The Mixed Border

What could be better than a glorious summer’s day in June? This year you have to make full use of them when they turn up! Add in birdsong, a freshly mown, green velvet croquet lawn in a walled garden of mellow, red brick and a mixed border. That’s even better! I am a lover of mixed borders.

 

Over in the corner a man in a striped T shirt is bent over one of the tall plants, doing what he knows needs doing. He is healthy-looking, wiry and tanned. He is accustomed to the outdoor life and he just knows what to do. He is an expert. You can see it by the results. Now he kneels on the grass, gently pruning off the dead leaves of a magnificent yellow lupin. At this stage in the summer the carefully spaced array of yellow lupins are the most striking plants on display. I love lupins. These are the colour of natural sea lupins but they are prolific, their tall stems overflowing in a profusion of pale yellow blooms, their graceful green fronds shimmering slightly in the tiniest of breezes.

 

I am fascinated by mixed borders and the skill and patience of the wise old gardeners who design them, poring over seed catalogues in winter, researching, planning, propagating, ordering, planting seeds, thinning seedlings, protecting from frost, planting out, watering, feeding, nurturing and just waiting, full of wisdom and patience. Then, somehow, right on schedule, old plants are rejuvenated, clumps of last year’s dead wood yield bright new shoots, new seedlings appear and everything grows, develops, reaches up for the light, blossoms and then, hey presto, as if by magic, a garden appears. The tallest plants are at the back, tiniest plants at the front – all in order: bright, eye-catching daisies, tall clumps of delphiniums, bluer than blue, countless varieties of delicate species of geranium, miniature irises, purple-headed aquilegias, drifts of yellow, nodding poppies and pansies in tiny clumps. My garden does not look like this.

 

How do they do that? The roses, clinging to the wall, spread their graceful foliage along the warm, red brickwork and shower yellow rose petals on the earth beneath them. The gardener advances down the row of lupins, slips a pair of well-worn secateurs into his back pocket and stands back to admire his work. A lucky man! Thrice-blessed with wisdom, patience and this glorious garden! I am grateful for his gifts and happy on this wonderful June day to share with him the magnificent outcome of his superior talents.

 

Powys Castle, Wales

Shades of Grey

So, how is your summer so far? If, like me, you live in northern Europe, you may feel a little cheated, apt to complain or demand your money back. Me too. After a long, bitter winter, following on from a wet, almost non-existent summer last year, this year's spring and summer have been a bit of a bad joke.

 

But, complaining achieves nothing. There are forces out there we just don't (yet?) seem to have the technology to deal with. No point in bashing your head against a brick wall. The weather, it seems, just ain't gonna change. So, try another tack... How can I enjoy it anyway? Well, here in Wales, close to the beautiful west coast, and surrounded by glorious green mountains, I am learning a new technique. One defining feature of my personality is that I love the open air. Another is that I am incurably a 'colours' person. Sadly, I love warmth too, but let's just put that one on one side for the time being...

 

Open air - well, it's still out there! It's just a tad chilly and I feel the cold quite badly. Solution: instead of wearing winter clothes and feeling cold (as I do for most of the winter), I can wear my winter clothes and feel warm. After all, it's summer! Moving here has been an experience, although the bad summer doesn't seem to be limited to Wales.

 

Last week, in our attempt to explore the local community and what it has to offer, we had a night out at a recently completed chapel conversion. The new community hall offered us a first-rate night out, with a chamber quintet all the way from England and some wonderful local musicians, together with tea and biscuits in the interval and some of the friendliest local people you could wish to meet. Coming down from the tiny gallery still incorporated into this wonderful converted chapel building, I noticed that the locals are well equipped this year to survive our novel summer weather. Sun-dresses? Strappy tops? Flimsy summer sandals to celebrate this special night out? Not a bit of it! One elderly lady struck me as particularly sensible and well-adapted - a smart outfit as befitted the occasion, but topped with a woolly hat! I'm still on a learning curve myself, but in our entrance hall at home hang a selection of summer and winter attire, a sunhat (for optimistic days) and a brown woolly hat which I don for brisk, blustery walks along the seafront. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!

