Sunlight, starlight

The sky has cleared. I think Ilse did it, early last week, with some sort of magic only six year olds can muster. Well, perhaps not. But whatever the reason, the blanketing cloud has lifted and we have been given sunlight, starlight, and frosty mornings.

I finished Ilse’s new summer dress and gave it to her, fresh from the machine, to twirl around the house in. She had her little missions: to show it to Daddy, then Fliss, then Ben and Seb, before remembering to glance in the mirror and see how it looks for herself. Everyone satisfied her – and my – need for admiration for this simple little creation, and she was delighted. She’s an easy girl to please, really. She loves everything I make for her. So I wasn’t really surprised when she asked if she might wear her new dress for the rest of the day.

Some mothers might not let their little girls wear sleeveless cotton frocks on chilly February days. Away from the fire, the days have been grey and damp. I couldn’t brave it, myself. But really, how could I say no to so delightful a request? I shuddered, smiled and said a deliberate yes.

It turns out that Ilse couldn’t brave it, either. She lasted all of ten minutes before reappearing in corduroy and wool, with (hopefully) some thermal underwear beneath. She handed me the dress, to fold gently and lay away in the drawer of waiting summer clothes. Then she marched to the window, pointed to the sky and commanded: Hurry up, sun!

And hurry up it did. It was there to greet us the next day, presiding over a glittering street. It stayed all through the long morning, luring me out of doors. By the afternoon it had swung round to the front of the house where it lounged on the armchairs, cat-like, warming the seats. It has stopped with us all week, transforming the end of February into something March-like, something joyful.

I took advantage of its presence to finally dig my new bed, turning the lawn over and under itself. At last there is new ground for plants to grow in. I let the hens out of their run while I worked, and we were outside for so long that even the giddy one gave up her running and flapping and turned to pecking at the earth around my feet, before finally settling down to fluff her feathers and bathe in all that yellow goodness.

Because really, after this winter, a little sunshine is pure goodness. Everything it touches turns to gold. This spring sunlight has magic in its fingertips: King Midas with a happy ending. And at night, when it goes to bed, the moon follows suit and coats everything in silver. Without the clouds, the night sky is full of diamonds once again. I feel another night walk coming on, with telescopes and star charts and overexcited children.

But that’s had to wait, because I’ve been having fun elsewhere. On Friday Mr White had arranged for members of our soup club to see Cosi Fan Tutte in Leeds. We caught the train home, humming cosily through the night in our own little compartment, remembering this aria or that. I said my goodbyes at York station and cycled home on my own. As I pedalled, I could swear the spheres were singing to me, keeping time. My dynamo swept along the midnight lanes, but it wasn’t really needed. Thanks to Ilse, the world was awash with starlight.

[whohit]sunlightstarlight[/whohit]

Retreat

Last Sunday found us at Mount Grace Priory, out for the day, doing something different. It was the last day of the holidays, you see, and to go out and be somewhere else is the very best way I know of making it both lasting and special.

Even driving through the countryside is a treat: seeing different places, remembering old landmarks. The bend in the road where our hired motor broke down, once, and we had to keep giving it push starts all the way home. The farm that each of the children visited, with school and willing mothers, to pet the lambs in the spring of their reception year. The turnings to other places we love to visit: Byland Abbey and Helmsley Castle. There have been a lot of last days of the holidays.

We admired the trees, standing bare and boney above the landscape. I think they might be at their most beautiful, like that. Then again, I know I’ll change my mind once they blossom and bud. We looked for rabbits, their white tail ends bobbing madly as they dove for the hedgerows. There was a bird of prey, hovering over a fresh-ploughed field. The first daffodils were braving it.

I’d never been to Mount Grace at this time of year. I’d heard that there would be snowdrops, but was unprepared for the sheer carpets of white that lay under trees and around the becks and bridges. The grounds were alive with bulbs: the little white flowers at their peak and the sturdy spears of daffs and crocuses waiting in the wings. We followed the path to the arts and crafts house, normally vibrant within, but that day the wallpapers looked almost dull compared to the show outside.

There was a pinboard display all about the monastery beyond. I read it with Ilse, who liked the thought of all those monks living side by side in their own little houses. It is a cosy idea, somehow, those people all alone and yet together, somewhere wild and also safe, tucked into the warm end of a valley. Occasionally coming together for prayer and labour, but mostly contemplating the beauty of the universe and the love of its maker.

