A cluster of flowerpots on the window sill next to the Christmas cactus, seemingly full of nothing but bare earth.
Blogger’s block. When all else fails, I’ve been told, write about what’s in front of you.
R gave me some winter beans. Dry, hard and brown. Plant them in pots, she said, and keep them in a coolish room. Once they have sprouted - probably in December or January - replant them outside. The beans will be ready to eat by spring and the plants are chockfull of nitrogen to feed the soil.
The soil needs it. The prospective vegetable patch used to be lawn until a few weeks ago and is littered with pebbles and broken bricks. As neolithic remains have been found just a few hundred yards away I peer at each spadeful of earth as I dig in the hope of discovering some human artefact, more out of a desire for a link across the millenia with my predecessors on this plot than acquisitiveness. No luck.
As with gardening so in life. Planting seeds in a cold, seemingly barren time with no guarantee of a successful outcome. (After last year’s abortive attempt at growing carrots the fantasy that I am naturally green-fingered has perished). Earlier this week, following six months of dithering, I declined an invitation to join the permanent staff at the day job. It seems the right thing to do.
In mid-January I step back and become a floater, covering for sickness and holiday absence and in the market for massage work. I haven’t done any massage since October due to lack of time and energy and I miss it, badly. And I will turn my hand to anything else that comes along. Much better in all sorts of ways but not the most obvious choice in an economic downturn.
The business cards are printed. A massage client is booked in for this coming weekend. The beans will act as a serviceable reminder. They need care, water, light. I hope they grow.
On the subject of faith, Zhoen and Dale recently put up truly excellent posts on their personal stances vis a vis signing up to an organised religion. Worth a read, both of them.