Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Friday Afternoon: In daylight, I saw the owl. White, the colour of ghosts and beginnings; deep in purpose, flying over a road. Tired, I was, but in warm clothes. The sky was rinsed blue, the roads wet. How the old car still rolls is mysterious. But, there I was, driving rust through road-spray, struck admirably dumb. Saturday Afternoon: Rain span out from the edge of a storm. From inside my polytunnel bubble I hear it. I am smiling, tidying up, making ready. My running shoes mud-sodden, left on the porch step. My legs feel good. Earth browned hands untangle roots. Here and there budlets burst from a stem. Here: peeping from a pot, the pretty faces of winter pansies.  Put into my pocket rich leaves for soup.  

What a show this is, the Weather Spectacular! Hail strikes and sheets of lightening - gripped we are in the drama of it - agog for thunder which rolls elsewhere - where did that thunder go? And when the sun strikes up the wind cuts ice cold through unwary bones. And then rain, heavy  rain that would flatten a rainbow. How can water be so cold and not ice? The sky so dark and not night? And if there were a time to venture tender petals, would this be it? A time for buds to birth from bark? But here they are: vulnerable, with fortitude. The miracle of reoccurrence. 

This urge to write is to let words follow a course. To think of Granma Grace, 85 years collected, armfuls of flowers, roomful of family, all fetching more flowers till the vases are full. Sat, adored. Lauded. Looking at her cards. To think of home where a crocus appears in the lawn and rats are infiltrating the compost. We are outside, clearing up, working on deterrents, finding a blocked drain, a wall of calm spiders. And one starling, deceased. Mr calls me to it, thinking it is injured, breathing: it is not. A sharp wind ruffles the feathers, makes illusory movement. To think of Dear Old Clarice: how like a hedge bird she was, the same spark about her, the same work ethic, the same amused head tilt. We had come home to find an ambulance parked outside her house. ‘Did she fall again?’ ‘No,’ the paramedic says. He has a perfect pitch of calm. They must wait for the family. The sky warm blue; the air blows ice. We busy ourselves making space. Drag out a pile

I do not want to get out of bed. It is the right weather for hiding in bed with a book. Mr does not want to get out of bed. He is sure he has more sleep to attend to. But if your Granddaughter requests to see you fly, out of bed you get. Dog does not want to get into the car. What if there is a vet involved? An injection? Reluctance and rain, that’s how the day begins. To the Eden Project we go, park up, send Girl, Grandchild  and Dog to the viewing platform with all the bags. Mr and me jump on a bus to the Skywire shed office and hand over cash for wrist bands. We sign forms to say we are unlikely to die of an existing complaint. (Nothing on the form about a restrictive fear of heights, luckily.) We are put into harnesses and weighed in kilos, which I only use to buy sugar for brewing and begin to calculate how many gallons worth am I? The safety talk is simple: Do Not Touch Anything. Meanwhile Jenny takes the van to the landing site. They will transport bags

A phone call comes, brings the news in low voice. We knew he was old, of course, not immortal, but our picture of the world has an Uncle Den as a building has a foundation stone. With his passing, a puzzling gap appears. We have stories, of course, like how he loved to paint, he liked rum, he wasn’t so keen on the gout; we paint him back with our words, with our gratitude. He knew the world before we came to it. He knew the world at war. He knew to be kind. He was happy. He was a grand and gentle role model for a flock of children. Into the car, we go. We fit one granddaughter, one godson. Find, at a train station, one son. Gather at a house; children are spilling everywhere. Sun shines, draws us out. There’s the usual comedy of one car following the other and being lost at the traffic lights and a car park reunion. Tiny ones are strapped to a pram, they kick their legs, sometimes each other. The older three bounce like Tiggers, all the way to the ice rink. We can hold them

Morning sun becomes more than light. Rays of warmth reach sleep soaked limbs. Land mist shimmers. Daffodils begin their yellow crop, even a crocus has been seen. Spring runs like a pup through the legs of Old Winter: Old Winter laughs at the circular twist. It has been the purpose of this dark season all along: to nurture life, bring forth spring. Late evening, along the line where mist becomes fog, we are driving. The world seems splashed with pale watery paint. Warmth, we speak of it: we feel it still, this gold promise. Mist fans out, plumes and plumes of otherworldliness. Six thousand three hundred and thirty miles from here my brother and his wife settle in to their new apartment. They have other news to share. A picture of an ultrasound, of forming bones, light as butterfly limbs. Tiny thing, welcome. It seems to us we feel the warm beat of you and the distance is nothing at all.