We wandered out to cell eight, which has been rebuilt and restored, the only home standing in a terraced quadrangle. Downstairs each room was assigned its function: to sleep, to pray, to study. There was a great stone fireplace set into one wall. Above was the workroom, equipped with spinning wheel and loom. A great space, full of light. Below was a glazed cloister. It faced a walled garden, the vegetables kept orderly by box hedges, the fruit bushes lining the path to the latrine set over yet another little stream. Oh, Mummy, said Fliss, I bet you’d love to live here.

In some ways, I really would. I feel at home in its simplicity and purposefulness. I could happily spin and weave, garden and write. I would enjoy the time alone and the time with others. If it wasn’t for one great stumbling block I really would love to live there. NoI said to Fliss, I’d miss you all far too much.

Perhaps a retreat might be the thing, for a weekend or so. A little time away, someday. But I really don’t feel the need, just now. I am very happy where I am: at home, in the thirties, with everyone around me. Family life is messy in all sorts of ways, but I couldn’t give it up.

On the way home, the pheasants were running from our headlamps. The trees were vanishing into a blackening sky. I was tired, yet also rested. Ready for another half term. One day’s retreat, with everyone around me, was all that I had needed.

[whohit]retreat[/whohit]

Collage

Ben and I had to go away at the start of the half term holiday, to help an elderly relative in Sussex. Fliss came to wave us off at the tram stop, early on a frosty morning, before the little ones were even awake. I knew they would be fine, without me. John is more than capable, and Mother and Mrs P were already planning casseroles and invitations to high tea.

It seems they had a lovely time while I was away, full of fun and family. John took the children out for a winter scramble, and to cafes for luncheon on more than one occasion. I missed a tea party for his grandmother, who is now 98 years old. By all accounts my mother in law laid on a real feast, and I was sorry to miss seeing that side of the family. I sent a handmade present in my place: a letter case sewn from pink corduroy, with pockets and edging made from scraps left over from my peonies dress. I put wadding between its layers, to give it body, and a mother of pearl button with a self-fabric loop to hold it closed. Inside were cards, and stamps, a little address book and a pen. Because letters matter, especially when you live alone.

Mother and Father had everyone over for a big meal, and one of her family-famous puddings. My children rave about her puddings, and helping her make one is one of their favourite things to do when they are there. They are building quite a repertoire: Eve’s pudding, crumbles, trifle and steamed suet delights. All served with plenty of custard, of course.

By the time Ben and I were home again, everyone had found their half term rhythm. John had taken a couple of days off work, and the children were filling their time with books, dens, and, more than anything else, making. The last time my mother in law had come to visit, Seb had told her how much he wanted to make a little teddy bear for himself, out of felt, to live in a matchbox. So it was that he came home from Great Grannie’s tea party with a parcel of felt, a head full of plans, and a little sister eager to join in. I came in the door to requests to raid my knitting basket for woollen scraps to stuff their bears, who have accompanied them on their half term adventures ever since.

She had also sent a stack of old gardening pamphlets for me, and as I read them I passed them on to the children. Fliss mixed a flour paste for Ilse and the girls have spent two or three happy afternoons making collages of dream gardens, complete with gnomes, sheds stuffed with books, and blooms improbably out of season. They have abandoned the laws of nature, and turned their backs on the rules. Their gardens are a happy mix of whatever they fancy and nothing more.

Which is what this half term has been, one way and another. Time away, which makes me greet being at home with fresh enthusiasm. And then, once home, a collage of all good things. Time with each child, on their own, catching up. Perhaps it was only a walk to the shops or a ten-minute whisper before the lights went out, but it was precious time alone together nonetheless. Catching up on laundry, and ironing, which is not fun in itself but comes with the satisfaction of seeing everything fresh and ready for another day. A little bit of work on my fair isle cardigan, of which the body is complete and the first sleeve begun. Sewing – lots of sewing: a toilet bag before my journey, and a sweet reversible handbag almost as soon as I came in through the door. It has birds on one side, and velvet on the other, and little round handles. Quick and pleasing, and intended as a gift. Starting and finishing a shirt for Seb in one surprising afternoon, and then some new night things for myself. Looking at all the scraps I am creating and planning a new quilt for Fliss’ bed.

