Autumn Cottage Diarist

Wet! Green!

After the welcome, hesitant spring sunshine over the weekend, we are now
"enjoying" two days of rain and mist. The air is grey - but the earth is
leaping into green, everywhere. That particular, fresh, lush green of
springtime, a green that it seems one only has to turn one's back on to
hear pushing up and out, and painted on in thick green brushstrokes.

The reflections in the pond show how calm the day has been - no wind,
just a steady, incessant downpour. But there in the pond, things are
happening. The frogspawn is giving up its yield, and today little, 5mm
tadpoles are starting to emerge and wiggle. I wonder how many of them
will survive? There must be over five hundred little jelly eggs with
their black comma centres right now. How many will come through the
onslaughts from pond snails, water beetles, birds and The Grass Snake,
to get through to the end of the summer and escape the pond into the
greenery around. I wonder......

Blossoming Forth in the Garden

Just look what a few hours of sun can do. All the buds on this magnolia were still closed when I went into the garden this morning. By four o clock, this is what had opened up - Magnolia stellata - isn't it just beautiful? The shrub is just outside the sunroom, and each year I intend to move it to the bottom of the garden, so that the flowers could show up more intensely against the dark hedge background, but i always forget, and by now, at this time in spring,  when I remember, it is already blooming.

Action down at the pond as well, where there is at least one big clump of frogspawn. I wonder if it was laid by any of the frogs that grew in the pond last year - or whether from a new arrival? It matters not - it is great fun to watch the progress of the tadpoles into frogs though the summer - even if most of them were eaten by a grass snake in July last year!

Also some action on my part in the pond - clearing out a lot of old, dead weed and leaves that managed to get down both sides of the net that was meant to be covering the pond though the winter. I leave the debris on the side of the pond for 24 hours so that any stranded pondlife can clamber back into the water.

One particular pond plant that I want to eradicate is the "Parrot Feather" which strayed from my other pond last year - it is a real rampager and will quickly choke everything else, so I need to be brutal with it at this time of the year. Lots of other pond plants reproducing themselves as well though, so they are being potted up as gifts to friends. I LOVE free plants!

I'm still feeling tired while recovering from the nasty virus that laid me low a few days ago, so I spent the last part of the afternoon sitting in the summerhouse with a cuppa and my journal. During the time that I sat there, both a nuthatch and blackbird came down to drink, and a little vole decided to battle its way through a knot hole in the fence between my garden and my neighbours.

The summerhouse provides the perfect hide in which to watch wildlife, so look out for many more dispatches from the hidey hole throughout the rest of the spring and summer.

This Man Breaks Open the Heart

This is the face of deep beauty and tremendous courage. This is the face of Humanity..

The Holy Father of the Catholic church has just made an appearance on what is the most important day in the Christian calendar. He came to his balcony, in his private apartments in St. Peter's, to declare to the City and to the
World the belief and celebration of the Resurrection of the Divine. But in doing so, he places before us the infinite struggle and beauty of Mankind.

This morning, as he attempted to speak, in a barely audible whisper, he brought into our midst every human that is struggling with
infirmity.  Old age, decrepitude, disability - it is still so often seen
as an embarrassment, a failure of all our expertise, with which we are
confronted here in the Western world.  No matter how clever we think we
are, it still creeps up on us inexorably! So often we shut it away, draw
a veil over it, pretend it will not happen to us.

John Paul II is bringing it right back into our midst and causes us to question just
what our lives really are all about - both personally, and in terms of the Bigger Picture. His appearance, his presence, his continued struggle (when it would be oh so easy, and silence so many other whisperers, just to quietly resign) speaks with the voice of trumpets - his own voice is almost unnecessary.

I have said before, I am not a Christian, I do not comment from any act of piety or tradition. I speak only from the heart, and this morning I saw something so
heartbreaking, and so beautiful, that I, as one tiny being on the face
of the planet, just want to offer up my thanks for his struggle, and for
continuing, in his suffering placed before us, to remind us of what
being human really is. Yes, it is suffering - but it is also love. And in the display of love - so transparently offered from him and equally given back to him, it is, I believe, truly the embodiment of the Divine.

Savouring the Moment

On the day that Jesus is believed by Christians to have spent dead in
the tomb, I came across this passage in Steven Levine's book "A Year to
Live".

