Idle and blessed

 I share my angst with you on the blog, so I am going to share my happiness too.

We are not having the heating on at all because of the price of domestic heating oil, and when at teatime we haven’t yet lit the fire, and I feel cold and miserable, I dread next winter, with rationed heating. But… now that the spring is here I’m saying to myself with absolutely no effort, Don’t think about next winter, it’s lovely now. Enjoy now! 

Finally - thanks to the awfulness out there - I have achieved being in the now, enjoying the moment.

This morning I rode up the Monsal Trail as far as Millers Dale station and locked up my bike, and walked down the steps to the river. There is a lot of sunshine to be had down there because the leaves on the trees are not fully out. I found a comfy spot and drank my coffee 

and sat looking at the river, listening to the river, lapping up the sunshine, and I was perfectly happy. Not a worry. not a disturbing thought. How lucky am I to have such lovely places so accessible? The price I pay for them is the long dark winters, but now I am here, in the sunny spring, being “idle and blessed.”

The quote is from Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day”

A pedestrian post

This last week was swallowed up in buying a car, although I did fit in two long walks with friends as well, as respite.

But back to the car. 

Our car must be relatively inexpensive. It is to get us from A to B, with plenty of usable room for Dave to transport all his DIY stuff. We don’t need touchscreens, Bluetooth or any of the latest tech. We like basic. But we like reliable. Our first car was a battered old Land Rover and Dave still yearns for it. He once mended the exhaust pipe with a Heinz baby food tin and a couple of jubilee clips.

The second thing to say is that although Dave can mend and make anything in wood, car mechanics is a blind spot. And I am completely lacking in any ability or aptitude for anything more complicated than a screwdriver. So…we don’t feel adequate when it comes to buying cars, and dread it when we need to, because our current one is getting past it. We are also very straightforward people who don’t like argy bargy.

Thank goodness that the salesman was a good guy and we bought a car we are pleased with. There is a much bigger story behind all of this, but it’s one I can’t tell on the blog. Suffice to say that the salesman made our week so much nicer, and in various ways. Thank you, R.

Despite all of this, we ended the week worn out with stress. My aging hippy friend Karen has a word for this which I’m going to adopt - shredded. I talked to another friend of a similar age and we agreed that dealing with heavy duty admin is so taxing at this age that we try to do it in the morning, and certainly not after five o clock. And on some days we don’t feel up to it at all, as in “I can’t face fixing up the car insurance today, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

I am glorying in the spring, and our garden is full of colour. 

Three year old MsX is also glorying in the spring. She said to her mum “I love spring. I love spring. I hate winter. It’s my worst day of the week.”

And at Hepworth Towers the next grown up thing we need to do is sort out the roof.

A long letter from home

 I went to pick up MsX from nursery this week. (Sorry, MsX! Sorry! Not nursery, but pre-school, because she’s three and she’s a big girl now…This is what she would say to me.) 

And as we set off home down the road the first thing she said was “I love spring.”

“So do I,” I said.

And I do, but as I was hanging out the washing this morning, the opening lines of T S Eliot’s The Waste Land came to mind…

April is the cruellest month, breeding  

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 

memory and desire, stirring 

dead roots with spring rain.

…because I feel in a weird frame of mind right now. Boxed in, restless and useless, with a background anxiety. 

I’m sure the state of the world, and the possible future of the world is mostly to blame for my unease, but it’s also the spring, and it’s also my age, with all that implies - waning energy, awareness of the shortness of life, trying to make the most of every day while also trying to plan for an increasingly uncertain future.

Every day my email inbox fills with messages from pressure groups - Campaign Against the Arms Trade, CND, Safe Passage, Palestine Solidarity Campaign, the Refuser Solidarity Network, Jewish Voice for Peace, the Good Shepherd Collective, Upbeat Communities, the BDS movement, the Good Law Project… and most of them want me to do something - write a letter, give money, sign a petition, go on a march, and I sometimes do what they ask, and sometimes I don’t read the emails - it’s all too much. But I can’t delete them either, because that would mean that what they’re writing about isn’t important, or that the plight of the people they’re writing about doesn’t matter. So the emails sit there, accusing me, worrying me.

