Talking of Time

Unsurprisingly,* I’ve been thinking a lot recently about Life and Death.

Yesterday, as I sat on the hill, trying to work out what Life and Death were and how to explain the connection between them, I suddenly had the idea that this life – the one made up of physical matter and Time – is like travel, whereas Eternity is our home.

As I’ve said before, I do believe from both direct experience and because it makes so much sense, that we live more than one life. Through our lives we learn and develop our spirit. In between lives we return to where we came from – Eternity. Life therefore is a sort of gap year and Death is simply the journey home.

I liked that.

And talking of Time, on Sunday I went for a walk with my friend C, her dog Darcy (aka Bert) and my dog Ellie. We climbed a path new to me, called Armour Lane because of its connections with the Civil War.

Armour Lane, with C, Darcy/Bert (the small black dog in the distance) and Ellie (the fluffy black-and-white dog

(The distortion on the left of the picture is I think caused by me putting my finger over part of the lens by mistake. Oh dear.)

On the way up we passed Armour Wood, also named after its connection with the Civil War.

Armour Wood

Unfortunately the wood is privately owned and not open to the public so this is all we saw of it

Near the top we paused to look at Parliament Cottage, so named because the Parliamentarians used it as a base - but for how long or how many times, C didn't know.

Parliament Cottage

At the top, there were views all the way to the coast.

The views from the top of Armour Lane

C showed me this sign designating the track a County Road (And, yes, my picture is the right way up. The sign is pointing back down the path.)

County Road sign

What a County Road is, I have yet to find out (Google not being any help) but C says Armour Lane was once a major route, and W G Hoskins (in his classic book The Making of the English Landscape) says that many long-distance paths date back to prehistoric times.

Nor did Google help me with any of my other questions about the area and its past.

It always amazes – and pleases me – that there is still so much to discover about our history and countryside.

*given that Frog, my husband of 44 years, died suddenly of a heart attack last year, aged only 69

February is the cruellest month

T S Eliot in The Waste Land says that April is the cruellest month and I’ve always agreed with him, finding the mixture of winter’s torpor and spring’s stirrings almost unbearable at times, particularly when I was in my early twenties and so lost and confused.
 
Then I met Frog and for forty-four years he propped me up. Now I’m on my own again and returning to that difficult time, learning all the lessons that I didn’t learn then.
 
Yesterday I took refuge in My Secret Wood. I haven’t been there for a while because it’s dark and damp over the winter. I had one of my migraines and couldn’t manage any of my usual prayers and affirmations and spiritual musings. So I just sat there, on the ground, and Ellie sat with me, twitching her nose. Luckily, now she’s twelve and a half, she doesn’t need to rush around all the time.
 
The first bluebell leaves were pushing through and I realised that it’s now February that’s cruel. With climate change, spring starts two months earlier. And, with the start of spring, comes the conflict between old and new.

I know from experience that I feel closest to Frog when I accept - even welcome - my current circumstances and the fact that he's gone to another place, wherever and whatever it is. But it's hard to let go of my grief. It's almost like an illness that has to run its course.

People say that the grief never goes. Instead, you build a new life around it; you get better at dealing with it.

Spring comes in fits and starts, and so does recovery, I suppose.

My Secret Wood

The first bluebell leaves on the floor of My Secret Wood

What I noticed

 Here is what I noticed on my walk this afternoon.

The entrance to a gnome house?

Another little house, which lives in . . .

. . . this self-sufficiency village 

What a poet friend once called a 'selvedge' of light on the horizon

One of the many celandines that have started popping up in the last week. Welcome to you all, oh harbingers of spring!

I also noticed a hawthorn tree covered in leaf shoots and my favourite acid yellow lichen, but it was right at the beginning of the walk and I didn't think it was important to photograph them because I didn't yet have the idea for this post. It turned out that I should have. Let that be a lesson to me to listen to my instincts.

So much beauty

Even though this is a tough time of year, there’s still so much beauty to be found – and especially so with the recent fine weather.

  
Here (below) is a magnificent oak. I love tree skeletons just as much as trees in full leaf, if not more so. 

(As so often, my world is tilted. Usually I correct the pictures, but I didn't notice this one until I'd uploaded it and now I can't be bothered to change it.)

I adore the bluey greys of this view. They make me want to be a watercolourist – but I had fun nonetheless with my new smartphone camera trying to capture the exact shade of light and dark as I saw it (as advised by Carol of Life of Pottering).

For some reason these distant hills remind me of Lord of the Rings, and the little hobbits trudging through vast swathes of wild countryside. I think it’s because Frog had a Tolkien map or perhaps some pictures that looked like this – I must try and find it/them.|

 

This is My Secret Wood from the outside – a glorious multi-hued tangle, soon to burst with new life.

This is the road that meanders along the ridge of the hill behind the house. Round every corner is a fabulous view. Here are the three beech trees in a line that I’ve mentioned before.

And, just in case you think that winter is a drab time, here is some lichen that leapt out of the hedge at me in a psychedelic way.