There have been some startlingly bright days since my return, tempered by lots of rain and wind. I am surprised by the swiftness of this week. Half terms fly by so quickly, and are always more of a change than a rest. We know the drill; we all know what to reach for in these February holidays at home. A hodgepodge, a medley, a collage of pleasant things to fill the hours.

[whohit]collage[/whohit]

Forever

Every so often a book is published which captures the imagination of a generation. Father Christmas delivered one such book this Christmas, to the stocking of a certain ten year old. He read it in one long go, pausing only to eat meals and, when forced to, sleep, so that by the end of Boxing Day he was able to lay it aside with a bittersweet sigh. He didn’t want it to end, you see.

Ilse was curious, as she always is when Seb is immersed in something, so I borrowed it from him to read aloud to her, in the time between supper and bed, snuggled on the couch. By the end of the first evening Fliss was listening in, hovering, perched on the edge of an armchair. By the third evening she was ready and waiting with Ilse for the story to go on, and Seb had come back in to lie before the fire and hear it all again. Even John has had to read it, just to be able to join in with the incessant chatter and renaming of so many daily things. The children no longer walk anywhere, but tack, arms spread to catch the wind. They request pemmican and grog at mealtimes. The newsagent is getting used to being called a native, and takes it in his stride as he measures toffee provisions into striped paper bags.

No-one wants the younger parts. Seb is, naturally, Captain John, and carries his compass around with him. He has done a lot of cartography, lately, and I am not altogether surprised to learn that the hill up the road is, in fact, the Matterhorn. Ilse wants to be Mate Susan, but all too often Fliss takes that role and Ilse is Able Seaman Titty, instead. I, of course, am Mother, the best of all natives, and our own John is Captain Flint with his green parrot and home upon the high seas.

Only Ben doesn’t join in. He’s too old for such games, and not old enough to enjoy them differently, either. Fliss teeters on the edge. I hear her playing, wholeheartedly, when she thinks it is just herself and Ilse and Seb, but the minute I walk into the room she clams up, and pretends to be doing something else. She is in-between, just now, in that no-man’s land between Ilse and I. I catch her longing for both things: for womanhood and childhood, and not knowing which way to turn.

John and I are very aware that these might be the last few months in which she plays these sorts of games. This might be the last time she can be truly lost, as only a child can be, just around the corner, barely out of sight. A cry goes up from the end of the garden: Swallows and Amazons forever! and while there is abandonment in it there is an edge of something else too, of self-consciousness and shame. Soon, too soon, the role of Susan will be Ilse’s every day.

With this in mind, we’ve hired a bothy in the Lakes for later in the season. A little stone hut, far from anywhere, on the edge of a mere. There are rowing boats for hire, and perhaps a chance to sail. We’ll teach the children to make drop lines and fish for sharks and tiddlers in the boundless ocean. They can build dens amongst the trees, and make buttered eggs over a campfire, and walk the mile to the native settlement for their supper each evening. They can wake each morning to that best of all thoughts: now, what shall I do today? and come up with the answers themselves.

They don’t last long, those years between toddling and adulthood. Much as I would like them to last forever, Ben has shown us that they won’t. So we’ll just have to make the most of them, fleeting and precious as they are.

[whohit]forever[/whohit]

This is how

Some people show their love by cooking, or buying thoughtful gifts, or perhaps doing the washing up. I knit.

I cook and clean and sew as well, of course. I grow vegetables, and leave plants and flowers around the house. Some of these things bring me great pleasure. Others just need to be done. And there’s no denying that to sew for someone – or, better, with someone – or to bake a cake and watch your child lick the bowl, is a great joy. A shared joy, and a quick one. Over in an hour, or an afternoon, much to everyone’s satisfaction.

But to show my love, I knit. There is something about those stitches, one after another, sometimes counting, sometimes entirely elsewhere, which is, for me at least, a sign of something more. It isn’t always because knitting takes a long time: a baby hat can be whipped up in an evening. Nor is it about the beauty of the finished product: a knitted dishcloth expresses the same feeling.

Perhaps it has something to do with the solitary nature of it. Knitting is not a collaborative activity. Sociable, perhaps, but not collaborative. Which leaves a lot of time to think about the person you are knitting for, and the qualities of the wool, and how the finished product might look on them.

So many women start to knit in earnest when they have babies. Baby things are small, and quick, which is a blessing when you only have short nap times in which to seize the needles. We then move on to older children and perhaps ourselves. A few pullovers later, our stamina builds, and we are ready for the big one.

