable, it comes over me like a force - look confused within 10 metres of me and I will give you eye contact, friendly encouragement and detailed instructions of how to get where you need to go. Even when what I would really like to be doing is standing silently waiting for a whisper of movement to identify a creature. Sh!

Couldn't find the peeper. Now sitting in the window with the binoculars on standby in case it reappears.

I can however see the plump bullfinch. I had never seen one before I moved here, and now him and his missus feed on the sunflower seeds out the back and appear to be planning a single storey deluxe new build in the russet beech hedgerow between my neighbour and I. He is so pink. Like otherworldly, heavenly, gloriously pink. He sits about a lot while his lady friend does a lot of the work. But he is a real prince, so I can see why it would be hard to resist.

the foxgloves are beautiful this year

A fly just crashed straight into the window I am sitting at. Quite loudly. It is now doing a fourteen point turn of utter confusion. Can flies get concussion?

I'm doing the Artists Way, and reading Women Who Run With The Wolves. I return to these books over an over, trying to unhook the claws of capitalism seeping into my brain. The raw anxiety of having made nothing of my life, not having lived up to expectations, not having capitalised on my talent driving me ever upward on a ladder I never meant to climb.


Thank the goddess for time, and a garden.

I potter.

Today I watered everything again and again in this dry and all pervading heat. My sisters and brothers drooping, gasping for a drop. I stared at the baked earth in the still empty pots, hoping and inspecting for any sign of germination. The kale is up - cavolo nero no less, little seedlings bleached by the sun. I keep moving them round the garden chasing the shadows. I think once they have some sturdiness they will be fine wherever, but I need a germination place. This garden is cooked on every axis except the front, which is unsuitable for such an endeavour being the public facing aspect of the 'ouse. Things I never imagined I would need - a germination zone.
Things I never knew I would care about - how passersby experience my garden.
I like people to enjoy it.

We have had one crop of cress at least. A tiny nod to the possibility that more produce may yet surface. I have so far planted Maris Pipers, and the green tufts burst from the soil just this week. Reassuring. Spring onions, garlic chives and rhubarb - of these no sign. I have a tray of runner beans begging to be put in the ground, it's on the long list alongside potting up the annuals I bought in delight at their exuberant showing off, jewel coloured trailing geraniums and velvet black petunias. A tray of grey-pink cosmos are parched and thirsting in too-small pots waiting for all the other jobs to go first. I have dug borders and planted wood geraniums - cranesbill in pink, blue and white, delphiniums spiking blue and white too, amidst the glittering dew on the leaves of the lady's mantle. I tried some anemones, they look so unbearably sad, I don't know why they are so unhappy but their leaves are yellowing and dying back into the earth. Maybe they hate this free draining sandy dry soil. There was manure, but maybe not enough.

The most glorious success of spring so far is the intensely scented sweet peas absolutely crammed in to a couple of old terracotta pots I usually do me tomatoes in. I had no idea they needed pricking out, but I can't bear to split them up now, so scores of vines are snaking up the pyramid of canes, the colours bursting deep purple, bullfinch pink - filling the garden with the most heady perfume. It takes me back to my grandfathers garden in South Wales, a wall of sweat peas and beans, delicately fragrant lilac Blue Moon roses, and the very particular smell of a Grandad's greenhouse circa 1986, with gas bottle heater and green encrusted windows, concrete path up the middle, the scent of tomatoes all earth, must and marigolds.

I'm learning Sketchup. It reminds me of when I first got sober and had nothing but time. Amazing how blackout drinking can take over your life. During that first year off the sauce I was so bored it was untrue, I used to wander the streets of London and drink coffee at all hours on Old Compton street and watch the night sights out the window. I learned Photoshop in my basement flat in Peckham, ignoring the mess and the thoroughly unsettling experience of waking up to my own mind, and could eventually retouch with the best of them. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I am a fast learner. I like to shallow dive everything, eating up knowledge buffet style. Cramming as much onto my plate as I can. I am creating a model of our house in Sketchup, I think it's actually quite good.

Bruno

Bruno has the zoomies. He has flumped on the floor in utter frustration, sighing and pleading with those amber-green eyes. The next stage will be boinging around the house looking for mischief to get up to because he knows it's walkies time. He will buffle for non-dog items to chew and run about with until he is taken out. Chris is in charge of taking him, not me. I did the early today for the first time in months. We swapped. Bru and I went out at 530am listening to nothing but birdsong and our own footsteps on the path. It's amazing how well you can communicate with a dog silently when there are so few distractions.

Sheets Heath at dawn

It was spellbindingly beautiful on the heath. I thought of the Great Mother, and how, at 43, I am only just realising that I have always defined my higher power as essentially masculine. This has not turned out to be the kind of primal, wild and ferocious power that I need. Of late I am practicing communing with the spirits in female form, and let me tell you my friends, it is wild. Juicy and hot, multi-dimensional and fecund. It is a portal to some secret place in myself that has been buried, starving and dark underground. I just needed time, and good minds to delve in with.

Every single day since just before lockdown, I have been Zooming with 3 other women and some occasional visitors. We are hunting, scenting, sniffing the air and looking for answers. We read from various different religious, spiritual, recovery and psychological texts and discuss, for one hour and share our experience, strength and hope. It's some good witchery. I did not know how much I needed it, lacked it. My spiritual practice is so personal it has never fitted well within a church or organised place. This gives us a station, an anchor, as we all discover our own conception of a power greater than ourselves.

I am hungry. On many fronts. But I must forage for supper and leave this be. I intended to go out and get some elderflowers before some other thrifty local spots them and I miss out. But it's too late now. I'll pray for a harvest tomorrow. I will leave you with a poem we read this morning by Anne Sexton.

Her Kind

BY ANNE SEXTON

I have gone out, a possessed witch,   

haunting the black air, braver at night;   

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch   

over the plain houses, light by light:   

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.   

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.   

I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,   

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,   

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:   

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,   

learning the last bright routes, survivor   

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.   

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.   

I have been her kind.

Anne Sexton, “Her Kind” from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981). Copyright © 1981 by Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. Reprinted with the permission of Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc.

Source: The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1981)