Monday, July 18, 2022


I made sixteen jars of blackcurrant jam eight days ago and yesterday I made another eighteen. I only have two blackcurrant bushes now - having given away three - and yet there is loads more fruit to pick. 

I was thinking this month that I had moved past the stage of being excited about picking fruit from my own bushes, that it had become a chore, and jam making another chore. But I came home from a trip out yesterday worried about something and the sorting and washing of the fruit and the making of the jam assumed a meditative, calming quality and I felt a whole lot better by the end of the afternoon.

Today I picked my first bunch of sweet peas and they are sitting on my desk as I write this, smelling heavenly. I will never get tired of growing sweet peas.

It is seven years since Mary died and last week was her birthday and for the first time ever I felt cross with her that she wasn't here to talk to. Grief follows no pattern.

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