A spell in the Garden of England

When I’m with my brothers and sisters, my grief for Frog is not so bad. They seem to fill in the hole that his death has left in my life. Sadly, they all live in the South East, four hours’ journey (at least) from me here in the South West.
 
Ten days ago however, I was lucky enough to spend a week with my brother J and sister-in-law K in K’s family house which happens to be in the same Kentish village as the houses of my two sisters.
 
Actually, it’s not happenstance at all. We were all brought up in that village. K’s house is separated from the house my family grew up in by only a couple of fields and a river, and K attended the same local school as me and my sisters. My brother therefore married the girl next door (and I hope J and K won’t mind me saying that).
 
Whereas Devon is wide open and rolling, cosy in parts and dramatic in others, Kent is unbelievably pretty, more like a garden than working countryside.

Not for nothing is Kent known as the Garden of England.
You can hardly see the village here for its thick cover of trees

K’s house is a mill house dating from the sixteenth century, with uneven wooden floors and a warren of rooms, easy to get lost in. It lives on an island enclosed by three arms of a river. Greenery abounds – both exotic and native, nature rules, and the whole place is full of magic.

The Mill House

The river and the Mill House garden

The village nestles in the chalky North Downs, where we walked most days. We spent nearly four hours in this nearby valley and didn’t see another person, even though from the hilltop the towers of London’s Canary Wharf are visible on the horizon.

A walk in a nearby valley

Parts of the valley are being rewilded.

Shrubs and trees are racing to re-cover what was once agricultural land and then a golf course

The swards were full of orchids and other wildflowers.

Pyramid orchid and Bacon and eggs (Birdsfoot-trefoil),
one of nature's stunning colour combinations

Another sort of orchid. (My sister A would know its name.)

On Friday, the hottest day of the year so far, we took refuge in the Mill House’s shady garden.

Drinks and lunch in the Mill House garden

Another day we walked along the river, past these hop fields, for which Kent is famous,

Hop field

and these lavender fields, which take advantage of Kent’s hot, dry summers as well as the rise in overall temperatures.

 

Lavender field, planted to flower in succession

The scent as we walked past was delicious.

Nearby the council has created a country park with a glorious wildflower meadow . . .

The wildflower meadow with neat paths and signboards (and my brother)

The wildflower meadow with rows of lavender just visible behind trees in the distance

The meadow's wildflowers, including more orchids

Imaginative seats (from handmadeplaces.co.uk*) are placed appropriately: a dragonfly by the river, a grasshopper here by the meadow.

The wooden seat in the shape of a grasshopper
(which has, inconveniently for the photo, placed itself half in and half out of shade)

It was a good place to sit and rest.

Brother J on the grasshopper

Heartfelt thanks to my family for giving me such a wonderful time.

*Blogger not creating links at the moment. Will try and rectify in due course

Scots pines and leys

Scots pine and Dog (if you can see her), a couple of days ago

The Scots pine is not native to England and some say that the trees that exist are descended from trees planted by prehistoric people. They did this to mark leys, so the story goes. Leys are straight lines that appear to run between prehistoric structures, like standing stones, as well as natural features like ponds and the tops of hills. There are many theories as to what leys are. Some say they helped prehistoric people find their way around; others that they mark ‘energy’ currents.

Several times a week I walk past the wind-blasted Scots pine in the picture above. It nods to another one on top of a nearby hill and I always take time to stand in line with the two trees. There, I imagine the earth’s energy flowing through me and pray for whatever it is I need that day, such as strength, courage, wisdom or trust. I do feel better afterwards. In any case the wind through its needles is beautiful and sounds like the sea.

Friends’ sixteenth/seventeenth-century house stands on the same line, and it has been suggested that older buildings, especially sacred ones like churches, were sometimes built on prehistoric sites. Perhaps my friends live on a ley. Aren't they lucky.

Here is a view of the tree from the ley. I love the shape of its branches. It’s like a heart or a yoga ‘mudra’ (thumb and finger together). 

The Scots pine in March

My friends' house is behind me, hidden in trees, and the tree's twin is in the distance, blocked from view by the tree itself. It always takes me a while to get into the right position, but I think I usually know when I do. Something clicks.

Guests

I met Frog when I was 24, and we were together for 44 years (until his sudden death in January this year). In other words, nearly two-thirds of my life. Is it any wonder, I keep telling myself, that I’m now struggling? Frog was my life and now I have to make a new one from scratch without him. At the same time, dealing with grief and a host of other emotions brought up by the turmoil.

A friend passed on to me this poem, by the thirteenth-century Persian poet Rumi. I carry it with me.