 

Colour? Well, the mountains are still a glorious green, the sheep are still gleaming white, especially the newly shorn, shivering ones, but the sky is often grey and the hills are sometimes shrouded with grey mist, upsetting my natural colour sense which is more adapted for the Mediterranean. As for the sea, I am learning to appreciate a whole new colour range -  misty grey, light grey, deep-dark-depressing grey, grey-black, grey-blue, grey-green, blue-grey and just plain, unadulterated grey. In the end it drove me to poetry. Well, what else can you do, sitting in the car in the drizzle, with a thermos of hot coffee on a summer's afternoon...?

                                           So Many Shades of Grey 

                                                Grey blue sea

                                                Calling me
                                                Blue grey sky
                                                Flying high
                                               Grey brown stones
                                               No-one owns
                                               Yellowish grey
                                               Sand-filled spray
                                               Greyish blue
                                               Distant view
                                               Greyish green
                                               Hills between
                                               In the rain
                                               Grey again
                                               Shades of grey
                                               Glorious day!

 

 

Not the best of poetry, but it made me feel better. You should try it sometime.

 

 

 

Lights Out

I glanced across at him, noting his kindly face and gentle smile, reserved, not pushing himself forward but attentive to his wife’s conversation, and reminding me suddenly of a friend. In former times my friend was just such a man as this, with a lively sense of fun, a zest for living and a lot of wisdom about our time on earth, how to enjoy the moment and seize the day. Sadly, at this present time, my friend is a shadow of his former self, immersed in a deep depression, inattentive to his wife’s grief, and unaware of the joys and possibilities of the present moment.

 

We moved on from the cafe, strolled through pleasant gardens and seated ourselves on a bench to enjoy the view. Again, my attention was drawn to my companions in this lovely setting, a couple enjoying the gardens, him on foot, her in a wheelchair, pointing out flowers in the border that took her fancy, as he pushed her along the grass. As they passed us she greeted us cheerfully, a smile on her face, and we exchanged joyful appreciation of the lovely garden and the warm summer weather. She was enjoying herself, despite her obvious disabilities – enjoying the sunshine, the flowers, the fresh air and her husband’s company.

And my friend? He enjoys nothing. He may recover. I hope for his sake and for his family that he does. I hope at some point the mists will clear and he will see life clearly again, as it is, full of light and shade, good and bad, but for all its trials, worth living and offering hope and possibilities. Like the lady in the wheelchair, he will be able to enjoy at least his partial good fortune and the good things in his life. A physical sickness, a deformity, a sensory limitation, or a disability is a sad thing, limiting our enjoyment. But a depression is a terrible affliction, turning out the light and wiping the memory clean that once knew how to turn it on again.

What Colour is Your Toothpaste?

My toothpaste is turquoise – it used to have blue and white stripes. I quite like turquoise but it’s different. Turquoise is gentle, whimsical and imaginative. Blue and white stripes make you feel alert and vibrant and set you up for a positive day’s activity.

In my kitchen I fry the onions to a pale golden colour. My left arm reaches out for the handle of the wall cupboard to my left. What I am searching for isn’t there. Why not? Wrong kitchen. Wrong cupboard. Another life. My instinctive reaching out for what I need used to result in gratification – the herbs or spices I needed next, the cheese grater or the sieve. Now it’s all wrong. I must engage my brain and reject my body’s natural impulses.

In the bedroom – well, surely bodily impulses must rule there! But no, in the night I wake and direct my gaze towards the illuminated, red numbers of the radio alarm. Is it nearly morning? Should I stir and make a cup of tea? Or is it merely another waking phase at 3 a.m. in my current, rather annoying and restless sleep patterns? But the answer is delayed. My brain turns the problem over slowly, painfully and  finally arrives at the answer. Since yesterday the bed has been raised a foot, from its earlier state as a makeshift mattress on the floor to the superior position of a real bed with a wooden frame, a headboard and a footboard to bump your shins on as you round the foot of the bed. More change. The new wardrobes have been erected and are very beautiful and the bed can now take up its permanent position. The carpentry workshop has been transformed into a bedroom. The clock now stands beside me at eye level on a smart new bedside chest of drawers, instead of on a pile of bed parts on the floor where my eye was instinctively searching for it.