It took me many years before John got his cardigan. Hats, yes. Mitts, scarves, socks – absolutely. But that cardigan was a long time coming.

I started it in the spring, sitting in the sun under the tiny bright green leaves of the wisteria. I had a woollen rug around me and I was full of ambition. Two pattern repeats a day, I think I promised myself. It was to be done by June.

The following March found me on the beach at Sand’s End, still knitting. The same rug was spread beneath me, and I was ostensibly minding the picnic things while John and the children skimmed pebbles over the slate grey sea. They threw sticks for dogs, on walks, and ran about, and shouted. I huddled in my hat and scarf, back to the wind, knitting 408 stitches of collar one way, and then the other. After two long rows my fingers were numb and I went to warm them between John’s hands.

It was far and away my biggest project. I’d broken off twice: once for new school jumpers for Fliss and Seb, and again for a thick aran pullover for myself. I was nearly there, though, and that kept me going, until one day it was done.

Every so often I find it draped over the back of a wooden chair, or left in a heap on the floor. Sometimes I have to brush bits of grass or other signs of his day from it. Perhaps I ought to mind. It took a long time to make.

But I don’t. I don’t because I can see that he loves wearing it, and to nag would change that. I don’t because I know a snag or hole can be mended. Because I have no doubt that this knit will still be around forty years from now. All those children’s jumpers, the hats and socks and baby knits, will have been long since lost or worn out or passed on to younger cousins. I will have frogged my own knits to make something fit for a new phase of my life. But that cardigan will be a constant.

I’ll find it on the back of a chair one day. John, I’ll say, you really must let me throw this old thing out. He’ll shake his head at me. You see, this is how it works. I knit things, he wears them, and we both know what it means.

[whohit]thisishow[/whohit]

Peonies

Am I more eager than ever for spring, this year? Perhaps. I scrutinise the garden for signs of life. I note when the sun goes down, later and later. I am getting tired of the same old pullovers, the same old skirts. And yet it’s only February, and much as I would love March to be spring it isn’t, really. Spring begins in April, and takes hold in May. Every year I have to relearn this lesson in patience. To not be disheartened when the mercury drops again after a few warm days. To not expect sunny skies, just yet.

Good things come out of impatience. The spring sewing is well underway, and my peonies dress hangs, ready and waiting, in the wardrobe. The day after I finished it I was stirring the porridge in my blue wool skirt, calling the children to their breakfast. Ilse came running in and stopped short when she saw me. Why aren’t you wearing your new dress? It’s my dress for spring, I told her. For when the sun is shining.

I don’t think I’ve ever finished anything this far in advance. Normally I sew for the children first, putting off the more fiddly tasks of darts and fitted waists until the weather has changed and I don’t have enough to wear. Normally I would be wearing something new the day after completing it. Enjoying glancing in the hall mirror every time I wander past. Getting used to this new skin, until I put it on without looking once at it, all day. Until it has become part of me.

Instead, I am looking forward to wearing it. Looking forward to how I’ll be, when I am wearing peonies. A little more feminine, perhaps, but still happy to weed a bed or shoo the hens into their house. Practical and purposeful, in short sleeves and a comfortably fitted bodice. Able to bend over the sink, or a bed for a good night kiss. Soft enough for cuddling, and crisp enough to cycle into York and meet John for a picnic lunch, on a rug in the shade of the minster.

It isn’t how you look in a garment that matters, but how you feel. It took me a while to work this out, obvious though it is. When I first started to make my own clothes I would gaze at fashion plates, seduced in my teens by straight dropped waists and later by impossibly girdled style lines. I stitched things in silk for summer garden parties, beautiful and barely worn.  Sleeves dangled and got in the way, or were too short and left me goose bumped. I would have looked lovely, had I felt it. Instead I felt no more like myself than a child in a party dress, all the fun starched out of the occasion.

Now I plan the other way around. What do I want to feel like, when I am in these clothes of mine? I want to feel lovely, yes, but also able. Able to do all the things I love, and still have a slight twirl to the hem of my skirt. I want to feel free, but structured enough that I don’t need to pull at a neckline or tug at shoulder straps. I want to be able to fling on a cardigan and find the eggs for breakfast, leaving a trail with my wellingtons on the beaded lawn. I want to be able to throw on my pearls and be taken somewhere smart for tea, just John and I. I want to be able to cycle alongside Ilse, to keep her safe. I want to be able to tuck my toes under my skirt in an armchair at the end of the day.

