The remains of the day
The words for this post have been sitting quietly inside, trying to find the right shape and form to inhabit the void left when someone close passes and our perspective on the world shifts on its axis. My father died earlier this year and, although he was elderly and not in the best of health, it was unexpected and sudden. The shock still reverberates through me and I watch the constellation of the family strain uncomfortably, wanting to rest back into old familiar shapes, and realising it can’t anymore.
It’s not massively glamourous to talk death on a post that celebrates tales from the cutting patch, but a particular shade of grace is nudging to be spoken. Perhaps it’s something to do with the quality of light at this time of year. Or perhaps it is the revealing of naked branches that encourages us to let go of what has been held tightly during the year. Rather like sorting through a harvest of apples, heading towards the still point of winter invites us to cast a careful eye over each apple for its learning and choose which to store for nourishment and potential for the following year.
So what are the apples in my harvest?
Time spent with my hands deep in the soil induces a sense of wellbeing that is hard to describe. Witnessing the dynamism of tiny seeds as they push through the earth to become huge flowering plants continues to leave me with awe and wonder. Watching flowers bloom and fade reminds me of the brittle fragility of life. Most of all, a deep appreciation for the continual change that is life.
The felt impression of small acts of kindness are magnified during this time, and here are a few of the wonderful blooms that have held my hand this year. They have startled me with their resilience, silliness, nuanced colours, amazing scent. They have welcomed me to the cutting patch, heralding their sunny presence on long nodding stems. Many of them are dear friends who visit every summer, others are guests who have surprised with the qualities of their being.
I appreciate that two of the images are not strictly flowers. Dad always gave me tomato seedlings in the spring (I am hopeless at growing vegetables) and this year I needed to grow my own. Baking bread has been a solid thread of nourishment, as well as nurturing wonder with the aliveness of sourdough.
I wish you all ease as we transition into the stillness of the winter months.
