What is it about this time of year?
When the green has grown tired, and the wind is taking it's toll
leaves blown about the garden
sheets snapping on the line
and in the morning there are apples on the ground
Between deepest blue skies and grey stormy tussles
the quivering green and the brightest berry reds arrest my eye
pause me in my movement through the day
I am lured by the sea, still,
though not so eager to go in
drawn instead to it's hunger
a deepening boom that resounds from it's depths
it's summer humour gone now
And I will wait
for the darkening days to draw in
to wrap themselves around us
pulling into the dark days and nights
when we move indoors
when time becomes our own again
the wild outside to be first considered carefully
the carefree, go-in-what-you-have-on-you days put to bed for another year
I will watch the green withdraw
sink back into the restful earth
into the silence
into the long wait for spring
In the quiet we will embrace the calm
while outside winter heaves itself about
breathlessly trying to catch itself
and my pen will scratch, my needle stitch
my eyes always on the sky and the sea
waiting.
You know sometimes how magic happens right there where you are? When the world takes you gently by the chin and tilts your head at just the right moment, and you find yourself suspended in something of such heart-stopping beauty that you are transported somewhere else, for just those few seconds.
And always just when you need it.
There we were, on our daily commute through this most beautiful valley, that has held on to autumn for weeks now, the colours singing from the trees, 'the rainbow trees' as The Smallest calls them. The morning had been a bit fraught already, with just too many things to fit in, and tempers frayed from early on, and the sense of rushing just permeating everything. This part of our journey always provides a little bit of solace in our daily run anyway, but this time there was something else.
Inexplicably, at this point on the road, for two minutes, the traffic all but stopped, slowed to a crawl, and out of nowhere suddenly the air was filled with golden leaves that danced over the cars, that stayed in the air, dancing like snowflakes as the sun hit the mountain, and we stared in awe, our hearts filled, overflowing.
I began this post a week or so back, a post about the arrival of autumn, of the sudden profusion of posts online about leaves and rain and weather of all sorts, of lighting fires and digging out ones winter woolies, and the pleasure of it all. But now, in the midst of Sandy, that part of what I wanted to say all seems so irrelevant. Of course we have not been affected by it here, but I am put in mind of the times we do experience the Wildness of Things, and how it shakes us to our bones, reduces us to the tiny things we are in the grander scale of bigger things, and just how vulnerable we truly are when nature rages and heaves itself up out of its bed, and towers over us so terrifyingly.
Here in this little temperate island of ours, storms on the scale of what the US is experiencing right now are extremely rare, but living practically on the beach, and with our house at sea level, it is something I think about on a regular basis during winter months, when we lie awake in bed, our little house rocked by howling winds as the sea booms and thunders outside the windows.
As I sat up stitching, into the small hours last night, I was thinking about my sister in Virginia, and all those people out there who are being affected by the storm.
Times like this, things have a way of slipping neatly into perspective, don't they?
At the moment Jay is away again, this time he is down under in Sydney, and as per usual there has been the usual litany of minor 'disasters'.
Car trouble, check, internet gone, check, people sick, check, cold snap and no fuel brought in, check.
But as I said, everything is in perspective, and my inner Pollyanna is well and healthy.
And so, in the midst of all this stress and mayhem I sit and stitch, and count my blessings as I do, forever grateful for this moderate, nonextreme country I have found myself in.
And here is what I have been working on while Holding The Fort (I do like that expression!)
Inspired by the looming winter months filled with nights I have just described, this little piece has, as usual, taken forever to finish.
I have this notion that if I ever actually take to making things on my machine then I'll get loads done, but that is not likely to happen any time soon, and anyway, is likely to be a complete fallacy. I hand make my small things because usually, my studio is my car, or my kitchen table, in between a myriad of other appointments and tasks throughout my day. They are made, literally a stitch at a time, and at times it feels like a meditation, at others like a muse, with ideas flowing through my head as I work, stories unfolding in a dreamlike manner, hints and voices and realisations, all tumble together into a tangled weave of something with potential.