I get a little closer to this, every time. Each spring’s dress is my new favourite, surpassing all the others. I look at the one I am retiring, shapeless and faded. Four years ago that was my favourite, the very best I had ever made. That year I wanted no sleeves; I wanted the sun on my shoulders. I wanted no collar, but a plain neckline easy to change with jewellery. I wanted a ditsy pattern, in blues and whites.

This year I wanted a simple shawl collar, and cap sleeves. A bolder print. A self-fabric belt, to be loosened and pulled in as the occasion demands. The best design yet, I think.

Next year’s dress will be the best, too, and the one after that, and after that. It is a thing no more static than myself. We are not the same people, from one summer to the next, although we might like to think we are. This year I am peonies: a little bit pink. Next year, who knows? I’ll find out when I start stitching.

[whohit]peonies[/whohit]

Crisp

All it takes is for the sun to shine, and every little detail is thrown into relief. Where did that rhubarb come from, unfurled so soon from soil-bound tender buds? I didn’t see it yesterday, trudging through the gloom to empty the bucket of peelings, yet here it is, crisp and pink against the bluest sky. My mouth waters: already in my mind it is full-grown and pulled, chopped into inch-long sticks and dipped in a saucer of sugar. Already it is boiled in a copper pan, with thin slivers of ginger, and tucked into the larder: an edible memory of just this sort of day. Clear and cold and crisp.

Everything is heightened, today. The garden is loud with birds, the magpies and blackbirds and territorial robins competing with the steady hens in their worship of the welcome yellow sun. They trill and cluck. It has been a very long and very grey winter, this year. There has been a lot of rain, and no snow to lift the landscape. But now the sun is out even the mud sparkles, and the ridges left by my boots yesterday are semi-solid with frost. I took a little longer over my outdoor chores. Hanging out the washing is a task which can be stretched as long as the line I peg it to. The air was cold on my fingertips, the sun warm on my back. Later, the sheets smelt wild, half-dried in the clean fresh air.

This is a day for fine black tea, not dulled by milk. This is a day for toast and marmalade, the bread allowed to cool so that the butter lies upon it in thick cream slabs, protecting it from damp. Lately the shops have been full of seville oranges, and today they have come into their own. I count my  jars greedily, and plan to make some more.

This is a day for sewing, for pressing new seams clean and straight, sprinkled under a hot iron. The settee has fresh cushions, birds and flowers against a clean white background. This is a day for gardening, for turning the green lawn over into something darker. This is a day for making music, for high notes cutting through the still house. A day for opening windows, and letting the dry air sweep swiftly over everything. A day for reading a book on a window seat, blanket and hot water bottle to hand. This is the sort of day on which I want to do everything, and can’t, and have to choose just one favoured task over all the others. The kind of day I would like all days to be. The kind of day winter was made for.

Late in the afternoon I set a match to the newsprint and watch it curl and blacken, delicate flames growing bold. They lick at the kindling and make it crackle. The sun disappears, over the edge of the earth. I hope it will come back. Now that it is gone, everything changes. The time for marmalade has passed. Instead I set to making a huge fish pie, smoky and smooth. I serve it with wilted greens: the blueish tops of sprouts that grow like algae in the winter beds. The cream of the pie is salty and soothing. It will send us all early to our beds. Yet there is an undercurrent to it, wild and clean. A day in Whitby, visiting the smokehouses after a chilly morning paddle. The smell of kippers coming home with us as we journey over the free and windy moor. Before I settle down to sleep, I make a note to book rooms in a boarding house in May, beside the sea. Then I say a prayer for another crisp day tomorrow, and sleep deeply and well.

[whohit]crisp[/whohit]

Sunday’s sewing

As the seasons slip one into the other, our rhythms change. Morning gardening has been replaced by time indoors, chipping away at those bad-weather jobs. These days the garden has a single weekly slot: a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon, time enough to plant some fruit bushes or fork over a bed. More often than not it’s Ilse who joins me out there, while the others stay close to the fire with their books and board games, or slave away at prep in the study. Last Saturday she helped me turn a full three cubic yards of dense almost-compost into the next bay, shovelling the brown gold with her seaside spade and gleeful at the thousands of naked wriggling worms. I had a paper bag of sugared almonds in my pocket and fed these to her each time she suggested we were flagging.

