Cold comfort
Firstly, a slightly overwhelmed and heartfelt thank you to all the people who said such incredibly kind things about my weekly journal. I still haven’t managed to answer all the comments, but I have read them all, and I was so incredibly moved by them all.
I write to you because I want to share this world with you, to tell you and show you that there is such magic and beauty in the everyday, that me showing it to you enriches it for me, makes me stop and see it, and I appreciate my life all the more because you bear witness to it with me.
Thank you, truly, for receiving it with such kindness and open heartedness.
There is an eerie silence. The road through the village is the main route between Honiton and Taunton. It is not a particularly big road, but it is generally busy. Not today though. Today it has been quiet. It has been quiet and still. There is a sense of waiting. I feel like all the waiting I did for Spring was a sort of horrible mistake; it would have come regardless, that I wasted some effort, some finite form of emotion, on waiting for something inevitable.
Now it feels like we are waiting for something much less certain, much less known, much less benign.
Nature, in its indifference and its majesty, goes on. The woods and the stream banks are a solid, glossy green of wild garlic. The blossom is starting on the old wood of the blackthorn, not just the fresh tips. The bullace that entwines with an old holly tree is showing signs of life. The furry buds of the goat willow glitter softly. We walk more slowly than usual; breathing the air, holding the silence in mind, noticing the changes.
There are things that are unchanged too. Hugo resembles a pint of Guinness every time he steps out for a walk. The big cherry tree in the top corner of the first field is still not out. There are still blankets on the bed because the nights are still chilly. There is talk of frost tomorrow night.
But still. I invest in the future. I sow tomatoes this week, and leeks. Kale and sweet peas. Scabious. Nigella. Ammi. I sow seeds that will grow to be harvested in the late weeks of Summer. When they are harvested, we will know what has happened. Just in case, I sow micro-greens too.
It seems an utterly ridiculous and futile thing to be doing, but I am working on a seed sowing guide for you. I hoped to have finished it by tonight to send tonight, but it turns out I do love the sight of my own voice. It has got longer and longer as today has gone on. So until then, here is a photographic record of this week.
It suddenly feels very important to capture.