"A GOOD DAY TO DIE

There is a Native American saying, "Today is a
good day to die for all the things of my life are present". it is
suggested that we practice dying (find a perfect
day to die) with a very interesting and enjoyable and some-
times frightening exercise called "Taking a Day Off." It is a
day long contemplation of seeing the world without ourselves
in it. It speaks to that place within us that asks, How can I not
be among you?

Some call this practice "Dead for a Day." We
walk the streets as though we were not there, as though we had
died yesterday. We see the world in our absence. We act as
though we were already dead and had this last chance to visit
the world we have left behind. We grieve for ourselves and
go on.

The power of such an exercise is demonstrated in the popularity
of such films as Its a Wonderful Life: Something essential is
drawn to the surface when we recognize that This day may be the
last day of the rest of our life. Experience each breath as though it
were the last. Enter each moment, each conversation, each lovemaking,
each meal, each prayer, each meditation as though there may never be
another".

It may seem strange that I have chosen a photograph of my son, Tim,
just a few days after his birth, to illustrate these thoughts - but in
fact, I remember very clearly thinking, as I sat with him at my breast, one
peaceful afternoon in the hospital, in perfect harmony and peace with
him. I was blissfully contented, and the thought passed vividly through
my mind "savour this wonderful moment, for it will never come again
exactly like this". I was mindful, I was in the moment, and the
memory, if not the moment has stayed with me for ever.

Today, might I suggest we follow the invocation of the next paragraph in Steven
Levine's book?

"Just as yesterday we pretended to be dead, today we
pretend we are alive. We walk the streets filled with presence. We
watch the gratitude at our rapid recovery. We cut out the middleman of
death, not needing to die in order to take our next incarnation, we take
birth now, in the middle of the street, in the midst of a life redoubled
by new birth. We enter life so fully that even if we died it would not
spoil our day".

Playing with Poetry

Feeling really rough both yesterday and today – I think I have probably got something more than a cold, and less than flu. Enough to keep me confined to quarters, anyway – where I have been sitting in bed (I’m afraid) and playing with words.

A while ago I came across an excellent website for poetry teachers, and particularly enjoyed an exercise with a poem written by Kit Wright. Following some of the ideas on the website, I thought it might be fun to make my own interpretation of the poem. here is the original version

and here’s my own word mosaic.

A Casket of Treasures

I will put in my box...
The first fragrant blossoms emerging in springtime
The first morning rays of the midsummer sun
The first golden leaves to fall in the autumn
The first soft white flakes of the first winter snowfall.

I will put in my box...
The first cry of my firstborn
The first sigh of my lover
The first aria of "Tosca"
The last breath of my mother

I will put in my box...
The scents of the south of France - of bergamot and lavender
The deep terracotta of flowerpots in Spain
The low soulful song of the Fado from Portugal
The silver green splash of a fresh Alpine stream

My box will be made of malachite and amber
Of Bluejohn and silver in a fine filigree
My box will be tied in a swathing of Highland mist
And beset with coral fragments from the South China Sea.

Then I'll hide it in an emerald green, moss covered bower
Guarded by fireflies and deer of the woodland,
I'll know that my treasured soul secrets are safe there
Forever deep cradled, always waiting for me.

Roz Cawley March 2005

What would you put in your own casket of treasures?

Market Day in Marlborough

Into another county today, visiting Marlborough in Wiltshire, where I
lunched with a friend. It was a busy market day, so I was able to stroll
around the stalls before eating, then afterwards took a walk along the
riverside to browse around Marlborough's own Antiques Emporium,  housed
in a converted Chapel. I behaved very well, spending only a few pounds
on two little Limoges porcelain vases for my dolls house.

The 11th Century church in the last photograph is at Froxfield, a little village on the Bath to London road which I travel along on my way home. As in Marlborough, the sun was shining, the daffodils were out, and the trees are suddenly covered with blossom. Things look promising for the coming Easter weekend.

A Passion for Pages

Look what came home with me yesterday, along with the china and glass:
"A Walk Along the Pilgrim Way from Winchester to Canterbury"  (60 pence) ..."The Girl's Own Annual - 1926" (£2.00) ..."The Estate - a View from Chatsworth - The Duchess of Devonshire" (£1.00) ..."Tracing Your Ancestors"
(£1.00) ..."Walking Through History" (£1.00)..."The Folk Arts and crafts of
New England" (£1.50) ..."The St Martin Embroideries" (50 pence) ..."La France
et Ses Tresors - Bourgogne" (60 pence) ..."Old Mistresses - Women,. Art and
Ideology" (£1.00) ..."Christmas Morning in Sweden" (50 pence).

