Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

A sprouting, unnecessary yet exuberant, from the word ‘lovely,’ this expression conveys a deal done to the favour of the expresser, or some unearned luck. Not a phrase so often used these days; perhaps from the taint of 1980s greed; though it has a jolly twang, a satisfaction to it. Something of the child holds in the simplicity of it, and the element of gloating. So I use it to convey here an uncomplicated swell of pride. It is my wolfish appreciation at the shelves of seedlings in the polytunnel, at the fertile garden, of how this work reaps reward. It is the grin at a grandchild, engrossed, who in all the paradise of fauna has set herself up on the driveway to play with items retrieved from the recycling bag and pots of borrowed pond water. ‘Making soup dear? Lovely jubbly!’

I am keen. On Life. Every minute every excruciating minutiae Detail of it. This afternoon we drove towards home: from Kent to Cornwall Hot behind car glass because the air con is broken Open windows sporadically: beautiful relief. Over Blackhill Downs a cloud had dropped, split like a fallen craft- Into the mist we drove it was neither Recognisably, day, night? The sun was barely shining, a plain disc Until hilltops: there it glared And in the valleys, dense, debris vapour And the evening came. We drove as the sun dipped to the earths’s edge Seemed to set it on fire: cloud or smoke forming in the sky The sky: Rubescent, turquoise, molten gold Expanse beyond detail Gestaltist, joyous: Keen, the experience of everything.

Jealous, Not: that was the intended title. Such wise things I would write; of things you are supposed to want to make your incomplete life connected, of dangerous comparisons pressed upon us. About how we should not daydream of ‘when’ but look to our hearts and know what it is that we truly wish for, and figure out what can be done to work towards this, figure out what is it that we have all ready that is part of this. For example, I love outdoor life. I dream of outdoor bathrooms and kitchens. I have a garden. Mr has built a lean-to space, where the loganberries go berserk, with a mouldering work table. This has been stuck with junk, which slowly, slowly I am clearing: an outdoor kitchen will grow from this determination. A friend has even given us a sink and draining board. It’s propped, waiting.The hose pipe will be our outdoor plumbing. And how splendid it is simply to say, I should like a sink, and there one is! And while I’m trailing round, putting things in piles fo

This is not a characteristic, but a type of getting or maintaining fitness with exercise that changes intensity.  This morning I used the walk, jog, sprint interval method to travel two hilly miles and now my leg muscles feel appreciated.  I am pleased to have a physical body to interact with the physical world. I love movement; the push of an uphill sprint, the breeze trailing lost twine from a tree, the dip of birds in flight; and how the light interplays; how pale the sky is today, opal blue, and the light seems pasted on behind it, opaquely collaged. Dog and I and even the hedgerow flowers are ridiculously solid in comparison.  Primrose, violet, tulips, daffodils in frills; the light has hewn them into stone.  None of which comes up when you google ‘interval training.’ The mind’s input is directed instead to envy, perhaps, through photoshopped abdominals, and other such nonsense. Exercise is a distraction, there, but it shouldn’t be: it should be something to emb

What is a hap? A word of Scandinavian root, it seems, meaning chance, good luck. This morning was supposed to be met earlier. ‘Rest’ is the item most overlooked on the To Do list, so this was acceptable. There was sun, strong, no clouds to see. If there had been mist, I had missed it. Toast and coffee on the lawn- or rather the picnic table, no mishaps here. Breakfast was simple and fantastic. Something cheeky had scratched up the onions in the raised bed, suspects were many. Blackbirds had their mouths full of bugs and could not tell. I had pushed the little sets back into the dry earth, added rows of wooden stakes (for the garlic was untouched, it could have been vampires…) and gone inside to wash the loose dust from my hands. One nublet of old coal tar soap in the dish, and I was thinking how much I love that smell, one of those evocative childhood scents, and I have no idea how the trajectory of washing sent that nub skidding under the cabinet. My hands went into

Open window, sunlight, whir of bird feathers.  Shadow of a pigeon darts across the windowsill, slides on the white gloss.  Out on the grass the mist has left her marbles, dropped them in a bright scatter as she left, as she hastened to the river. Over the broad water she lets go of everything, she unbecomes.  Choruses of birds sing and their sound spins out melodic, avant-garde.  The crop fields are ploughed, earthy and rich-dark.  In a grazing field four horses flick tails and chew up sparkling grass. Somewhere a tractor rumbles. In each detail, gratitude.

(The theme of my April A-Z challenge is 'That which I am or have been,' I should inform: 'Furious' luckily is rare.) This anger is chemical. It has a fuse. It will burn somewhere, even if you never see it.  If you worked to get this reaction, perhaps you will be disappointed.  The faster the flare the safer you will keep. Slow burn can sear through anything. Deflection increases heat. You will be cauterised, sealed out. Only open dialogue can defuse.