So I stitch and sew in the dark hours, and I send heartfelt thoughts and wishes to all and any of you who have been affected by the weather these last few days.
May whatever help you need come your way on swiftly wings, and with it the return of things to As They Should Be.
I love when something drifts into your ether, and for some reason, on this particular occasion, buries itself deep inside you, and takes hold of your Interest with tenacious hands, and soon you begin to notice all kinds of Things of Interest relating to it positively popping up in front of you.
For months now I have been filling my head and heart with all things of the far, distant North, and farthest South too. Increasingly, as the weeks go by, I have been dwelling, in my mind, in places of ice and water, reading of explorers of a frozen world few of us have seen, watching this drama about Ernest Shackleton, trying unsuccessfully, to see this exhibition about his journey, (although it will be on for two years, so I'm not worried about missing it!), being unexpectedly inspired by a talk I attended by a wonderful geologist-turned-textile-artist called Ann Fleeton, at this months Irish Guild of Embroiderers meeting, gathering books and images and inspiration.
Dark Ice by Camille Seaman.
But it all started with the happy coincidence of two things coming my way within days of each other, which settled onto the already lingering taste of two books I had read in the last year. The first book was The Stillpoint, by Amy Sackville, which I have to say is one of the finest written books I have read in many a year. It contains one of the most heartbreakingly romantic love stories, as well as descriptive writing that will make you swoon, and read and reread countless paragraphs again and again.
The other book is less to do with snow and ice, and more to do with the kind of desolate places that some of the characters of The Stillpoint find themselves. The book is by Judith Schalansky, and is called 'Atlas of Remote Islands, Fifty Islands I have not visited and never will.' Incredibly beautiful and thought-provoking, and in fact, winner of the German Arts Foundation prize for The Most Beautiful Book of the Year. It is a book I keep by my bedside and dip into continuously.
The Last Iceberg Series by Camille Seaman.
So, the two things. First, these incredible photographs by Camille Seaman, which are just majestic and beautiful and completely enthralling to me. (She also photographs clouds like no one I have seen before.)
And then this most wondrous thing that I found via the lovely Nancy, of The b In Subtle, which I now have my heart set on and will go on some day! A ship, The Noorderlicht, a century-old Dutch schooner, which carries a boatload of artists and scientists into waters around Norway's archipelago, who's mission is 'to seek out and foster areas of collaboration to engage in the central issues of our time'. In other words, to 'discuss' global warming and related issues, and to make art about it. The project is called The Arctic Circle , and well worth checking out. As I write this, Irish artist Ruth Le Gear is there now, collecting arctic water in tiny bottles.
I am...jealous.
I have not stopped thinking about it since first coming across it.
I would give anything to be there right now, in this magical place who's time is limited, and who's face is changing by the year. To record something of it in my own small way.
The Last Iceberg Series by Camille Seaman.
In all of this, my light relief has been rereading Philip Pullman's Northern Lights. So today, when I saw it, I could not help but purchase, and immediately immerse myself in, a very beautiful, small book by him called Once Upon Time In The North, a sort of precursor to Northern Lights. It was the small size of it, and the cover, that did it, a cloth-bound thing of beauty that had on it an engraving by John Lawrence. Indeed it is filled with such engravings, beautifully rendered, on almost every page.
So I sat in the hairdressers for a little over an hour, while the best kind of misty, autumnal rain quietly closed in around this seaside town of ours, a haze of silver and grey outside the window, and lost myself in a grim, desolate icebound island, where sour, suspicious people live alongside panserborne, or polar bears, a once proud, great culture, and now seen as nothing but drunkards, vagrants, who skulk the bleak streets of the dismal town.
When my time was up, I put away my book, and took a winding road up into the rain clouds, between two mountains, surprised at the lack of icebergs in the grey sea below, through the silent silver haze, listening, as I do most days, to music from the north lands, this time Sigur Rós, (Iceland is about as far north as my music taste goes, for I am well and truly stuck there, without hope, or desire, to be unstuck!), my head filled with snow and ice and frozen lands.
