existential gardening

Last summer, one night at knit night, we were talking about gardening and I mentioned how much I'd like to learn , and that I wished I could just go help out somewhere where someone told me what to do. Later that week my friend got in touch. One of her friends has a small holding that they struggled to keep up with, and they'd be delighted with some ad hoc gardening labour. Thus began what has become a real highlight of my week. On Sunday mornings I pull on my muddy jeans and wellies, hop on my bike, and cycle out about a mile and a half to their place on the outskirts of Faversham. 

First, because this is England, we have a cup of tea. I sit down and am immediately covered in dogs - Murphy and Luna, Chinese Crested dogs; and Floyd - the soppiest spaniel you ever did meet. I drink my tea and we head out. 

The first time I went it was in the heat of summer and I picked 10 kilos of gooseberries and took them home to make wine. I looked like I'd been in a cat fight from all the scratches. Today it was overcast and mizzling and we dug out the weeds in two beds and covered them in cardboard, under the watchful eye of the robin. I have good gloves now. 

I've grown to love these Sunday mornings - it's like a sort of therapy. I show up, I drink tea, I work - none of which requires any thought from me whatsoever. I don't have to make any decisions, I have no responsibility, and I can see progress. It's really quite lovely. My friend's friend is becoming my friend, and she is delighted that I want to help. She is a good teacher. I am delighted that I get to play outside for several hours each week. It's win-win.

This morning was especially needed as I woke up with an existential hangover - the sort where you feel ok in body but quite miserably dreadful in spirit. I was worried about work, and house-hunting, and it all felt a bit much. Digging over vegetable beds didn't help exactly, but for an hour and a half I just thought about weeds and worms and compost and now, back home, life seems much less grim.

Floyd kisses didn't go amiss either.

No such word

 

An afternoon of house-hunting in Ramsgate, made much better by meeting up with friends who moved there a few years ago. 

Ramsgate was posh as, back a hundred years or so, and you can tell by the architecture which is grandiose, sweeping, heart-stoppingly beautiful. And the beach. Oh lord. There are worse places to wash up. It is a little rough around the whiskers though.

More houses to see in Folkestone tomorrow. 

Trying very hard to consider this whole house business a Yay and not an Ugh. Not yet succeeding.

Winter morning

 It's 7:15 am and I have just got back from a kettlebell class. 

I know.

See? You were right to worry about me - I have clearly lost my mind!

The classes are 3x a week and the Thursday class starts at 6:15. In the morning. I thought it was a misprint at first, but no, it really isn't. Yet, for several weeks now, I have set my alarm, got up, and gone to the class. The first morning, I stood in the bathroom for some time, wondering why everything looked so blurry, before I woke up enough to realise my glasses were still on my nightstand. 

The classes are tough, but good. My friend recommended them, as we were in the pub bemoaning the fact that we can't run anymore (the planter fasciitis has never properly gone away for me and running now leaves me limping with pain the next day. Even if I feel young, my heels know the truth.) In the pub, many things seem plausible. 

But you know? It's good. Even the early start. It's enough to keep even me out of the wine the night before, and I am feeling stronger. 

This morning, as I walked back home across the rec, the sun was coming up and the sky was alight - the stark winter trees resplendent against the orange sky, the frost on the grass glowing pink in the reflection. I stopped in my tracks - just stood for a bit, knowing that for a minute, right now, everything is OK - and truly believing, somehow, that it will continue to be so.