This is all change for the better. We have chosen our new existence. We have discarded other options and chosen this one. It is a good choice and we are happy. But sometimes the mind and body, let alone the subconscious, are not so easily satisfied. Changes can be good; changes can be bad. But all change has consequences and on a subconscious level there is strain. Maybe it is simply that the tree outside the window of my new home is two feet taller. Maybe the birdsong is different. Maybe the neighbours speak with a different accent and I buy my groceries in a different shop. It doesn’t matter; I will get used to it. But inevitably there is strain; there is stress. My toothpaste is turquoise – and my inner self knows it isn’t right. This is going to take more time than I thought. Moving house is quite a project, it seems...

A landscape unspoilt by human intervention...

 

 

 

A sedge warbler chatters in the reeds, hard to spot but distinctive, insistent, bringing me to attention. Beyond the river bank a hawk glides over the water meadows, swooping, gliding, alighting on an old fence post, just out of reach. A ewe baas in the distant fields, calling to her lamb, drawing it back closer to her. I sit, back against the river dyke, sheltered from the wind, in the warm embrace of mountains that enfold me on three sides, their circle broken only where the river meanders down to the sea, past sheep. cattle and reedbeds with their tall, white stems held erect over the flat landscape.

 

Below me, on the bank, a butterfly lands, spreads its wings for an instant, moves on, joined by a second - orange, black, delicately outlined. A tortoiseshell, red admiral, painted lady? No, none of these. Just another of the countless varieties, defying labels, confusing to identify but delighting me with its vibrant colour and intricate patterns. All around me, it is colour that lights up this magical landscape: turquoise sky, pale green hills, golden yellow furze bushes, brown tufts of meadow grass, blending together in a rich harmony, a natural symphony of light and shade. The hillsides are illuminated or darkened by a succession of shapes, patterns traced across them by the steady onward march of the clouds above, always changing, never still.

 

In the distance I hear the sound of the steam train, its gentle 'choo ooo', as if in a far off dream, carrying yet another load of contented passengers down, down from the green mountain to the glistening, blue sea.

 

Far away, on the other side of the fields, a solitary white car glitters in the sunshine as it makes its way slowly along the road that is now visible, now hidden, behind the screen of hedging towards  a cluster of houses and farm buildings - the only clear sign in this whole panorama of the existence of the human species. Apart from the chattering of the birds, the sound of distant sheep and the sighing of the wind, it is a silent world, a far cry from the city that I am used to. No concrete, no glass, no metal, only earth, water and vegetable matter, soft, green and natural, the way Mother Earth intended. No human intervention, nothing to spoil it - except me...

 

Menagerie

 

It’s a strange sort of day

And I can’t work it out.

My bed’s full of bears

And my bath’s full of trout.

There’s a pig in the shower,

A giraffe on the path

And I’m sure I just noticed

A bat on the hearth. 

It’s a strange sort of day

And I can’t get it straight.

There’s a herd of white rhino

Just come through my gate.

There’s a flock of grey geese

In the hall by the stairs

And a small troupe of mice

On the dining room chairs. 

It’s a strange sort of day

And I’m feeling quite faint.

If I see one more sheep

I shall make a complaint.

Did I eat too much cheese?

Stay too long in the sun?

But it’s just like the zoo

So perhaps I’ll have fun. 

Well, the bears had some buns

And they shared them with me

And the mice said they’d like

To stay with us for tea.

Then the rhinos got stuck

As they came through the gate.

By the time it was fixed

It was getting quite late. 

Then the pig left the shower

And went back to the mud

But it left the tap running

And now there’s a flood.

When I’d cleaned it all up

I was ready for bed

But guess who was there

Even though they’d been fed! 

But I slipped into bed

And I turned out the light.

Then the bears started growling

And gave me a fright.