When I arrived at school, it was too wet to stand around chatting, so as I waited in my car I opened facebook on my phone, and the first thing I saw was a post from Charlie and Caroline Gladstone, a video called A Homeless Polar Bear in London. I had to take a look.
As I said, I love how these things all just come together like a beautiful dance that is perfectly choreographed, and suddenly your day just seems like a story, or a dream, with all things dovetailing beautifully.
This time a dream of expansive snowy landscapes, vast tundras of ice, blue icebergs and polar bears, and crowds of white sea birds relentlessly thronging the bitter air.
Are you like me?
If so, then you know how it is.
You wake up in fine form, but by the time you have nagged, cajoled and hustled everyone to where they need to be you are in decidedly bad form.
What you ate for breakfast you know you shouldn't have, but you were too disorganised, or too busy, over the weekend, to plan better, and you drank too much coffee.
And on top of that it is raining, and the washing that was dry but you never brought in, is now soaked through and lying on the soggy grass.
And the traffic was hell, so you were late for school.
It happens more often than I care to admit.
Usually I do have a tendency to be a bit of a Pollyanna, but this is something I have consciously become, and at one point in one of my rants this morning I found myself telling my children that school, the rain, life, is so much easier if viewed from the perspective of such sages as Billy Connolly, or Reinhold Niebhur, that there are some things we cannot change, so we might as well accept them, and just get on with it. It makes for a far happier and easier life. Yes, it's raining, so we better bring a raincoat!
Believe me, the irony of my own grumpiness in the midst of this was not lost on me.
But none of this is nothing that a good shoulder stand, followed by a cup of Lady Grey tea cannot sort out, so I take myself off to an hour and a half of yoga, and now I am back to 'normal', enjoying my tea as I look out the window at the rain that blows across the marsh, listening to something soothing. And I know this is just one of those days when the daily grind takes a sneaky little dig at me when I am unprepared. There will be more, some other time, and yes, they tend to follow a period of blissful contentment and happiness, but they truly are just one of the knottier threads in my weave.
They are there and I'll just have to admire the texture they give my days.
There is a small window in my kitchen that stays open all summer long, unless the wind is chilly and from the wrong direction. It opens, just where I stand to make my morning tea, onto a wild and barely contained rugosa rose bush, that conceals all of the garden view, except a patch of sky. On rainy days the dripping green outside this window is like a doorway to an emerald kingdom where tiny creatures scurry and creep and scuttle. The scent of roses is subtle, but so intoxicating it transports me without effort, holds me in a green dream, even fleetingly, as I make tea, or prepare meals, like a small anchor in this sea of moments.
This morning is the first morning in a while that I am up significantly early to noticed the touch of autumn in the air that drifts in as the sun rises, and I am reminded of the swift approach of the end of the holidays, of school, ahead. Once again, each morning the walls of the house are lined with dustly moths, and in the evenings, the spiders line up along the windows like sentries. We are entering the cooling season, my favourite time of year, and the reeds in the marsh are almost at their fullest, the sound of now a late summer hush, as opposed to their winter rattle.
We have had a particularly wonderful summer. There has been lots of camping, lots of gatherings of friends, where we cram as many of us as possible into houses and tents, around kitchen tables, under gazebos, and make it last as long as we can, squeezing as much fun and games and food and laughter into our time together as we can. There has been a lot of rain, but lots of sunny days too, and we are excellent at seizing those and running out the door, so there have been lots of impromptu beach days too, the kind where we go up a hill and end up down on a beach, and then we cannot leave. The beach bag has a permanent spot in my car, just in case. And we are not done yet.
The result is a dusty house with the words Bare Minimum stamped in all the corners, on every pile of laundry and papers, a neglected blog, a car full of sand, but sun kissed, happy faces round the dinner table in the evenings.
We have also had a family wedding. A heartwarming, momentous wedding that was most definitely the highlight for us all.
