Letter Writing Day

Glorious sunshine is lighting the cobbles and bricks of the patio in front of the house.  The ever-present moss and weeds no longer visible, thanks to virus-induced pressure hosing last week (or was it the week before that?)

Seedlings sit, restfully, on the wooden yard shelves, waiting permission to overnight outside.  A conflict arises – the back garden, safe from dogs, is abundant with rabbits…. I sit contemplating (fearfully) the endless possibilities presented by Mr McGregor’s garden events in the latest Peter Rabbit film.  It’s a worry.

The chickens settle into their dust baths, in the shade of the wooded area by the bottom paddocks.  The horses lazily flick their tails at early insects.  The dogs lie, reassured by my presence, in various poses around the garden in front of me.  I wonder how they exemplify such accurate yoga stretches, without the chirping voice of Adriene through YouTube. 

The cats, out of sight for too long, will be resting inside their igloo.  What a contradiction of language.  An igloo here, in the warmth of a Derbyshire Spring.  Oops.  Staffordshire.  I can see the County border from here.  Well, if I stood on top of the barn roof, clinging to the solar panel fixings, then I might see the medieval stone bridge, drawing a line between places. 

The sun has been covered by a mean-looking cloud,  It’s not cold yet, but the glare from the writing paper has eased, giving a sense of a chill to come.

Two days ago (or was it three?), I cycled to the village to post something equine to a laboratory.  Fourteen minutes there.  Six minutes back.  A head wind blowing across the park made pedalling hard going on the way there, and unnecessary on the way back.  The stark lack of tourist cars dropped me into the opening credits of Midsomer Murders, a batty old lady pedalling through the countryside, tranquility all around, until… I shook off the thought.

Pigeons are cooing as I write, and I am reminded of Sarah Millican’s comments from her Australian fans.  They call her the ‘Cake Pigeon’ as she coos at cake shop windows.  This could become a Thing at Foxes’ Retreat. Cake Pigeons.  Speaking of which, it is almost the weekend, and therefore almost time for cake…

My Dad will be 80 on Saturday.

Cait and I, on route to her first burn, should have been landing in Cape Town on Saturday.   

“All changed utterly.  A terrible beauty is born”.  W B Yeats… the world is, even now, changed utterly, and terrible battles are being fought, but still I find a beauty in connection, in nature, in discovery of self and others. 

Next door’s cockerel calls across the valley.  Competing with the closer sounds of swallows, blackbirds, pigeons and nuthatches.  The Robin Family flit in and out of Lucy’s open stable window, selecting carefully from her leftovers.  They are not ones to waste or judge, simply being in the present, joyful at their discoveries. 

Unmatched pots house herbs and flowers around the patio windows.  I think they’re French.  The windows, I mean.  Actually, also maybe one of the lavender plants?  Thyme, mint, rosemary and parsley all wait to be called. 

A clump of leggy daffodils attract my attention.  I think of Dorothy, not of William, of her diaries and her lot.  How much the world has changed, and yet how little.  Opium smokers of the late 1700s creating imagery beyond the natural realm, finding new worlds beyond their physical experiences.  Cries, in modern times, for the legalising of hallucinogenics to aid in mental health crises.  Turned down by the controlling classes, a step that is yet to be taken into “A Brave New World”. 

I am so incredibly grateful for dappled sunlight and gentle warmth in nature.

Breathing through my conflicted mind – a privileged position that I have yet to come to terms with. 

It is what it is. 

Accept.

Commit to the future.