It’s been a strange day,

But not quite what it seemed:

I’m so glad I’m in bed

And it’s only a dream.

 

 

Snatching Time

 

 

 

 

I thought I was quite good at taking time for myself. Being an ME sufferer for some years now, I had got used to pacing myself and interspersing periods of activity with time for rest, relaxation, meditation, sitting in my garden watching the flowers grow... I learned to use the hours when my husband was out at work (earning enough for two of us - just - thank God) and I had all that time to fill with leisure activities so that when I ran out of energy I could flop in a chair and do something restful that I grew to love. Writing became one of my first loves. My garden was the other one. Putting those two together was my shortcut to heaven.

 

Gradually things improved and I got a part-time job which I also enjoyed. But the hours at home still gave me plenty of time for myself and I would sit, watch, listen, sense, think and write to my heart's content. I think some of my fit, healthy friends were a touch jealous of my disability!

 

Nowadays we have just moved house and my husband is semi-retired. Two good reasons for being busy. Two? Well, I went to a great workshop the other day and discovered I'm not so good at taking time for myself as I thought I was. Read on! Dr. Julie Leoni, a charming, unassuming, ordinary person, like the rest of us in every way except for the slightly intimidating doctorate, told us a little of her life history, documented in greater detail in her latest book: Love Being Me. From being a busy wife, mother, teacher, trainer and coach she snapped one day and turned into a jelly-like shivering wreck, lying on the floor, howling and scribbling. How did that happen? Basically through a wrongly-motivated sense of priorities which left Julie and her personal needs way at the bottom of the list, only ever receiving attention when all the 'important' things of life were finished - which, of course, they never were. A process of unlearning, learning and re-learning followed until Julie arrived at the point at which she finds herself today - loving herself and taking time out of her busy life to make sure she does more and more of what she loves to do. Life is too short to do anything else.

 

Inspired by her workshop and book, I have come to a realisation. I am not so good any longer at taking time for myself - only snatching it! Snatching it is different and still involves relegating myself and my needs to the bottom of the pile, to be achieved only when the more 'necessary and important' tasks are done. As a result I become tired, I start to 'do' out of a position of drivenness and rushing to meet deadlines and I become duller and less vibrant as a person. Like this I have less to offer the world. In actual fact, Ihave learned that all of us have a lot to offer the world - wisdom, energy, inspiration, creativity - if only we abandon our regime of guilt, 'should', other people's demands and unjustified 'needs'. Of course, it's great to help those around us, lovely to have time for other people we love or just those around us in our wider community, but if we forget ourselves and allow life to squeeze out those moments of self-awareness and just 'being', we're lost.

 

Currently, my ME condition is improving - hooray!! I have had energy for this new phase of my life, for packing and unpacking, for the time-consuming and exhausting activity of house-hunting, for the stresses and strains of being temporarily of no fixed (permanent) abode and the rigours of adjusting to somewhere new. In fact, I am re-energised by all of this! I am delighted to have the love of my life increasingly more present in my everyday life as a consequence of his (almost) retired status. Again, hooray! But I have realised, these past few days, that this has given me two more reasons to cease taking time for myself. I no longer have hours to 'fill'.

 

We are engaged together on the busy and delightful tasks of unpacking and creating our new home. We have endless (it seems) boxes to unpack. We have new friends to make. We have new activities to try out. We have new places to explore. We have each other for company and can plan the days together. But those times of gentle contemplation, those moments for reflection, those hours filled with writing can now only be snatched, not taken. I have to guard against this. I am hearing no judgemental sounds from my husband. None at all. They are only in my head. He is happy for me to take time. He is aware of my still fragile reserves of energy and my need for rest. It's only me, still learning to love myself, to love being me and to indulge myself now and then - or maybe more often than that! I'm on a learning curve again - from snatching to taking - from a sneaky, guilt-ridden activity squashed into moments when my husband is in the shower or I have already done my share of the chores, to a willing, whole-hearted conviction that I am worth it. And so I am! Thank you Julie Leoni! I needed that timely reminder.