A Little Garden Walk

It's cold. The wind is blowing like it still holds a grudge from an old argument, but the garden is stirring into life. So here's a bit of a virtual walk about in the garden today.

Why start with a sleeping cat? Thanks to my hard working cats, I dont have too much to worry about with mice, and I keep the birds out of their reach. Sheba has earned a wee rest.

OK, now my garden pals, I am sure that your fingers will twitch into the compulsive weed pulling, but look aside from that if you can. I offer first a weed-free photo to get you ready. Primula and daffodils do well up here. These brave little daffies have been going strong for a month now and the primula, which starts out as a squat flower to take a reading of the weather, has stretched out. We can take that as a good sign--all of us who like to look for optimism in our gardens.

Not surprisingly, Hellebores, which cheerfully bloom in January, do well here, too. They enjoy the company of the  primula that started them all--primula veris or cowslip.

My wee pond has a newt! I accidentally disturbed him when twirling for pond scum (aka filamentous algae). I hope for more wildlife this year. It would make very happy if some frogs decided to make this their home and avoid crossing the road from the lochans on the moss on the other side. The welcome mat is out to amphibians of any persuasion. (I have a toad in the chicanery somewhere. He shows up from time to time.)

The 'garden room'-- a rocking bench--as close as I can get to a front porch. The green man looks after us here in this sheltered spot. It is possible--occasionally--to sit out of the wind and find sun. Not often, but that makes it all the more welcome.

Lastly, two photos of hard working Jackie, the former shower, jacuzzi, steamer thingie from the bathroom. Disassembled and reassembled she is doing yeoman service as a cold frame. She doesnt stay warm enough to be a proper greenhouse, but look at all the wee green things she is keeping comfortable.

Fragile Equilibrium

A poet friend (Meg Macleod) and I some time ago discussed the difference between solitude and isolation.  Then it was a passing curiosity; now it is no longer academic. Our conversation came back to mind when she posted this poem, which she kindly let me put here.

this is painful

this space

I always knew as solitude

and loved

because one step away

there was touch

Michaelangelo

painted it

infinite space

inflicted

in the moment of separation

not of our choosing

 --Meg Macleod, 2020

I have a friend who chooses to go on a silent retreat once a year. She goes into the desert and lives alone and without speaking for a week. It's called Our Lady of Solitude, but I redubbed it Our Lady of Perpetual Solitude.  For me, an extrovert,  going into a place without words for a week would be an eternity. My world, which is shaped by the words I see and hear and imagine and write would collapse in on itself.

At the end of a fortnight away from the things that shaped my everyday life, I am beginning to find a new rhythm. The first few days were painful. The unknowingness conjured bad memories of childhood fears and a hypervigilance that has outlived its usefulness returned with a vengeance and would not let me settle. My mind swam with images: the curve remembered from math class with its sword-like sharp rise--exponential growth; charts of people as ping pongs on a screen changing colour as they sickened and died; and statistics of infection rate and death rate. The data was everywhere and relentless, but there was no information. Data are points on a graph; information is meaning.  There was no meaning to be had in all this.

The uncertainty is oppressive. Dwelling on the consequences is worse. I choose not to stand on the edge of cliffs, but now that choice has been taken from me. Not for the first or, hopefully, the last time will I think how foolish the folks in charge are. How limited. They didn't pay attention in math class and apparently all they learned in school was to bully the 'smart ones.' They should have listened then, but on this precipice there is no looking back or looking forward. There is just now.

I can walk in isolation up over the hill to the loch where the swans and the geese still follow their own rhythms. I pass by the newly ploughed fields and stop to admire the careful, patient rows.

Swallows, Sparrows and Barley Straw

This was in my draft folder. Whether on the computer or in the real world, I have fragments of stories, poems, songs, recollections nearly everywhere. It's almost time for the swallows to be coming again, so I thought I'd post this with an update. My wee pond has creatures in it. I was delighted to discover something with legs and a tail when I was fishing for pond scum. I know tidiness is meant to be its own reward, but surely a newt is a particular gift.

I have a swallow's nest outside the window where I write. It is my latest excuse for why I don't write. The swallows are not meant to be there. Swallows nest inside buildings--all the guide books say so. They must have forgotten to tell these two. The nest at first was a cup-like construction beneath the eave, atop the drain spout. Almost like a building. The nest grew, as the family expanded, into a sturdy bowl. It survived rain in buckets and a hail storm in what should have been spring and they persevere despite cold winds. 

Conviction

The right metaphor

sturdy as a swallow

stubborn as a swallow

his grace on the wing

so much admired

born of conviction

each wingbeat matters

 

They are my swallows now just as the hollyhocks and the tomatoes and the hawthorn hedge are mine: given to me to look after as best I can. The swallows don't require much of me. I suspect they would rather I wasn't here at all. They don't visit the bird feeder with the hoi polloi of the bird world, taking their food on the wing hoovering up flies and such. So I need them more than they need me. Just like the secretive thrushes that leave behind the empty snail shells in the flower bed in the far corner of the ground now sheltering among sturdy alders and one ramshackle pine, a relic of some earlier time when other people and plants called this spot home.

The gable ends of the house host house martin nests. One gable end now sports a second nest. Because we sit in the middle of fields and a nearby moss, we attract a variety of birds. They eat all the seeds I put in the bird feeder and sit on the trees sometimes chattering at me when I'm in their garden. A romantic might imagine it is bird song of gratitude. I think they are either complaining about the food or the service. It is perhaps just as well we do not speak each other's language.

The barley straw came from a hard working neighbour. It went into the pond to discourage filamentous algae build up. It did its hard working best for the strawberries and the potatoes and was sitting in a sheltered area awaiting its next assignment when a pair of sparrows discovered a patch of it underneath the swallow's nest. Their discovery might have gone unnoticed except for the fierce efforts of the swallow to send the sparrows away--dive bombing and chattering, his tiny frame all grim determination. Of course I joined the fray for my swallows. I shooed the sparrows away until I realised they weren't predators, just barley lovers.  I scooped up the straw that had drawn them in and put it a safe distance from the nest.

This morning there were about two dozen sparrows after the barley straw. I had not moved the mother lode of it, so temptation was still too close. The swallow was fluttering and chattering against an army of sparrows. I filled up the bird feeder. As any mother knows, a distraction is almost as good as a remedy.  While the sparrows stuffed their little beaks, I moved the barley straw closer to the bird feeder--and, critically, further from the swallow's nest.