The Guest House

​This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

​

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

​

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

​

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

​Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

It’s helpful to me to remember that emotions – even if terrifying and often almost too much to bear ‒ are only guests, that they have a purpose and that each will leave in their own time. Thank you Trish.

Talking of guests, I shall mention again my wonderful brothers and sisters who have been taking it in turns to stay with me. Since Frog’s death, they’ve never left me alone for more than two weeks and each visit is a respite, a chance to catch up with eating and sleeping and – occasionally – to feel almost normal.

Last week it was the turn of my sister A, and we walked together to a nearby Iron Age hill-fort which Frog and I had visited for the first time during lockdown in January last year. I wrote about it in my blog here.

Then it was dusted with snow.

The hill-fort, a circle of banks that once contained an Iron Age village

Frog and Ellie walk to an edge to admire part of the 360-degree view

Frog explores the ditch all the way round the outside

This time, A and I had bright spring sunshine.

Ellie and me at the hill-fort last week

Both times, we had the place to ourselves.

And here, just for fun, is a picture of Ellie waiting for her supper at the end of a hard day's walking.

Ellie, never more intent than when food is in the offing

Thanks to A for the last two pictures and for enabling me at last to update my Welcome picture (top right)

Norwegian Independence Day

Today is Norwegian Independence Day, when Norwegians celebrate the 1814 constitution which gave them freedom from Denmark and Sweden. It’s their biggest national holiday and marked with parades and flags.

On the day after Frog died (four and a half months ago) a Norwegian flag arrived in the post. My grandmother was Norwegian and I have many relatives living there, so I knew that Frog had ordered the flag as a surprise present for me.

I haven’t flown a flag since Frog died and the Norwegian flag has been sitting on a shelf, still in its plastic wrapper. Today I hoisted it – not because of my new independence but because I know that seeing it will make Frog proud and happy (wherever he is).

It took some doing and the flag fell down after my first attempt, but here it is now. It’s made me proud and happy too - for lots of reasons. 

And here is my aunt's flag, flying in Norway this morning.

Lifelines

At times, the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and months since Frog’s death have felt like one long nightmare, a black tunnel without an exit. Three things have kept me from going under.

The first, and perhaps the most important, is my connection – however shaky ‒ to a spiritual world. In particular, my affirmations. I won’t tell you what these are as that might reduce their power, but I can say that I first learnt about them from Louise Hay’s wonderful book You Can Heal Your Life.

My edition of the book

The edition on Amazon at the moment

I bought the book, which came out in 1984, many years ago, but only started using it seriously about 4 years ago in an effort to cure my migraines. Well, the migraines have virtually gone, and I wonder now whether I was also working through the book in unconscious preparation for the times I’m going through now. It’s a mad thought, but the world is stranger than we can ever imagine. I know that now because I never expected Frog to drop down dead in front of me at the age of 69. Perversely, that unexpectedness is another comfort: who knows what my future holds?

My gateway to the spiritual world is nature, to which I'm led every day by my beloved Ellie, and in particular my secret wood, which I’ve mentioned many times before in this blog.

My secret wood, in a steep valley carved by two small streams

My secret wood, with Ellie and bluebells

Thankfully, it’s spring at the moment and, even though spring doesn’t seem quite as glorious as usual and half the time I’m stuck in my own desperate inner world, it has its moments.

The wild cherry tree in my garden a few weeks ago

My third lifeline is people: family, neighbours, friends, counsellor. I never realised before how much I needed people. Because of what happened 44 years ago when Frog and I wanted to marry, we retreated. We kept ourselves to ourselves and I dreamt of the two of us living somewhere really remote like an uninhabited island in the Pacific, instead of the Devon countryside, however beautiful. Now, people seem to have forgiven me my unsociability and flocked to my aid.

I’ve mentioned my lovely sisters and brother and how much they've been helping me, but I've not mentioned my counsellor before. I see her once a week in the village and she’s amazing. I can say anything to her and cry all I like. I leave each session feeling like a new person. At the moment we’re working on emotions, using a wheel.

The version of the Wheel of Emotions that I'm using at the moment.
There are many others, some with better words. 

It’s as if my emotions have been frozen for decades (which of course didn’t help Frog and me. I’ll do better next time – if I get a chance. Please, God) and now my heart has burst open. I have no experience of dealing with such a tumult and my counsellor is helping me to learn.

Two days ago a former sister-in-law (she used to be married to an in-law of mine) dropped in with her now-husband on their way to Cornwall. They left me these flowers . . .

. . . and sent me this stunning picture from their holiday.

Cornwall, yesterday

Every kindness, like that, does something to fill the hole left by Frog’s death.

Writing this blog helps too.