So now we face The Winding Down, and I am eyeing those other to-do lists that involve the word 'school' in them, knowing I have put everything off until the last minute, knowing that this autumn brings significant changes to our little household, for me in particular, for, among other things, I must get a job. A proper, paid job. Something which every mother who stays home with her babies must do when the day comes, something which I have put off for a year and cannot justify any longer, and the artist in me balks at as I dream about the Making/Writing Hours to myself that I am giving up. But it is also something which I am excited about, albeit completely bemused by.
We shall see how that goes.
I am working on some other significant changes here at Milkmoon, too. Something which just seems like the right thing to do. I have come to realise that my dwindling commitment to this blog is nothing more than the fact that it hasn't evolved to reflect how things are changing for me personally, that I became little stuck, in terms of what I blog.
It's all good, and I do hope you think so too! It's something I am very excited about and look forward to launching the all-new-and-improved Milkmoon in the next month.
Well, it's turning into a blustery day, but the sun is out, and so we are taking ourselves off out again.
That to-do list, and that pile of laundry, (okay, mountain of laundry), and all those dust bunnies, they'll have to wait another day.
Although the weather has not been good, the days are whizzing by. Days of a little sunshine and a lot of rain, in spite of which we have been making the most of no school and long hours of daylight that stretch away from us towards beaches and woodland and picnics-whatever-the-weather. We are good at that, ignoring the weather. We can't change it so why complain? But I can tell you, it is the unremitting topic of conversation, no matter where you go. In fact, I cannot imagine what this country would come to if we couldn't talk about the weather! A standstill, is what!
Nevertheless, regardless of our unexceptional summer, in terms of sunshine, I do love this time of year in this temperate isle of ours.
I love when the evenings linger, generous with a light that seems reluctant to be gone from the sky, unobtrusively just...not leaving. It is as though the very air we inhabit has swelled, to fill more hours, pushing the limits of what we can call Day, just so we can really make the most of this mildest of seasons. And we have been doing just that.
Whatever the weather, the sea is the place to be this time of year, and even the drizzly days that call for rock pooling with wonderful friends instead of lounging on the sand, they still couldn't resist getting in for a swim, as the first picture above attests.
I love the extra hours that are ours, morning, noon and night, to do as we please. To spend time with friends we don't see enough of during school time, to be spontaneous and drop everything and run out the door when the phone rings to reveal an Idea Of Exceptional Splendidness at the other end of the line. And best of all, BedTime is on holiday too, and so, not always to be found when expected.
The word Relax becomes meaningful.
I love it when the teenagers stay out late into the dark, walking down the beach or to the village shops with their friends, coming home in high spirits to chat loudly in the next room. They have discovered LP's, the sound of vinyl and the riches it holds, discovered our collection of records, and I lie in the dark listening to the murmur of their giddy voices, the thrumming of the bass through the wall, as though splinched somewhere between a time warp. I secretly love that they are, without knowing it, engaging in a Most Important Musical History Lesson. Some day they'll realise it!
I love that we live by the sea, so grateful for moments like this. Is there anything more splendid than this? 'That golden moment' my Dad said, when he saw the above photo. Hours upon hours, just jumping into that cold water. If that doesn't awaken your spirit, I don't know what does. What a way to spend a summers day!
And at night, I love when the bedroom window is open and a cool breeze passes through. For on it comes dustly winged moths and drunken daddy-long-legs, and I lie as though in a summer woodland meadow, wings brushing past, telling tales of the chirruping reeds and marsh and meadow in the dark beyond my windowpane.
I find myself, as I so often do this time of year, travelling through these high speed days in slow motion. Do you remember that feeling as a child when things felt ginormous and teeny tiny at the same time, smooth and prickly, fat and thin, at the exact same moment? (Or was that just me?!) Well, I often find myself in similar intensely felt moments now, where I am in slow motion while all around me is at high speed. It's very beautiful, and allows me fleeting seconds of clarity, to really absorb and feel purest gratitude for where I have found myself on this journey of mine.
