Slipping, just a little...

In the thickets of responsibility, sky on top, the debris below...

Hello dear ones, you are welcomed as always with a huge smile of gratitude for the moments you spare to share with mine, I know they are precious, for me this is never more evident than in May and June when I teeter on ever loosening ropes by the hour. Thank you all, each and every one of you are deeply appreciated, I truly wouldn’t be here without your kindness and support.

☘︎

Anarchy reigns supreme in my garden, armed combat is now a futile waste of time I don’t have so I join the throng of rampancy and just dance along with its wild and beautiful tune.

My students too, perhaps with less dancing, are wild and rebellious.

The halcyon days of summer holidays are looming—enfin—but end of term fatigue weighs heavy on each of their small shoulders, and, equally, those of us engaged in soliciting continued inspiration and calm. We have no map for navigating saturated, overworked young minds, neither the lethargy—a conspicuous and unshakeable limpet. Time for anything other than the necessary is a luxury. The years curriculum must be met whether we believe it critical or not. It is debilitating beyond words, finding time to write amongst the chaparral of illegible words, apathetic errors in a correspondingly vast labyrinth of responsibility is a sad impossibility. I am slipping, my belief in the system already gossamer thin, is now as fragile as my students are. I would happily open the school gates watch every last sweet, exhausted face walk through into summer but alas, four long weeks remain. For us all the most calming, most desired re-energising days are just visible in the distance but good grief the journey is going to be a bumpy ride!

I cannot wait to write with the joy of knowing time is waiting ahead of me instead of wallowing in the weariness of its wake. As such, this evening, too many days after my last free moment, I write to you under a hazy summer sky, during minutes raked together only by ignoring the pressing tick-tock of minutes passing. The air is ringing with the sounds of fledgling birds by which I am ever captivated, at times tearfully and for the next four weeks only in the briefest of pauses.

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Dancing in the anarchy of my garden. “If I can't dance to it, it's not my revolution.” ― Emma Goldman

Briefly; On the highest contour of my hill, perched on the outcrop I favour for these moments snatched like a thief from obligations, I peer into the dusky violet dimness of distance. I watch red flashing lights on giant, metal aeolian wings endlessly turning on far hills. A falling star in an almost night sky, beckons my eyes, I make a wish that no wings of the feathered kind are caught in their undertow.

It takes every spare hour and too many more stretching into the small hours of the morning to create a video of Le voyage scolaire for the ¹Kermesse at the end of the school year. I sort one thousand photographs and fifty-two videos sent to me from the twenty adults accompanying the trip. I diligently view every one, sort them into files; rubbish—there are numerous—possibles—also numerous— and definite’s—very few—then sort them again into date order. I work on this unpaid task every evening for ten days. The internet is buggy, I cry frustrated tears from reddened eyes often but work until I am certain it is perfect regardless.

I spend the week wondering why the word No never occurs to me.

My birthday arrives and leaves again under a grey sky. I am greeted by the ferrous odour of rain, the knowledge of a two hour meeting at the end of classes and unshakeable apathy. The day passes, ultimately forgettable, highlighted only by my sweet darling daughter suggesting a rerun when she arrives at the end of June. I am both tearful—again—and utterly grateful.

In the old quarry behind the school someone has kindly places three beautiful golden carp for me to gaze upon but padlock the gate. I take two distant photographs with my phone.

I cannot stem hot tears as they fall on five mutilated, pale-olive pheasant eggs, the tail feathers of their mother scattered around the nest. I can hear the cock calling plaintively from somewhere behind me in the hedgerow.

Old Fox and I need to speak, I hope he listens. I know a man with a gun.

Juniper bushes are laden with tiny green berries, by December my stores will be replenished, it has been a long wait.

For five—more—stolen minutes when a saffron dawn is fermenting into night, I watch two kestrels embrace the sky with a display of arial acrobatics, not quite flying, neither hovering; their unconscious display like a love letter to the day ahead.

I ²remove four buckets of couch grass, twenty-seven slugs and fourteen snails from my strawberry bed, return from the beautiful anarchy that is my garden with a surprise handful of ripe fruit to share with my dearly beloved and Seth.

When she flies away, we all wish her well, we all feel just a tiny bit blessed by time spent in her beautiful, innocent and harmless presence.

Under the very last vestiges of day, returning bearing strawberries—again—I almost step on a young female black-cap lying quite still on the steps to the kitchen door. I gently scoop her up, wait fearfully for movement, check for obvious injuries, of which non are apparent. Her four-chambered heart is beating far faster than it should but she still doesn’t move. For thirty minutes, we three sit on the steps, quietly, stroking her tiny fragile head, I remember what

Chloe Hope

would do, find a tiny paintbrush and water. We play her blackcap bird songs recorded on my phone earlier in the day and when she opens her eyes I am certain every living creature on the hill heard our collective sigh of relief.

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With love in stolen minutes

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I listened to a conversation over the weekend held live here on Substack between

Eleanor Anstruther

and

David Roberts

about the joys and pitfalls of being born into wealth. The entire conversation was thoroughly enjoyable - I’ve popped the link at the bottom of this letter - but I listened while making a cake; mistake! At around forty-five minutes into the conversation, whilst speaking on the subject of a need to be busy—how being busy somehow gives worth to the life of someone who has no need to work— Eleanor commented on women being ‘busy wearing clothes’ which made me laugh so hard one of my EarPods fell into the cake mix! Mercifully it wasn’t ruined. I am not born from generational wealth but am a busy woman; busy patching clothes so they look respectable enough to wear for another year or two!

Thank you David and Eleanor for the fascinating conversation and recognising that many of us are busy because we have to be, much as we have no desire to be, as I said before, I love you both!

David Roberts & Eleanor Anstruther: a conversation about US & UK generational wealth

1. Kermesse, or kermis, or kirmess, is an outdoor fair or festival usually organized for charitable purposes. The term was derived from 'kerk' (church) and 'mis' (mass) in the original Dutch language term, and was borrowed in English, French, Spanish and many other languages. Almost all schools in France organise such an event at some point during the school year.

2.

Emily Charlotte Powell

Remove as in find them a new home, far from my strawberries!