Chewing the Cud

Our daughter had a very fine teacher in her primary school. Dedicated to her small charges, she applied herself diligently every day to the task of instructing, listening and encouraging and, for herself, simply surviving. Day after day she would care for her class, make herself acquainted with each child’s strengths and weaknesses, idiosyncrasies and giftings and strive to urge them on, to take steps forward in life, in learning, in the achievement of personal goals and towards greater maturity.

But sometimes, as happens to us all, it all got too much. She was nearing retirement and sometimes, after a particularly tiresome morning’s teaching, was more in need of an afternoon nap than an afternoon of arithmetic with a class who preferred to look out of the window and really wanted to go out to play. Mrs. Luscombe’s classroom was on the ground floor of a modern, purpose-built school and opened out through a glass door onto the playground – a tempting prospect for her less motivated children and for their weary teacher. On particularly difficult days she would set tasks for her children, check to make sure that everyone was gainfully employed and then slip quietly out of the door into the play area outside. “I just go and look at a tree” she confided to us once, in an unguarded moment at a parents’ evening. “There are just times when it all gets too much and the only thing to do is go and look at a tree.” As far as I know she was not a tree-hugger, but the tree in the playground was certainly a friend and a source of valuable therapy and there existed a long-lasting bond between them.

As for me, years later, I understand how she felt. It’s been a hard week: a week of adjusting to a new job, new people, new tasks, new stresses and strains and another week in the city. Now I’ve escaped from the busy ‘Randstad’ – that urban expanse of stress-filled living that is comprised of a conglomeration of busy Dutch cities, all running into one another. In the north of Holland the pace of life is less frenetic, the values and lifestyle more relaxed and a sense of calm and well-being hovers in the air.

So here I am, surrounded by trees – grey-green willows, glowing golden-leaved chestnuts and graceful lindens. But the trees are not my choice today. No, I have other sights in view. Sitting here, beside the water, I am looking at a cow! Graceful she is not, nor glowing, but somehow comforting. Square, massive, brown and white and immovable, she stands gently, placidly staring into space, her soft brown eyes full of wisdom. She is also chewing the cud, which is exactly what I’m doing – figuratively speaking – going over the week’s events until they slip into place, questions resolved, worries quashed and I can file them away in my mind in a box marked ‘sorted’. My role model, my therapist, is ruminating, masticating, deliberating (or so it seems), chewing in a knowing, superior manner in front of me. Nothing interrupts her reverie or her purpose. I follow suit: half an hour, sitting on a bench, watching the cow and chewing over the events of the week.

After a while, her placidity and apparent wisdom rub off on me and I find I can proceed, like Mrs. Luscombe, with my world back in order and my spirits renewed. The cow is too big to hug but I silently flash her a smile of grateful thanks as I continue on my way. Maybe they’re not so dumb as they look.

Why don't the trees get bored?

It's autumn - time for a bit of reflection on the seasons.

Late in the summer, the leaves dry out and turn colour. They fall to the ground, making a rich multi-coloured carpet of golds, reds and browns. In the city streets, they are swept up by armies of municipal workers, armed with brooms, shovels and little trucks or by means of noisy, leaf-blowing or wood-crunching monsters. In the countryside, the leaves gather in corners and under hedges, blown into drifts by the autumn gales, where they provide a home for hedgehogs, field mice, beetles and spiders. Finally, they rot down into a fine, nutritious mulch of dense, rich vegetable matter, nurturing the growth of next year’s plants.

All through winter, the trees stand bare: tall and proud and unashamed of their perennial nakedness. The trees enter their period of rest, of trance, of recuperation: not a winter of discontent but a winter of hibernation. They wait patiently, while the winds blow and the soft rain produces a damp atmosphere that fosters a covering of damp, dark green moss. At times the snow covers their branches with a sprinkling of pure white.

At last, every year, unseen and unheard, the sap begins to rise. Then, all of a sudden, ‘pop’ – a bud bursts forth, covered in sticky sap – then another and another and, as a reward for their patience it seems, tiny buds begin to unfurl; their protective coverings drop to the ground and are borne away on the breeze. Another spring is born. These tiny leaves develop into glorious, brand new, fresh green foliage. They mature and grow, turn a deeper, darker shade of green and stretch up towards the light, basking in the rays of the summer sun.

The woodlands thicken, become dense and overgrown. They provide shelter for nesting birds and shade for weary passers-by. A vast array of fruits, nuts, vegetables and grain appear in our fields and orchards. They ripen in the sunshine and the summer rain. We share them, willingly or otherwise, with birds, mice, wasps, butterflies and a host of other creatures and, every year, we gather in the harvest.

Over and over, again and again, nature repeats its cycle. Never bored, never hungry for change or looking for some new novelty or fresh challenge, nature follows its appointed course with mind-blowing steadiness and reliability. Why should I, then, in my 21st century humanity, as a part of this natural cycle, be fashioned so differently? After only a couple of repetitions of a simple task or at the outset of another yearly cycle, I grow weary and bored and retire defeated, exhibiting signs of repetitive strain injury! I am destined, it seems, to be eternally caught in the tension between that soothing sense of security achieved by performing a familiar task well and with ease and the brain-dead boredom of a task repeated one time too many.

Enough has been said on the subject of dealing with constant change – a subject that is much highlighted in these changing times. But when boredom sets in and we are powerless to change our lot, how should we learn to rest contented when nothing changes? How can we learn to flow with the seasonal rhythms of nature and continue to be productive and motivated day in, day out, with those same old things?

Where would we be if the trees felt the same? How would life go on if the birds and animals tired so easily of their seasonal tasks of nest-building, reproduction and foraging endlessly for food to feed the next generation? What if the spring decided to do something different next March? There are lessons to be learned from the wise old trees!

Go with the Flow

Today I’m trying to go with the flow. Holiday time is over. Summer is all but gone. I’m alone again – with my thoughts and my work. But it’s not all bad. Life goes on. Yesterday it rained – all day – on and on. ‘Rain in the morning; showers in the afternoon’ they said on the weather forecast. It was all the same to me. So I cleaned the house, worked on some articles, watched the garden grow.

Today the sun is shining – you see! ‘After the rain the sun’ the song goes! It’s market day today and the bells on the clock tower are ringing out a merry tune. I’ve done my shopping; stopped at the market place to buy some shocking pink dahlias; now it’s time for a cappuccino. I notice that the little doyley under my coffee cup tells me I’m drinking Fairtrade coffee and saving the rainforest. That’s good. Yesterday I cleaned the house while the rain fell and the garden grew. Today I’m sitting in the sunshine, drinking coffee and saving the rainforest. Multi-tasking again! Maybe work’s not so bad. I’m trying to go with the flow, as I said. No more complaining. No more holding out for the last moments of summer or the remnant of that good old holiday feeling. No more shirking of work and responsibilities…

There is a gentle but persistent buzz in the background that seems to confirm my resolution: the sounds of everyday. I stop to analyse it: the hum of conversation, a plane flying low overhead, the jangling bells, a motorbike on the other side of the square, a van starting up its engine – the unstoppable cycle of life and the rumblings of my fellow human beings, intent on enjoying this beautiful autumn morning, no matter what.

‘After the rain the sun… after the sun the rain’ the song goes on. Well, tomorrow it may rain again. Tomorrow there will be more work to do. But the garden will grow – and after all, how can you have a rainforest without rain? Maybe I’ll stop wingeing and try to take each day as it comes…