I hope you are enjoying your summer, and the weather is to your liking! Do you have any plans? Ideas Of Exceptional Splendidness?
We do. For more days like this.
Most certainly.
There is a little house that sits on a spit of land between a marsh and a sea, a place with jackdaws in the chimney, where lizards hide in the grass with the tiny shrews, where swans glide overhead and murmurations of starlings loop through curlew cries, and at dusk the bats swoop in their beautiful dance as herons skim the tops of the reeds against the sunset. There are countless birds that throng the marsh here, among them terns and mistle thrush and finches, lapwings, even occasional owls, and in the evening pheasant wander in the garden, and sometimes, somewhere beyond the reeds, a peacock calls, his cry across the marsh sending a tingle down your spine.
I have written so many times about the weather here and how it changes the shape of this place, about the seasons and how each one blooms and swells, brings dustly moths on the walls, spiders along the windows, stormy seas, sea mists, dancing sunlit grasses, endless blue skies, and sunsets that take your breath away.
I did mention big changes around here, didn't I? Big changes that we have been studiously ignoring the possibility of for rather a long time, now.
You see, our golden age is over.
For the sixteen years we have been living here, I have been in a little bubble with my babies, cocooned in this most magical of places, like some little creatures from the Wind in the Willows, the seasons rolling around us as we burrowed in, and we grew into this land, the green and the salt seeping into our blood and bones, from the very formation of my babies. Our Eldest was barely four months old when we moved in, and the following three were born right here in the living room with windows to the sea, and windows to the green and the mountains, pulling all combinations of seasons and weather and time of day into their beginnings, all manner of the elements that make this place so miraculously special, into the weave that is our little family.
As the years have passed, they have grown, we too, myself and Jay, have grown, this place like a paintbrush against our skin, each night touching up where it did not find us in our day, a tender reassuring like a fine mist that layers, and over the years has become our skin, as though we are this place and this place is us. But now it is at an end. When the year turns, together we will pack the little pieces of us, the myriad of little things that have been put together to form our home, the collections of Us, and we will move. And though nowhere will ever match this place, with all our hearts we know it will be somewhere beautiful. I do need green outside my window.
We are on a rollercoaster of emotions about it all. Some are excited, some wholeheartedly against it, but it is out of our hands, regardless, and because of that I have decided to embrace this change, the timing of which I can't complain about. I no longer spend my days embraced in this magical cocoon with my babies and toddlers, now that our Smallest is in school, instead I am out in the world more, looking at what I want to do with this next phase of my life, and this makes it easier to accept.
So, this summer will be about making the most of this remarkable place, a summer of gatherings of friends and loved ones, of Celebrating, and later in the week I will share with you, one such gathering that we had this weekend.
Photo by Líosa.
And who knows what wonderfulness is just around the corner, for I know there is a place for us.
Is there anything more difficult, or disheartening, than having to rewrite something you spent a couple of hours writing, and then accidentally deleted? Anything at all less appealing than having to find, again, those just right words that will never flow so perfectly, no matter how you tweak and delete and rewrite yet again?
It's awful. And I'm afraid that's where this post is coming from. So, apologies in advance for the slightly stale crispyness-around-the-edges writing that follows, as I try to recapture just what is was I said yesterday morning, so brimful of inspiration.
I was talking about photographs. And the taking of them. You see my camera is on the blink, nothing too serious, I hope, just something a service will fix. I do hope. But it happened just when I had begun to rekindle my enjoyment for carrying it around, for allowing that to influence my day, to prompt me to pause and stop and look, and to see those little moments that otherwise pass you by in the rush and busyness of the day to day.
