The things that save us
A bit of news...

A bluebell reprise

Spring on the hill

It's been Fairyland in the woods and fields behind our house over the last few weeks. . .but now the bluebells are beginning to fade, gently curling in on themselves. Soon they will disappear again as mysteriously as first they came. Here, then, are a last few bluebell pictures, a last few moments of lingering enchantment. . . .

Bluebells and stone

At the edge of the bluebell wood

Bluebell woodland

I seem to be reflecting on "loss" these days. Why? I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps it's just the fading of the bluebells. Or the tiresome limits of convalescence, reminding me of mortality. It's Howard about to leave the country for a month (whatever will Tilly do without him?), and a dear relative losing his home, and the remaining threads that still tie me to my old desert life beginning to loosen. It's descent and ascent, death and rebirth, winter and spring, the cycles of sun and moon. It's loss and change clearing the ground for whatever new phase of art and life comes next. It's loss and change swaling the landscape of the soul. And so the seasons turn.

The thing is, I'm strangely content right now, though perhaps you wouldn't know it from these recent melancholic posts. Change is never easy, but I like the things change brings: new art, new stories. New beginnings.

The look out

Tilly in a sea of bluebells

 

                                                                      To live in this world

                                                                      you must be able
                                                                      to do three things:
                                                                      to love what is mortal;
                                                                      to hold it

                                                                     against your bones knowing
                                                                      your own life depends on it;
                                                                      and, when the time comes to let it go,
                                                                      to let it go.

                                                                              -- Mary Oliver (from In Blackwater Woods)

 

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