There is an opportunity for extra sleep this morning, even if the ability is lacking. Sit: at the box room window, watching coffee steam, watching starlings fly through mist, watching fields pastel-green under frost. A pigeon waddles; that one would suit a bonnet; a crow struts; a top hat candidate. In a box, left open on the bedroom windowsill, a pair of purple shoes wait for their inaugural run, wait for the ground to melt. In the eaves house sparrows fuss with nest materials. From hedges other birds sing: all but the pheasants who hold their shrieks, their wingwhurs, their comically paced walking, for now. Perhaps they are watching the horizon appear: a series of block shapes undraped as the mist wanders elsewhere. The sky could be porcelain, this morning. Bright new shoes glow in the grass, looking good, running clumsy.  It is more learning how to run than actual running.  Every muddy puddle, every mud patch, the part-frozen wetlands of the lower fields that

Hills are okay. They have an easy goal: get to the top, eye the view, then it’s downhill, legs follow gravity. On the flat, goals are the next tree, the next corner, always a succession, not like the one easy hilltop. Flat running is not my favourite. Today, between markers of gate and tree, the road is obstacled with iced mud, the air uncomfortably chill. I lose grip, underfoot and in mind, breathing cold irregular air, shoulders tensed solid. Unsure if I am shivering or shaking, a screaming noise arrives, or I think it does; I am dropped in fear and sinking. At the point where sanity seems to have deserted me, Dog leaps into the hedge, flushes out a fox with a mad rabbit in its jaws. Fox drops Rabbit, Dog is making a decision, Rabbit runs, right across my boggled path, into a hole, Fox streaks up the lane, Dog chooses: she chases Fox; returns shortly, tail in a wag spin. ‘Can you do that every time I doubt myself?’ I ask her. We round the corner and run. Dog has her

On the day of the Snow Moon we bring the lime tree indoors.  In the polytunnel plant pots were huddled and coddled; still some had frozen; the broad bean was stricken, it may not recover. The lime had dropped fruit and leaf. Our house is not capacious. Fitting the tree in makes a puzzle of the front room furniture: for if the tree goes here, where does the table go? And if the table goes there, does the sofa fit? Dog curls on the sofa for refuge before she gets brave and in the way. She finds that, in its new position, there is room to accommodate her habit of sneaking under the table to look out for dropped food. A mat is laid under the plant saucer to keep outdoor dirt from the carpet: she is determined to lie on it. Shooed back to the sofa she keeps an eye on us, an eye on the interloper. Outside Dog and I have the run of three frozen fields. Sun throws light, it breaks into a thousand icy splinters, right under our feet. Every old puddle changes; there are micro l

Snow dabs the contours of a squinting face, fleeting, fleecy, light: the fingerprints of a curious element. Footsteps press markers around the lanes, leave an easy pace of clue. We took the longer route today. Mr is cycling, another circuit that will cross with this.  Will he make it back unscuffed? Dog pads at any pace she pleases. Under the snow flat ice hides. At Treniffle we see his tyre tracks, they make a snake print. Dog follows scent clues, down the steep dip, up the long steep other side. Slowly running is easier, should that be a surprise? Not in theory but this is not theory, it is experience. Laughter flows openly, it curls warm and visible and here is the very top of the hill, here is the view to stop for. Dog sniffs, pulls a face like smiling. The tyre tracks pull in under our feet. Exactly here. At home, coffee brews; heat seeps from the Rayburn’s bright coals. Mr fries two eggs. ‘Did you go round the triangle?’ He shakes the pan. ‘Did you see

Rain falls in blue grey thick twists. It falls so loud there are no other sounds. The water-ropes fray, let loose the gold sun, the birdsong. One tractor rolls, sprays mud. It had rained all night. Drop-thud on the lean-to roof was our lullaby. Clouds smudge the sun to a silver light. Cold invokes weariness. Steam from a kettle, smell of coffee brewing. Pressing hands around warm mugs. Rain falls in blue grey thick twists. It falls so loud there are no other sounds.

Walking brings on thinking. Why do I stop to observe dead things? Because of curiosity, foremost. What is this, what was this, how came it here? Claw scrabble, infirmity? Questions, clues. Curiosity, foremost. But under that, imbued into that, a tenderness. Here is a relic of a life story all told. ‘The End.’ No more breaths, and yet? Yet more: that thing is not devoid of energy. It exists, physically. The physical world is made of energy. That connection holds. 

Went for a run, slow paced, post cough, pre-snowmageddon. Clouds huddled, gave no weather clues. Dog’s fur flared, silky waves over a clippy trot. Snowdrops shook their stooped heads, stems quivering like laughing shoulders do. Two miles, hilly, then home. Mr feels better, he makes fried egg sandwiches and coffee. We are in the office, then, attendant on paperwork. From the window, cattle are viewed, they stand, seemingly morose, hooves sunk in mud. One robin hops a branch length on the old ash, plucks out midmorning snacks. One bullock turns his chunk of head up to the open field. He follows his line of sight, invigorated. 