Over this last week, I have had cause to go back through our iphoto archives, which are quite substantial as you can probably imagine, and as I have no new photos to share today, I thought I might share a few oldies that I had forgotten about, and found again, on my trawling. And I thought that as I won't be talking about the fact that my previous mention of summer in the last couple of posts was just about right. A mention. Nothing more need be said with the word 'summer' in it. For she is nowhere to be found. Since last week it has rained. And rained and rained and rained. And from what I saw on facebook, it seems it has been literally raining all over the world. So I thought I might share a taste of summers past, instead.
These got me thinking, about what it was like for me when I first got a digital camera and started blogging, something I have written about before and you can read about *here*, and looking back through these photos has made me understand somewhat, my struggle for inspiration here lately. Much as rewriting something steals the magic, the purity and clarity out of it, I feel that my desire to Take A Photo has overridden my ability to Capture A Moment, which is what gave me such inspiration and love for this new media I had discovered, a media that actually fit so tidily into my busy Life With Small Children. I went from being a frustrated creative torn between wanting to make things, and also wanting to be 100% a mother to my young children, to someone who found she could weave them together. It was such a heartening and exciting discovery.
I'll be honest, I don't think of myself as a Photographer. I'm not. I know people who are, and I am not. I love taking pictures, and they serve a purpose in my creative life, and that is what is important to me. But I am now finding the time and headspace to give voice to other mediums of expression, and I am eager to run with that!
This last year has seen our Smallest start 'big school', and we now have two in secondary and two in primary, and my personal life has slowly been shifting out of that previous Mama-mode that had, until now, consumed my life for the last sixteen years. It's a strange feeling! Exciting albeit slightly daunting.
And there are other changes afoot here, which I have mentioned before but cannot go into detail just yet. Suffice to say things are generally unsettled and uncertain here in the Milkmoon household, but you know, sometimes uncertainty and unsettledness are exactly the swift kick in the pants you need to galvanise you into action!
These past few weeks I have been increasingly in the studio and with the summer holidays looming, and therefore less time in my car, I am looking forward to seeing what that produces here. There is still a lot of organisng and sorting going on, and storage is an issue, but I now have my Production Hat firmly in place, with a few murmurings of Collaborations in the air. It's a while since I've done a collaboration, and I feel that is exactly what I need right now to crank things up around here!
Not surprisingly, in the end this post has wandered off and not even tried to really rewrite what was lost yesterday. I suppose that is what happens, isn't it?
But as we are having a brief respite from the monsoon this weekend, apparently, and there is a wonderful festival happening all week in the nearby town that our younger ones go to school in, so we have plenty to occupy us, rain or not.
Ah, if only I had my camera....
Oh, what a time we have had lately. Thank heavens for school holidays! Honestly, I could write that last sentence here and just leave it at that.
This blog post was started during the school holidays over Easter but obviously I got sidetracked! We've had a carnival of weather fronts around here, and although it has now settled somewhat, into typical late Spring weather, I thought I would share some of it with you.
A few weeks back we awoke to this, my favourite kind of day, the kind of day when the veils between the worlds melt away and we find ourselves in some Otherworld, where even sound becomes different, and our footsteps echo strangely, the quiet breath of imagined Other~lings cool against our cheek.
These kind of days take my feet on a wander, down to the sea shore, and away into the hills, where People seem to have retreated away from this world and do not walk the streets, but stay quietly indoors away from the damp, the strange stillness, awaiting the return of the sun.
But not me. No, my feet wander, my heart filled with the monochrome silence, happy to be Lost for a while...
And then, one morning soon after, we awaken to find that Spring has arrived, the bluebells nod outside the window, the air stirs a little warmer and the children shed their winter skins, coats discarded in the garden, shoes and socks kicked off, oh joy! at cool, dry grass between their toes!
And the days warmed so considerably that the sea began it's siren call, drawing us to it's shores, promising summer days to come, filled with sandcastles and picnics and lazy days with nowhere else to be.
And even though the days turned wild and stormy again, still the pounding sea could not quell that growing Summer-ing that has taken hold of us all, now that the evenings stretch out their arms, lingering just that little bit longer each day, shyly hoping we won't mind.
