...links me to the people I love.

Some random photos from this week.

On Sunday at The Pig at Combe, lovely old country hotel and restaurant near Honiton, where I took Robin's amazing aunty for lunch to celebrate her 90th birthday. 

We had starters - a crab tart, and a pea and spring onion spelt risotto. We both agreed the beetroot and roasted Jerusalem artichokes were the bees knees.

The petits fours - or as they called them the 'piggy' fours - were complimentary-  ( I'd phoned in advance and told them about the birthday) which I thought was a lovely touch. I also thought the white squares with greenish/bluish veins were blue cheese but they turned out to be white chocolate and mint truffles. 

They have a wonderful walled vegetable garden in the grounds which we walked around afterwards - full of different varieties of mint - but not for long as the wind was icy.

In my front garden - a gorgeous rhododendron - not as spectacular as the ones at Killerton but I love it. The other day I met the lovely man who designed and planted our garden 14 years ago outside a neighbour's house.  He hadn't heard about Robin and was very shocked. He said his brother's wife died recently too - they were married 45 years, and known each other since they were 15. He is still unbelieving. Like me.

A Pieris by the front door...

and everywhere in the back garden brunnera, forget-me-not, has self seeded...

which I also love....which reminds me of my mother.

Everything in the garden links me to the people  I love.

 

I'm so pleased the magnolia survived the frost and the first flowers are just coming out now....it was  a gift from my nephew many years ago.

This bird bath was a wedding gift to us from a dear friend who I met when I was teaching EFL in Hastings 40 years ago. She has now developed alzheimer's disease which is heart breaking. She is the same age as  me.

In the spring park all this week...

gunnera...

'my' 

mallards...

and a pink blue bell by the path.

Today I fill in time in Exeter while my car is at the garage having new air-bags fitted.  Some models of the Honda Jazz, which I drive, are being re-called for faulty parts. I share a courtesy bus into town with an amazing woman who is also having new airbags. 

She is 87, a widow for 22 years,  lives on her own, does all her own cleaning and gardening - including cutting the grass - on her half acre plot and does keep-fit and swims and belongs to all sorts of local societies like the University of the Third Age.

She made a snowman in her garden when we had all that heavy snow and put her husband's old gardening hat on him. She said when she moved the hat just came with her and still hangs on a hook in the garage.

Among other things, we talked about beetroot chutney recipes and the merger between Asda and Sainsbury's.

Like Robin's aunty.... and my father.... her indomitable spirit is an inspiration to me. I hope I'll be like them when I'm that age. But at the moment I feel like these umbrellas...just hanging on by a thread to each day that comes....sometimes open and sometimes closed.

 And I don't know why these umbrellas are strung up in the High Street in Exeter. Maybe because it's a bank holiday this weekend.... I love it that someone had a crazy creative idea and made it happen.

This evening I don't let myself get too hungry and perk up last night's pasta with purple sprouting broccoli, spinach and a whole bulb of young green garlic that I bought at the farmers' market yesterday. I eat it watching the pigeons and the blackbirds hustling over the last of the wild bird seed I have left out in several places in the garden. 

I must buy some more tomorrow. They eat more than me those pigeons.

Beyond the Pale

Whatever the pale is I'm beyond it tonight.

Maybe it's the energy re-balancing cranio-sacral session I had this afternoon...lovely therapist said it was very powerful and I would go on feeling the effects for several days.

Maybe it's the extra large pasta and salad supper I had....I got too hungry and ate too fast.

Anyway my brain is foggy...my fingers on the keyboard are sluggish and inspiration is long gone.

Even though I missed the sunset how lucky I am that I can just sleep now till  the morning comes.

The Sun...the Sunset....Restoring Trust

The sun shining on the garden this morning.

It transforms everything. Including me.

Walking round the Killerton estate this afternoon ....the rhododendrons and azeleas on fire with light.

And the wild 'shirt buttons' and pink campion and blue bells under the trees -  soft carpets of spring rolling down the grassy banks.

Red maple stars....

in the days before fridges...

and always a robin redbreast close by...I often hear him even if I don't see him....this one catching a fly or an ant....something tasty.

The private chapel in the grounds...

and the sound of shrieking crows

follows me everywhere.

 Back home I listen to an interview with the medical medium Anthony William who has some interesting things to say about optimum health. He says there is a strong connection between adrenal fatigue ( which affects 80 percent of Americans - and me too) and gut problems - me too.

Instead of 3 meals a day - graze, i.e. eat every 2 hours to help the adrenals. And drink 16 oz of pure celery juice to help restore the gut flora. Who knows - worth a try.

I also like what he says about restoring trust.  Something most of us have lost.

Watch the sun setting as often as you can. Even for a few minutes. And the sunrise too.  Make it a habit to stop and connect to the sun going down.

To be mindful that the sun sets and that it will return the next morning empowers the soul to trust. It is one thing that will never let you down.

I tried it this evening at 8.25pm. Sitting on the stairs looking out of the top landing window which is the best view I have of the sky over the roof tops. Not a glorious sunset. And I'm unlikely to see the sunrise. But it did remind me of my favourite quote from Rabindranath Tagore,

Fatih 

is the 

bird

that

sings 

to the

dawn

while

it is

still

dark. 

A Little Flame to Feed

 My mallards in the park this afternoon.

This morning, as I lie on her couch, leaking sadness, my lovely kinesologist therapist reminds me that in the Chinese way of medicine, grief in the lungs is different from grief in the liver.

In the lungs, represented by metal, grief is hard and holding on.

In the liver, represented by wood, grief is softer and flowing outwards.

I have no infection in my lungs but I have always felt like there is a metal band constricting my chest.....sometimes it hurts to breathe...even to take small shallow breaths.

Today my grief is flowing from my eyes....a huge build up of pressure behind my eyes.  She says eyes represent dreams for the future....hopes and dreams...the bigger picture.

So no wonder my eyes hurt.

I can't dream about my future

 yet.

 Or hope for it.

Or even imagine it.

First I have to say 

out loud

so I can hear it too - 

The dreams I had,

that Robin and I had,

for our future.... 

even vague 

unspecified 

dreams....

but the ones 

we always lived into

naturally together,

will 

not

happen 

now.

That future will never happen now.

So instead of trying to live into a future that is too unfamiliar ....too overwhelming and uncertain and uncontrollable ....instead of dreaming up a life of my own......on my own.......I can notice how my grief is shifting from metal to wood....and take some baby steps outwards. From the place where I am now. Mourning my loss.

Up to now it seems I have been doing everything just to get through the days ...and the nights...hopeless.

I make myself eat and sleep and walk and talk and write by habit... by an instinct to survive...joyless.

But today I was given a tiny green shoot of hope. That I could eat for nourishment,  be rested from sleep,  be energised by walking, be inspired by writing, be loved by talking, sharing, listening ....little gifts I could give myself. To thrive in the moment. Nothing big and bold and scary. 

Just a little flame to feed. 

And let the bigger picture, the future, take care of itself while I take care of me.