I have been working on a painting for three weeks now and it’s been making me miserable because I can’t get it right, so I’ve finally put it to one side. I might go back to it in the future. Dave says that all artists have paintings they put to one side and keep returning to, sometimes over years, because they can’t get them right. I am sure that’s true. The trouble is I have no idea what I want to paint instead.

This  - above - was the blog post I was writing yesterday, and it didn’t come to a conclusion, except I thought I might use this Mary Oliver poem, which is always a comfort.

But this morning when I woke up and the sun was shining and the tender new leaves of the copper beech looked even more beautiful than yesterday

Yesterday afternoon at 4pm

This morning at 6.24

and I thought it would be better to write a post listing things that happened this week that made me happy, so…

The new leaves - particularly on the copper beeches and silver birches in our garden

Sitting in Meeting last Sunday morning with all the other Friends, with the sun pouring in through the high windows

Sitting in Chrissie’s garden with her on Tuesday, eating lunch

FaceTiming with Lux in Colorado on Tuesday

The time I spent with MsX on Thursday

Having lunch with Dave on Friday at our favourite cafe, The Old Smithy at Beeley

Talking to Liz on the phone yesterday morning early

Hanging out the washing in the sunshine yesterday

After tea yesterday when Dave brought home a wonderful doll’s house we bought from the small ads for MsX to play with and it was ten times nicer than the ad had led me to believe it was, so much so that I wanted to ring up and invite the family to come over today just so we could play with it.

I realise that bike rides aren’t in the list and that’s because when it wasn’t raining I had other commitments.

So. There you are. That’s me.

How are YOU all coping with this increasingly disturbing and uncertain world?

Matchboxes

I read in the paper yesterday that Selfridges are selling posh matchboxes for as much as £843. Apparently…

There are cheaper ones than £843: they have some at £70. Well, well.

The last time we ran out of matches, I couldn’t find any on sale in either local  supermarket, but only in a small, sparsely stocked local shop. Matches don’t seem to be a staple any more, though they are in this house, where we depend on our log burning stoves for warmth.

When I have returned from visiting Isaac and family in Colorado, I have usually brought home at least one match box  - either from Bar Taco, my favourite Friday night place for margaritas, or from Brasserie Ten Ten, a European styled restaurant that Isaac and I like a lot. 

Isaac and me, August 2024

These matchboxes join the other small keepsakes from Colorado I keep in a box somewhere safe. 

But missing our American family, and wondering when, if ever, it will be safe to visit them again, I decided to use a box of Bar Taco matches, so I think of them every day when I light the fire. 

The other day on the phone I said to Wendy - “I wonder if you and I will ever be able to go to The Buff again for breakfast.” Breakfast at The Buff with Wendy is a staple event early on in every visit to Boulder: we have a thorough, frank catch-up. We both feel most comfortable when we talk straight. I feel blessed to have such a daughter-in-law as Wendy.

All this has made me think of that saying “You never know when it is the last time you do something.” It’s another version of treasuring the moment. Another version of being mindful.

How I miss them all. Fortunately they are planning on a summer visit here. I hope the jet fuel won’t have run out by then.

Peace and quiet

I’m sorry for being quiet but it’s been hard to think straight this week as we have had three skilled hardworking men in the house fitting new windows. The work makes a lot of noise - it’s inevitable. And the rooms are in turmoil, one after another, as things are moved away from the windows. The new windows are a success, and will mean Dave doesn’t have to paint them every five years, or replace ones that go rotten because of the harsh weather, because they won’t be going rotten.

And look at this view from our bay window…

It will all be worth it, though at the end of the first day Dave and I were utterly done in. And although we take it in turns to go out on our bikes, there’s a lot of time spent here within earshot of the noise, and it addles my brain. Today, being Saturday, we have peace and quiet. What sweet relief.

