Upsy downy bog road and I have taken the wrong turn and end up where the pot-holes and bends cause a slight unease and an urgent honking of the horn at the rise of a small hill, an obscure point of vision, a situation that causes me to chance the next quarter of a mile with all the strength that I can muster. But I am strong. I have just come from my therapist, a massage, a renewal of my body, an erosion of all that weighs me down. So I feel light and clear like the sky and the wild flowers that fill my vision and the green tuft of grass that guides my eye along the undefined way. Clarity is called for and fortunately there is no lack of it with the wild blue, grey Atlantic to my right and the soft bogland to my left and nothing in-between only me in this small red VW bug.
I am rich with gifts. I have celeriac and celery and chard and leeks and pumpkin all grown in the garden from where I come from where the garden grows rich with love and caring. Nothing is wasted. Polytunnels host broad beans already in flower, lettuces vy with eachother for attention, potatoes sown in March reach my knee. I am in awe of all that I see and yet my host garnishes me with more than I can imagine.
When I get home I stand in the kitchen to survey all that I have tried to grow. Some with success while others struggle for a sense of place, never quite the right soil, never quite the right stake, never quite the right amount of sunshine. Nothing seems to work. And yet, I keep going. I try so hard to make it grow. The plant or the person can't seem to find the right planting point. I move it around, I reduce the heat, I turn up the cold, I provide the shade, I open up the blinds, I add more nutrients, I talk to it, I listen, I bend, I stand tall, I am me. And then I somehow come to realise that it is not for me to provide as we are all plants of sorts, making our own way, taking whatever soil or shade or sunshine that happens to fall upon us and if we are lucky we can actually make it work. Nobody said it was easy. God, if only the plant that I talk about would realise this. If only the sunlight could always make things grow and if only watching something die in fertile soil was not so harsh. It is like watching a sandcastle tumble at six o'clock on an evening beach after two children built it all afternoon. I always thought that was sad. There is all that excitement, the building and the shaping and the energy, the beauty of the bodies twisted around in the sand, building, building and building some more and the tangle of hair and the approval of the parents when the deed is done with shells stamped all around it and bits of seaweed and blue bits of rope and then the tide comes in and slowly dismantles the afternoon dream. That's what this is like. It's like someone falling into the sea because they never thought that they had an option, that they could possibly hang on to the pier, the shore, the shells on the rocks, the long strands of weed and kelp and wait, wait for the tide to recede.