Birds and leaves...

and wind and rain and more than a little madness; Oh, it must be November!

Hello dear ones, once again I send you windswept greetings from my hill with a huge and welcoming smile of appreciation for your presence.

I hadn’t noticed it was November until this week, the Indian summer I’ve written of with such fervent delight in my last few letters kept me so firmly planted in October I feel rather bewildered and out of sync with the month, as well as the season.

Now, there is no doubt; I have to drive home from classes in the dark, walk the dog, morning and evening, also in the dark. Search for the bucket in the sheep field because they play football with it when they’ve finished their daily treat, also in the dark.

And, suddenly, everything is murky grey once more. It sits heavily and coldly and hibernation feels like an option I’d love but it isn’t listed in any Black Friday sale which seems quite ridiculous when just about everything else imaginable is at this time of year!

Random short notes from a wintery week, because it is winter now.

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Learning to love the wind in the trees, especially when the leaves talk back…

On Thursday evening I return late from classes in wild weather—in the dark—I am immediately accosted by a warm kitchen, enticed by water boiling in a kettle singing ‘hot tea’—on a well behaved stove—but still have to put away the hens, walk Wolfie and play hunt-the-bucket in a waterlogged sheep field. I do not count the minutes I am outside but return drenched, right through to my skin, bones shivering, wet through; winter weather has an evil sense of humour.

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Leaves or birds, the skyline has a very Hitchcockish regard…

It is quite difficult, unless I am fast enough to hold tight to the seconds, to distinguish leaf from bird. Both fly past but neither is discernible in the wind so I just watch and hope that both land, safely, where their intentions lie.

“Every story begins somewhere, some in the rain of forgotten yesterdays and some in the scent of autumn leaves...”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

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The lane past the house is either a puddle or a quagmire; whichever I am not equipped for. I don’t take this personally but I do wonder if the farmers might consider washing their tyres before venturing back onto the lane after ploughing their fields… it is wondering I keep to myself.

Fig leaves fall from the tree at the bottom of the steps, I rake them up. Wolfie un-rakes them. This will happen until they are all down and moved to the compost - it is his game, every year. I never win so I stop trying.

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I have almost finished The Overstory by Richard Powers, an epic fable of environmental principals—and nonchalance—the intricacy in the way this powerful story is written, spreading out from complicated, far reaching intertwining root systems both human and arboreal is extraordinary. Powers’ passionate and seemingly effortless linking of each of his nine, ultimately different, human characters to trees in erudite prose leaning in from tree to human, human to tree with such deeply environmental principals is as meticulous as it is brilliant and courageous. I am in hopeless awe.

I don’t want the words to end.

I am fearful of ever writing anything I—or anyone else—will be happy to read again.

“But people have no idea what time is. They think it’s a line, spinning out from three seconds behind them, then vanishing just as fast into the three seconds of fog just ahead. They can’t see that time is one spreading ring wrapped around another, outward and outward until the thinnest skin of Now depends for its being on the enormous mass of everything that has already died.”

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This month it would be quite possible to believe the world, in general, has gone quite mad. I don’t think I need to write more¹.

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Frosted - Cavelo Nero Kale of which I have a glut, along with persimmons and roquette, please feel free to arrive with baskets or bags.

This morning, after the bedlam of yesterday, an icy silence…

But for one sound…
the faintest crackle
of insects, wings
bound tight by ice
as they free in wintery silver sunbeams.

I leave for work with four layers of clothes covering the top half of my body. Underneath my coat; Winter…

I vow to eat more. Cake would be preferable.

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With wintry hugs and love always

Susie X

1. I wrote a lot more, but

Jonathan Foster

and his soulful dog wrote far more wisely on the same subject so I will leave you to read their words instead. You won’t be disappointed.

Fire And Smoke