The other day I was enjoying some peace and quiet away from home, sitting thinking and drinking coffee mid bike-ride on this bench above Eyam…

when a passer by walking his dog decided to come and chat. I was friendly and responded but his chat went on and on and on, and wasn’t along lines I welcomed particularly - the “fact” that windmills are useless, and we should be drilling for oil,  - and I felt resentful that my peaceful time should be snatched away by someone who then wanted to tell me what Trump should have done, which I could guess was something I absolutely didn’t agree with, so I stood up, and said it was time I got home.

But as I cycled away I thought that actually I should have stayed and put the other point of view, because otherwise he might never consider it.

I usually welcome interactions with people I don’t know. That’s why I always go in the supermarket checkout with someone behind the till. That’s why I talk to people on the bus. I think it’s important to have normal human interactions and conversations with strangers - human connection needs nurturing, particularly nowadays when technology and bots are taking the humanity out of everyday transactions.

I once met a woman from London who said she resented people she didn’t know talking to her in public places: she regarded it as an intrusion on her personal space. I was shocked at the time, but this is how I felt on Wednesday with the man, and it wasn’t only because I didn’t much like him. I was mid bike ride, escaping from noise and turmoil at home, and he spoiled it.

When I cycled up the Monsal Trail yesterday I said good morning or hello to five separate people walking or cycling in the other direction, and not one acknowledged the greeting. I know why: they were tourists, most probably from the south. Locals (unknown to me) would have responded. But later when I stopped my bike and was looking in my pannier to get out my flask of coffee, a man cycled up and said “Everything all right?” because he thought I had stopped on account of mechanical failure. I assured him everything was fine and thanked him for asking. When I’d finished my coffee and was putting the flask away, another cyclist came up and asked if I was OK. I was touched by both of these enquiries. 

Where does that leave me? Sitting in bed, not wanting to get up because it’s cold. But I will, and I will light the fire and get on with my painting in a quiet house with lovely views.

Bits and pieces

First, I’d like to commend this blog post to you. 

https://dimcdougall.com/ageing-changing/

It’s Di McDougall’s latest blog post. Di lives in South Africa and she is a friend of mine though I have never met her. She has been reading my blog for years and years and comments under the name Marmee.

All I have to offer today by contrast is not a well written, coherent blog post, but a ragbag.

I was in Wensleydale for a few days with my four siblings, catching up, playing Rummikub and Scrabble, eating cheese, looking at scenery, generally having a good time despite our collective age of 378.

Towards Coverdale
Photo by Peter Willis (big brother)

Distant view of Bolton Castle
Photo by Peter Willis 

I went for three lovely long walks with Jonty, my little brother

At Redmire Force with Jonty

The river Ure near Redmire

At Aysgarth Upper Falls

And now I’m home, still trying to make big decisions with Dave about household matters, and trying to get stuck into a new painting. On Tuesday we’re having new windows and doors fitted throughout the house. By that I mean they are starting on Tuesday. I’m not looking forward to the disruption, though the end result will of course be worthwhile.

Always in the background the obscenities perpetrated in the Middle East are disturbing and distressing, quite apart from their ramifications for everyday life in the rest of the world. Our esteemed Foreign Secretary Yvette Cooper seems to think that it’s Iran that is being unreasonable and reckless. 

What?? It’s Iran that’s to blame?

While we’re on the subject of war, I’d like to commend to you an interview with the renowned war photographer, Don McCullin, which you can hear on the programme This Cultural Life on BBCSounds. It’s available for a year. It’s a deep and frank interview and if you’re interested in Don McCullin’s work you might be gripped, as I was.

I went to see a major retrospective of his work in 2019 and brought back these quotes from him:

I have been looking for a poem to share with you as a conclusion, but I can’t find comfort this morning, and the only thing that seems relevant is the poet Fiona Benson reading her poem called Eurofighter Typhoon. Here is the link…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QWt1Sk51kg&list=PL8VHSOl9gbqmlLHR_A8QnK9RKC8YWkb61&index=4