The moon, the sun’s mirror, keeps slivery watch. Eery eyed Dog starts up, glares at the torchlight. Trees of starlings clatter, burst into shoal. Pheasants set off clockwork whirs of wing. Over an arterial river geese call, ducks call. Cows are bleary in the shadowed fields. Boots scoot through thin mud. Ice is forecast. It seems warm for the hour, for the season. All those feathers, holding in some heat.

All the brave tryouts and the selected 'West Of Exeter' team for the 40th Anniversary SW TKD competition Things to note about sparring: Sparring is not fighting because there are rules: but it can seem like a fight, especially with strikes to the face. It is hard to be struck in the face and not find it overly confrontational. Anyone who has experienced confrontation and particularly violent confrontation may experience a resurgence of negative emotions. A good instructor knows this and will support their students in learning through this barrier. The primary opponent in martial arts training is your own self: your doubts and fears. If you want to get those under control, learning to spar can be excellent therapy. I have seen students progress from quivering wreck to fierce competitor. It does happen! Trust the faith that your instructor has in you.  There is more to sparring than the bravery. There is the deployment of good techniques. A clever fighter

www.facebook.com/souphousestories Busy, busy, building a platform: the strong hot hob on which to simmer wild flavoured soups. Please join me. I should like a queue. Bring your own bowl and spoon, maybe some bread, some butter. Add pictures, add words - soup, art, love, curiosities, writing, jam, sunsets, all the little incredible overlooked things framed beautifully - we will hang them on the walls of the virtual soup hall. 

Anointed with rest. Slow, succulent: the dark of each eye widens, tidal; in pours precious light. All senses connect, recline, spill joyous as a hot tub with too many people in it. Heat in the dust of the throat, where the cough tugs through. Honeyed and spiced, fruits and milks pour solace. Solitude; everyone else is at work but not me. There is me and the dog and this sofa and a book. In the afternoon we felt the sun on our faces. A white gold welt all the way from the centre of our universe. Somewhere in the Rayburn potatoes bake. Salted, oiled, affordable. Steam from green leaves whispers under a pan lid. Cobwebs have gathered dust: Hausfrau Spiders live here. Sleep gathers, is caught in blinks. 

Poorliness bustles in, tells you to rest. Just like that! Naturally you are annoyed. This is not the space for interruptions. There is no space for interruptions! What, dear stupid, is another word you could use? Poorliness runs a hot hand over your brow, it makes the rest of you feel cold. What? What is an interruption, dear stupid? Can you hit a cough with a thesaurus? This is not helping at all! Interruption is intrusion, obstruction, is discontinuation… is interlude, a pause, hiatus… Like a chrysalis, perhaps? Now drink up your turmeric and cough up some wings. And you think about the cough. There is no regret in the early dark walk, where you saw the moon float in a field puddle. It didn’t matter then that you had forgotten your scarf, you were so rapt. Why does it matter now? This is how the story flows: allow it.

Bloonbloon: plural of balloon. Grandchild 3, hands in the peg box, regards her Granma with elf like composure. She runs and trips into a wet clump of grass. Her hair is rivulets. Rain, frost, thaw and Dog have conspired to make the garden ploppy. Granma retrieves child and pegs.* Sheets fat-belly from the line. Nothing between clouds but blue and sun. ‘Beach?’ ‘Beach!’ ‘Are you a parrot or an elf?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Aha! An elf.’ Grandchild 3 sets her feet on the sand. She runs at the sea with no sense of stop. The sand is paved with footprints. Dog digs them up, looking for her favourite stone. ‘Splash!’ Granma stomps a puddle. ‘Splash splash!’ Little feet are distracted from the surf. Clouds pull in, the wind comes in briny. ‘Do you want to share some soup?’ Granma lures. ‘Share.’ Grandchild 3 holds up her hands for a carry. She eats no soup. Granma has no warm roll nor melted butter. Dog lies under the table, waiting. In the car the little one sings, words and so

Polytunnel In Winter. Limes to the right, sprouts to the left. Mr and me read the sum of our achievements from last year’s signed off accounts. ‘Hmmm…’ (A phrase that should not be translated politely and thus is left as is.) One of us fills the kettle. Monsters stick with you, they are not just for childhood. They slick along the sidelines, breathing warmth into doubtful blooms. No escape is found in the winter garden. Under perspex shelter the lime has dropped its fruit. A wall of rain compounds the isolation. Why are we here? In this sad and beautiful place? One finger reaches out to trace the shape of a leaf. Imagines, gently, that this is the colour, perhaps the same curve, as a monster’s head? Smiles, then. Are they as you wish them, these slinking fears? Three times, four times? We have lost a home, made a new place for ourselves. It has been close. This feels close: teeth at heels. A sprout is pinched from a stem and crunched. There was a samurai, the