I have a wander through history and world tour of art and landscape at my fingertips, and paid only pennies for the privilege. I paid a visit to
my friend the second hand book dealer, and now I am happily surrounded by yet another pile of books. It's a bit feeble to say that I "like
books". I hoard them, I greedily acquire them, I fondle them, I sleep
with them, I surround myself with them - they are my passion.

  Perhaps
it's compensation, for I remember only two books in my childhood home
(though maybe there were others). One was a "Book of the Countryside",
illustrated with halftone, black and white photographs of what would
nowadays be thought of as very dubious quality. But I loved it. The only thing that I did NOT love was  a terrifying photograph of a moth, with two circles on its wings that looked for all the world like a pair of
piercing eyes. I loved to read that book, as I have always loved nature, but oh, the terror that rose as I anticipated reaching that page, and how rapidly I turned the page when it appeared. It always petrified me - and I still have a passing shade of fear even now when I reach that
page. (I found an old copy of the book a while back, and bought it just
to frighten myself again!)  The other book was called "They Also Serve",
describing the use of animals in wartime. My father had been a dog
handler in the Royal Air Force during the war, and knew several of the
animals mentioned.

I acquired the odd book here and there while young
(those awful, cheap paper copies of "What Katy Did" and "Alice in
Wonderland" seemed to crop up with monotonous regularity, and even then
I loathed their aesthetic quality - or lack of it).

Then I remember
visiting the old Cathedral city of Wells when I was about 14 years old
with a cousin, climbing a tiny, narrow staircase in an antiquarian
booksellers shop and proudly bearing home a Victorian copy of "Howitt's
Visits to Remarkable Places", which I still have. It was high summer,
and there was something about the smell of that bookshop, with the
sunlight throwing shafts through the dusty air onto the leather bound
books inside, and the atmosphere of both timelessness and also a
gathering together of time, of all the knowledge acquired by other
people, here for my perusal, that bit deeply into my soul. I was hooked
- and I have never looked back since then.

It was not until I had my own place - and my own income, that I started to indulge the habit in earnest, and in the years since I have been married we have actually both moved house and bought the house next door in order that we may accommodate our ever growing stash of books.

I don't care what sort of book they are - ancient or modern, new or
second-hand (ah, though there is something  special about second hand), valuable or worthless. They are packaged information, romance, wisdom,
spiritual uplift, exploration, imagination, all rolled up into one. They perhaps fool me that I might one day acquire all knowledge if only I READ enough, and do not sleep, eat, or leave the house! - Actually, all knowledge is not something I devour them for. Dipping in and out and acquiring just a little knowledge at the same time as a lot of pleasure is more than enough for me.

A while ago books and prints were even a fleeting possible source of income, but nowadays they are just transports of delight and discovery. They are unendingly beautiful, sensuous, friendly, mysterious, exciting. They are an addiction to which I cheerfully admit, and have no intention of giving up. They are  my joy and my delight, my time stealers and my money eaters. They are founts of knowledge and a place where I can both lose myself and find myself.

I can do without fashionable clothes, cars, elegant furnishings. I would hate to do so, but at a pinch I could do without gardens and music. In the most unfortunate of circumstances I might have everything taken away from me and deprived of my liberty. I think for a little while I could even tolerate that. But one unerring way to drive me insane would be to deprive me of books - then I think I would go truly mad.

All Along the Country Roads

To Kingsclere today, just a few miles from Autumn Cottage. My journey
there takes me along a peaceful country road, following the line of the
ridge of Watership Down (above) - of which Richard Adams wrote his book and Art Garfunkel sang his songs. The road I travel along is, in fact, the same
road that the Rabbits risked their lives to cross.

Then back - and on - to Hungerford, where the Antiques Emporium had an
amusing Easter display in their windows. It was made up  teddy bears and
bunnies having an Easter tea party, but I was interested to see that
even while I was there,  teddies were removed from the window and
replaced with others.

