star bursts - inside elsewhere...
Notes of December - week 2
Hello dear readers and writers, welcome new subscribers. As always it is a pleasure to know you’re here. Thank you especially to all of you who leave comments and return week after week, I love to read your thoughts and replies.
This second week of December, tarnished by events I am unable to change or mend, left me feeling sad and helpless, fighting a fury over the unfairness of some peoples lives and overflowing with love because having, now, all the facts laid bare, there is only love I can give. I will give it limitlessly… and pray it is enough.
The single cause of last weeks disturbed sleep has multiplied, it was inevitable. Mice party all night for three nights between the floorboards of the room above me, on the fourth I decamp to the kitchen floor, it is uncomfortable but warm. And quiet!
I am hatching a plan for their safe evacuation. I’ll tell you if it’s successful!
On to week two of December from my journal notes…
December 8 - There are many moments during the weekend when breathing becomes more of a chore than those that face me. A sort of melancholy settles, takes hold of unwelcome feelings of claustrophobia and overwhelm as I iron three weeks worth of clothes. In desperation of something, anything creative, I photograph dust motes—rising from clothes that should really be washed again—in an unexpected sunbeam. It absconds all too quickly and I cede to the inevitable in impetuous defiance, wrap myself in everything impermeable I can find and walk and walk and walk…
And, regardless of the grey and the wind and freezing rain, I am smiling through the cold, breathing again, singing along with the icy blast, thanking the gods for fresh air and space, congratulating myself on the fact that the pile of clothes, at least, is only half the size it was!
December 9 - The season descends over my hill and all its rolling cousins in soft folds of winter colour, curling tendrils of mist and cloud around and through the landscape like smoke on a calm day when there is no wind to carry it away. It is time to acclimatise, after several non-commits earlier in autumn, the final verdict is made, winter has laid down its laws. I have no choice, I must endure them. The pendulum swings, the hours pass… the layers gather on the hill, in the way I dress—my-scrawny-self—in acknowledgement of the rules for walking in winter, that everything is changed. Chill air is sharper on my face, scented of ice and iron uncannily close in colour to the layers before me. The seasons hibernal hush on the hill, an unearthly silence, seems louder than when filled with crickets and bees, my ears strain to listen, but for what I am uncertain.
December 10 - Sun explodes for but a few seconds through cloud and tree tops just as I disturb two pigeons. As they leave the branch they perch on, a thousand droplets fall like stars from an unknown close galaxy reminiscent of a day in a very distant—more delinquent—past when a firework took off in an unanticipated direction, exploded into flaming stars in a nearby tree lighting up all remaining copper leaves—literally—before falling in a plume of smoke to smoulder on damp ground.
December 11 - I am profoundly moved by my son, though I have made him a solemn vow not to write of details of the why, to say that I am proud of him is vastly understated.
It is a strange and unnerving experience to be faced with unexpected and unknown pasts. Such was the beginning of my week and in so learning these facts I have been distracted from everything that is normal. Even my camera has lain neglected on my desk. Slowly the knowledge assimilates, becomes as clear as it ever will and in so doing I realise that nothing can change the misdeeds of a past life no matter how abhorrent, they must be left behind and filed in that place reserved for events best changed, forgiven if possible then forgotten.
“All that you touch you Change. All that you Change Changes you. The only lasting truth is Change,” — Octavia Butler
December 12 - I forget to let out the chickens, call my husband to tell him, hang up and call straight back, ‘I also forgot to feed the sheep’ I say. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asks, because I never forget these things. At school I forget to put coffee in the filter of the cafetière, causing great hilarity—always a good way to start the day—but we have to begin classes without. Later, I forget my medical card and purse and don’t realise until I arrive in Rodez 45 minutes from home and it is too late to return. I have to pay for a medical examination which costs more money than I can afford but I can’t afford to miss the appointment. When I leave I take a wrong turn out of the city centre because the roads have diversions, drive aimlessly around suburbs I didn’t know existed, wishing I still didn’t—I am not feeling all right—I am tired, I am scared of a future I—nor anyone—can predict regardless of positive professional opinions. I am scared for my children, I am scared for all children.
December 13 - It isn’t until lunchtime I realise the thirteenth day of december has fallen on a Friday. After yesterdays litany of forgetfulness I feel I deserve to ignore all superstition. It proves to be the right decision…
It is of no surprise that the Christmas tree gifted by my dear old friend, still sits forgotten within the melee of the weeks other forgotten things, forlorn and naked on the terrace. I make a promise—to myself as much as anyone else—to adorn it with sparkling love over the weekend. I carry down dusty boxes of decorations from the attic—no mice there—leaving them in full sight in the middle of the sitting room floor so as not to forget the promise even if it is only to myself.
December 14 - The mice have been quiet all night but I am woken by rain.
Four sheep, as disgusted as I am with paddling through mud and slime, have confined themselves to their cabin, refuse to come when I call them. Not even their bucket of nuts will entice them into the sodden, waterlogged field. They throw me the same look I am treated to in summer when the heat is too stifling even for lying quietly under the plum trees, as if this day, and yesterday—all days that aren’t perfect for woollen creatures—are entirely of my making. I explain in detail about Mother Nature and winter and how all creatures adapt, even we mere humans. I bed them in clean hay—might I be spoiling them—fill their water trough and cut fresh bamboo to drag in for them too, a green treat—they are definitely spoilt—they ignore it all, sulkily kick up the hay then flop down with a snorting sound that is undoubtedly a huffy sheep sigh.
A copper pot, the one I want for my Christmas tree mysteriously appears then disappears…
When I check my woolly loves at the end of the day they’ve eaten all the nuts and the bamboo has been stripped bare; I am quite certain Sonny is actually smiling smirking at me!
Forever hunting stars, with love
Susie X
A few things I have loved this week;
wrote a wonderful essay on a favourite artist Evelyn Dunbar and winter gardens;on the plight of the Murres, profoundly beautiful and moving writing on the simmering pot that is climate change and ‘what is now known as the largest mass extinction event in recorded history – so far.’For as much as this painting is about a garden, it is also about those moments before dusk slips into dark, when the gardener retreats inside after a hard day’s digging, to warm against the chill.
I dismissed my spiritual experience for a word some two-hundred-year-old ghost had tacked onto the name of a miraculous being
For all who need a little revival of faith in the existence of kindness, this from
, the author of The Cure for Sleep, is a heartwarming true story from a rubbish dump.
Thank you for reading - please don’t forget to hit the little heart if you enjoyed this essay, apparently it helps my visibility! 🙏🏼
é”
Friend, whatever it is that is tugging at you from the past, I hope releases its grip soon so you can rest. A deep rest that even your scurrying mice can’t awaken. And while you rest, may you dream of pigeon stardust (simply gorgeous photo!)
I want to snuggle up with your sheep and snort and sigh as you tend to life with such loving arms.
Beautiful words and photographs as always, Susie. I love the way the lambs look at you as if all the day is not perfect for them were of your creation. What a beautiful relationship you have with these creatures and they with you, dear sun maker. And I love that you photographed dust motes. Sending warmth and a hug your way and best wishes for the evacuation.