If this were spring, Sunday afternoons would be spent in the garden, too. Being winter, though, Sundays are for sewing. For making inroads into serious projects, three or even four hours at a time. For bringing together the cutting out and dart-placing of the odd snatched moment in the week, to form something tangible, something finished.

I’d been looking forward to last Sunday. The plan was to settle myself into the dining room with my sewing machine and the wireless and the tea tray laid for one. I was going to construct a shawl collar for the very first time, and given that I’d drafted the pattern myself, I had no set of instructions to follow. It was to be time to think, with the quiet of a well-known classic serial in the background, and no intrusions of any sort.

I had just laid the pieces out to puzzle over when Ilse’s face appeared around the door, pink-cheeked from walking her doll around the garden. Ooh! she exclaimed in delight. Are we sewing today?

It took some effort of will to smile and take her to choose some fabric from the scrap pile. Can you make something all by yourself? I asked, doubtfully. I really need to concentrate today.

She was so quiet that I almost forgot about her, until she appeared at my elbow with a piece of embroidery for me to tie off. I showed her, again, how to do this for herself. She put her head to one side, thoughtful, and I heard nothing more from her until a request was made for two buttons from the jar, snipped off an old school cardigan. Don’t worry, Mummy, she said, anticipating my concern. Buttons are easy.

There was a long silence then, broken only by Silas Marner in the background and the clackety whirr of my machine. Eventually she reappeared, to ask once more for help. Together, with my sharp dressmaking shears, we snipped armholes into the piece she had been working on, and it was done.

I could describe it as an elongated shawl, made from a bit of old white sheeting. There’s a butterfly on one side, with blue wings and green antennae. It fastens around her doll’s body with two green buttons, held shut by loops haphazardly stitched on with more embroidery silk. The top of the shawl flops down to form a sort of collar, and there isn’t a hem in sight.

I could describe it thus, but I won’t, because that isn’t what it is. It’s a coat for her own baby girl, richly embroidered and beautifully finished, stitched with considerable skill and flair. It made me much, much prouder than my own careful collar. You see, my girl made it all by herself. She can make anything, you know.

[whohit]sundayssewing[/whohit]

Slowly

This time of year ought to be treated with care, like the convalescence after a long and difficult illness. This is not the time for programmes of self-improvement, or waist-reducing diets. Instead, we should be recuperating slowly after the long descent into darkness and the busyness of the new year. Yes, the earth is waking up. Yes, the days are gradually growing longer, and their light less thin and fragile. But these things happen slowly, and we ought to match their pace.

I had a lovely day, yesterday, moving slowly. I slowed so much that I stopped altogether at Mother and Father’s house and stayed to lunch: a great bowl of rich scotch broth, full of tender chunks of root vegetables, then a square or three of Mother’s fudge afterwards. I paused for a chat with the haberdasher as I chose the buttons for my dress, and for another with the butcher. The wind was fierce, and the market stalls near deserted, but he was in good cheer, as always.

I learnt a lesson from Seb on the way home. We were cycling into that wind, heads down and jaws set, when I suggested that we go down a gear. He immediately dropped into his very lowest and it was like that that we cycled the three miles home, pedals spinning, along a track which took us over the moor and through the whistling underpass.

They know about going slowly, these children of mine. They’ll wake and read for an hour or more, in their warm nests of beds, until someone calls them down for a bowl of the porridge which has been gradually thickening on the stove. They put their night things on early in these still-dark evenings, and come back down to read again before the fire. They play chess, with friends, move after move, game after game, thinking and pausing, a hand hovering before the final decision is made and the fatal piece touched.

Even when I go slowly, everything still gets done. I made a stew, simmering all afternoon in the bottom oven, so that by supper time the beef was falling apart and the dumplings cooked through to their mustardy cores. The fire was laid and lit. I had time for a long talk with my mother in law, visiting for the evening, and time to pull some parsnips for her to take home. They take a long time to germinate, those roots, then a long time to grow and a long time to roast and come into their earthy sweetness. All these things happen in their own time. And in my own time the house is cleaned, the ironing done, the children tucked up with hot water bottles to warm cold sheets and toes.

I’m having another slow day today. In fact, I’m having a slow month or two. There’ll be time enough for energetic bustle in the spring. Right now I’m content to meander through the days, pausing for a cup of tea by the kitchen window, watching the hellebores and snowdrops nod their drowsy heads in the cold winter air.

[whohit]slowly[/whohit]