The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Wednesday, 4 April 2018
Ragbag: kelp; where the snails go; snow; birds; & 6 drafts
It's that time of year. In fact, it's 3 months past that time of year, but better late than... So we headed off to the coast on a gusty galey day that promised serious storms. The surf break was the biggest we've ever seen there (once upon a time I was a Malibu surfer). And yes, even with waterproofs I got soaked to the knickers, but it was exhilarating; and we brought back around 25 huge sacks of wonderful free fertiliser for our spuds, onions, leeks and squash beds (we found out the hard way that beans don't like seaweed).
As a kind of tithe to the sea, I did a quick beach-clean, too. (I also like the idea of titheing a tenth of our produce back to the land via other species; however, the fact that the other species are pigeons beheading most of our fresh greens brings out a murderous streak in TM, and I have to say I can't blame him.)
A week later, after dramatic snow, we went back on a day that couldn't have been more different – gentle sun. However, what kelp there was was a great deal further down near the low-tide mark, and it was a struggle – for me, anyway – to carry half of the next lot of 30+ stuffed-full sacks back up the slope to the road. How satisfying, though, to feed the soil like this (in places such as the Hebrides the crofters' 'runrig' systems bedded their veg almost entirely in seaweed; and sheep still browse on it, as below, on Iona. I'm vegan so don't like to think of this much, but apparently the mutton is very tasty when they've browsed saltmarsh and seaweed shores.)
A second beach-clean done. Beach-cleaning is my promise to the land for this year, in addition to my other environmental commitments, but what with weather or being snowed-in twice I've barely managed the monthly visit I'd envisaged – so far.
As we headed up to the café for a late veggie breakfast, we met a family coming down with the most adorable little golden-curly-haired girl. I don't know what it is about blonde toddlers for me, given that I'm not especially drawn to others' small children, but they melt me completely. Perhaps it's a memory of my own adorable (mostly) daughter at that age. I longed to pick her up and hug her, and to show her where the snails go in the winter:
... but I didn't, of course. You can't now (I remember my shock at being warned a few years ago working as a visiting writer in a primary school that even if a child was crying, I wasn't allowed to offer them physical contact of any sort. What a sad sad world.)
Oh the snow! Thick thick thick here, and this is Devon. My beautiful hound would have loved this, galumphing and frapping around, tossing it in the air with her snout.
The birds had such a hard time of it. They clustered in our courtyard: bullfinches, goldfinches, marsh tits, willow tits, bluetits, coaltits, great tits, migrating redwings, blackbirds, chaffinches, dunnocks, and NINE (usually territorial) robins all at once. To my distress, the one who feeds from my hand appeared to have disappeared; since animals and birds with whom I have direct contact are my points of entry into the other-than-human world, to have lost 'my' robin companion after three years on top of my wonderful hound the week before was devastating. (I can't tell you how delighted I was when he turned up after the snowmelt.)
Two mornings running, a shy jay was on the doorstep (alongside the three pheasants). Perhaps they need landmarks to remind them where the buried acorns are.
One morning after first light – in other words in full daylight – a barn owl swooped up from the border of the courtyard just yards from us. They too have to feed, but I imagine there's one fewer vole now, or maybe one of this summer's family of mice who play at dusk copped it (see photo – that's an acorn beside it).
Another morning, a male sparrowhawk tore into the miniature weeping willow right beside the front door, where the smaller birds line up for food. As it happened, I was standing on the doorstep less than a yard away; not sure which of us was more shocked, but we were both immobile for long enough for the birds to scarper. Hawks see the ultraviolet trail of their prey; did you know that?
And so. I've been silent here partly because I've been grieving the dog as a family member, and mostly because I've been doing a lot of mentoring and also course planning, but also for once concentrating on my own writing.
A Trick of the Light – poems from Iona is out and doing well; and I've had lovely feedback (please, if you've read it, I'd love a sentence or two on Amazon). I shall be launching it on the Isle of Iona (Community Shop, 5pm) next Monday 9th, should you just happen to be nearby!
And finally, after 6 drafts, my new book, written and set in a forest in Brittany, has gone off to seek its fortune. That book was hard work. It's a memoir of grief; it's about treelore; and it's about the lost feminine through the lens of the Grail myths (and local legends) – my specialist study for over 40 years now.
So glad to have completed the book, and am wondering whether a new novel is gestating.
The next time you hear from me, I'll be on the Isle of Iona where the first of my two weeks of ISLANDS OF THE HEART begins this Saturday, to my immense joy. I've been leading this for 18 years now, and it has become a lodestar – not just for me, but for the many who join me year after year from all over the world. I'm so looking forward to sharing this week with those pilgrims, and with the newcomers who don't yet know how Iona has a habit of changing your life... 2019 is filling, but not yet full, should you be tempted.
Both photos are from the hotel garden. Sometimes, just sometimes, we see dolphins wheeling up that Sound.
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