They were apparently not antique items, but are
made by a local bear artist from old fabrics, and were selling like hot
cakes - even at the not inexpensive price of between £50 ($100) and one
hundred pounds. The old fabrics used are pieces of tweed, wool and
cotton, and do give a beautifully aged look - but at that price, I think
I ought to be turfing out my own collections of fabrics and teddy bear
patterns!

I also acquired a charming pair of Victorian figures and some nice
pressed blue glass. Both the glass and the figures will join my
collections of glass and other Victorian figures (which have now
completely filled their cabinet, and are spilling out onto cupboard tops
and tables.

I think another foray to Haynes second-hand furniture
Emporium in Wantage to buy cupboards and book cases is called for - watch this space!

Sunshine & Shadows

Another visit to the summerhouse - just to show you all that today there were sharp, clear shadows - which meant sharp, clear sunshine! The warmth has been blissful, the song of the birds delightful, rustling and crunching and fossicking sounds all around.

So here are just a few pictures to share the delights of the day with my readers.

I should be typing case notes - instead I watch the newt in the pond
I should be sorting washing - but I follow a bumblebee
I should be listening for the phone - instead I listen to a woodpecker
I should be lifting a duster - but I lift my face to the deep blue sky
I should be washing windows - instead I let the sunlight wash over me
I should be copying articles - but I'm sipping tea in the summerhouse
I should and I ought to be dutiful - instead I am just grateful -
But I DO mind my manners - I bid returning Springtime "come in"!

Where Are You From?

I must be the millionth person to have responded to a marvellous prompt
that is propagating on the Web at the moment. I think the original idea came
from here - my response to it follows. It has been a way back to my past
and a window to the future. I don't know quite what I think about it now
- but think about it, a lot more, I certainly will do.

Where Am I from?

I am from tinbaths, from Palmolive and Amami

I am from the tidy genteel poverty, the washed step and the cleaned
windows, the snow white lace curtains and the not outside on Sunday. I
am from the washing on Monday, the butchers on Tuesday, the leftovers on
Thursday and the fish on Friday.

I am from the making ends meet but not much going without. I am from the
struggle and the smile and the coping and the gratitude and the "always
someone less well off than ourselves".

I am from the tomatoes grown in Grampy's greenhouse, the Sweet William
in bunches for school, the hunted fox mask nailed to the tree.
I am from Father's hanging baskets, heavy lilacs at mother's bedside,
and up Twmbarlwm mountain on Good Friday.

I am from respectful closing curtains and covering mirrors for the dead,
Granny's wagging fingers and trips to hell for sinners. I'm from
Florence and Lilian and Gwyneth.

I am from the holding the sides laughing ourselves silly, from the "Oh,
no! have you
wet your pants Mam?", and the "know your place, no better than you ought
to be".

I am from chewing gum wrapping itself round my heart if I swallowed it
and not washing your hair at the "time of the month"

I am from God, keeping an eye on everything, writing it down in his
black and red books,
I am from Retribution and Jesus meek and mild, suffering the little
children.

I am from the Land of My Fathers, fanatical, dramatical and operatical.

I'm from the pleasant land of Gwent, from Glamorgan and Warwickshire,
from the Ripper's Whitechapel, from Devon and from Italy. I am from
tripe cooked with onions, stuffed hearts and home made brawn

I'm from Granny at dark of night, an outside lavatory, a cockerel
roosting down the pan and the rest to the imagination.

I'm from Taking Tea at four o clock, a bride under inspection.
I'm from tales of the British Empire and tiger hunts on elephant back
The Queen Mother's Private Chapel,
A coffin dressed in blossoms and the Eton Boating Song.

I'm from outside, and offside, and wondering where I am?
Now I'm one to one, this place, this time, still wondering who I am.

I am from family bibles and framed photographs, from tapes and stories, folders and files and burned CD's. I'm from oil lamps and prize rosettes, from cast iron pans and cake tins, from Mizpah and "Mother" brooches, handprints in plaster and baby clothes in boxes - all taken out just sometimes, always put away with tears.

I am from all those who have come before
And to all those still to come,
They are me and I am them.

Down through the years, with other, frozen sepia stares
In a  cardboard box, or on a flashing screen.
I'll be a wisp of memory, floating up and through the air,
To the hills and the valleys, the alp and the terraced street, 
Penury and  privilege  - all that is where I'm from.