And we did retreat indoors for a while, the halls murmuring with little voices, important business of the day beginning early for some, and for a while the focus was on Home, and Time Spent Together.
But as I said, the Carnival continued, and the sun simply could not stay away.
It's times like these, when little boys are being Little Boys, taking life by the horns with gusto, and revelling in the light and the few extra degrees in the air they storm through, building tents and making go-carts, and doing it all themselves when the grown-ups are too busy to help, it's times like these I catch in my heart, hold tenderly and with complete focus, for I know oh too well they melt away all too soon, drift away into teenagedom and a bigger world.
And although it's behind us now, here's a picture of this year's Easter tree.
We had a lovely break, with family time in abundance and not much else, other than good food and attention to detail.
But tonight, with a storm warning in effect, we baton down the hatches, and await the next dip in this roller coaster that is Springtime Weather, dolefully eye our sagging, leaky sand bags, and hoping the sea stays where it's supposed to, over the next few days!
I hope you are all warm and dry, wherever you are!
There is a chilly~ness to the air these mornings, do you feel it? It's time to close the windows, take the door off the latch, usher the chill and the curious leaves out the door as we close it. After the school run I return to find cats snoozing in sunny corners, and a stillness settles on the empty house, a stillness settles in me.
We have wandered into the outer skirts of Autumn, where the leaves still cling to the trees like bright banderole, little flags waving to us in their finest hour, and as we pass beneath them I am surprised to find somehow the routine of school has brought with it a familiar comfort.
One that includes being witness to that magic hour of dawn, of leaving the house before the sun has warmed the earth, the cool air like a whisper on my skin. One that includes condensed little parcels of productive time, so different from the carefree, whimsical summer-time, and considered meals that are a little more protracted in the making, providing a sense of sustenance and nourishment, and one that brings an actual bed~time for our brood of dearlings.
Scattered in amongst the sunlit days, we have had squally showers and a fetch of wild winds that howled for two days and a night causing many people to lose many things, including their nerve, their dignity, a small child on a bike (nearly), their gusto, and an imaginary toupee!
It was wild, but still we ventured out, and on one of the days we took to the hills after school, headed inland and up, wound our way through tree lined roads to a warm welcome in little house that nestles there, in amongst the green.
Will and Anita's woodshed. Preparing for winter.
And so, as small boys scattered, an echo of footsteps and excited voices, (emerging shortly to race into the garden as bears and knights and monsters), we mothers sat, hands wrapped around warm coffee cups, and talked up a storm, a long overdue catch~up kind of talk, the kind that covers many months and miles in a mere couple of hours.
The bounty of their garden.
We are submerging slowly now, into this, the finest of the seasons, it's bounty a cornucopia that swells around us by the day, urging us on towards the darkening of the year, the hedgerows and trees bowed down in sweet supplication, whispering to us, 'Jam! Jam! You need jam!'
And as I submerge, I soak it all up, as though storing in my bones for winter the finest of this season, the warmth and bounty and goodness, and I take it with me as I move through the cooling air and the first falling leaves, and all around me I hear murmurings of how you all love autumn best, and how you too are overcome by a growing desire to make and mend and settle in to the evenings that are drawing in around us.
Anita's handmade soap.
And although my plans for the end of the week were somewhat scuppered by my enthusiasm to do just about everything with my newfound long hours in the morning, and in doing so, I went and put my back out. So instead of getting any of the actual making that I had been planning, done, I have been killing time by playing with both Instagram (See the link in my sidebar on the right) and Pinterest, (Click the link to see!) with great enjoyment, I might add, but somehow just not quite so satisfying as bringing a vision in your head into 'real life'.
So here this showery Saturday finds me, in between hobbling around like a bent old Sean-bhean bhocht (poor old woman!), attempting to let go of my disappointment and just do what little I can. At least my favourite blue coat now has all it's buttons, and I may just finish my latest redwork.
And it is, after all, the weekend, and one, now, without any plans to do anything.
What are you doing this weekend? I hope it's something lovely!
