Summer Garden

Early morning. Sunshine. Hot but not too hot. Heavy, scented air. In that moment, perfection.

Flashing

You see, I don't want to come on here and just tell you about my ailments, which  I've been doing a lot of recently.  So I'll tell you about the Posterior Vitreous Detachment in my left eye diagnosed by the local optometrist. It doesn't count because it's not an ailment.   The helpful and reassuring piece on the RNIB website, says so.  No, it is a natural change that occurs in the eye in many people as they get older and the symptoms are floaters and -  the thing that is really stressing me out -  rapid light flashes on the periphery of the eye concerned, particularly in the dark and dimly lit conditions.  Apparently these symptoms can last from a few weeks to a year, with most cases settling down and resolving at around six months.  So it's a fairly long haul.  Just to up the anxiety, in the first two or three months you are more at risk from a retinal detachment, though this is fairly rare, but if the symptoms change or worsen I have to get to A&E pronto. My friendly neighbour has volunteered to ferry me there if necessary, day or night she says.  I'm grateful.

Six weeks in now, and I'm staying in well-lit places, including sleeping with the bedside light on because I can't cope with the firework display in my left eye when I awaken in the dark.

Why had I never heard of this?

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The theme that resonates more and more is : simplify.  Things you no longer need - give away what you can, sell anything you can sell.  When I'm fit enough the plan is to downsize and move to a smaller property closer to the centre of town which requires less maintenance. Walk to the shops, to the library, to see friends. I no longer want to fritter away nervous energy on stuff that drains me needlessly.  Time and health are increasingly precious, dear God they are.

  Pretty pink.  The new gardener, Brian, nice man, gave me some cuttings. 

Shetland

I've never visited them nor have I given the Shetland Islands too much thought  until recently, but a month or so ago I started reading Ann Cleeves' Shetland detective stories.   Gripping they are too.  Elegant writing, clever plots, a sympathetic detective and, above all, vivid descriptions of the British Isles' most northerly islands. ( I've long realised I read detective stories as much for the descriptions of the land and cityscapes as for the plot).

As I've worked my way through the series Ms Cleeves and the Sheltland Islands have reeled me in. I started scanning the internet for images, plotting routes, studying maps. Even though I'm in no state to walk any distance and I take taxis to go to where I need to go, I'm planning hikes across the rocky, treeless moors under the wide skies where the only sounds are the wind, the waves and the sea birds.  Where Bergen is closer than Edinburgh and the names of the little towns and settlements come from Old Norse.  Wildness and wilderness attracts me, it always has.  So I'm smitten. It's like falling in love again at an age where you should know better. 

By happy coincidence I caught a TV programme the other night on the landscape artist and printmaker, Norman Ackroyd,.  The son of a Yorkshire butcher, apart from being stunningly talented he came across as a humble, down to earth man who produces haunting, powerful yet delicate etchings and aquatints of the remote and wild places of the British landscape.  He is particularly captivated by the Scottish islands, including the Shetlands and I in turn was moved and excited by his work.  A new discovery. 
 





More prints and biographical notes on Norman Ackroyd's website here.    Take a look.

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 I've told myself of late that travel no longer holds the same appeal, that I'm jaded and weak and old, that I want to stay home. I may perhaps be pickier now, but there are  moors, cliffs, rocks and islands, that still call to me and to my spirit.  I can still fall in love.

Ending

The first signs of decay show that this season's work is almost complete. Still so beautiful though in the early morning sunlight.

Festina Lente

It's part of testing my limits and strength I suppose.  I had a wobble this morning - did too much, attempted to lift something just a little bit heavier than I can manage.  I didn't actually lift it but the slight bending and even the partial effort caused a back muscle to twinge.  I think I'm OK but I've scared myself.

When I get caught up in a task or project something akin to obsession - enthusiasm's shadow - can take over and common sense is all too easily cast aside.   I can't afford to let this happen in the future, it's how I first  injured my lower back four years ago.  Vigilance has to be the watchword when it comes to health, and to be truthful I'm not sure I know how to change, how not to be caught out again.

And I so want to have my life back.  I'm doing more, trying new things, making plans to venture out of the house.  All good but it would be terrible to let obsession and impatience ruin it.  For now at any rate, caution trumps everything else.

Now to let the panic subside.  Wait.  Think.  Breathe.  I need my guardian angel to materialise at moments like the one this morning, tap me on the shoulder and remind me.  Festina lente.  

Memory

 

I find myself thinking about childhood and those iconic bottles and packages that are printed on the memory, probably until the day I die.   It was just after the war and rationing was still in force and I was one of the first generation of National Health babies.

So this concentrated National Health orange juice, recently issued to families with young children, would have been ground-breaking.  Likewise the thick, viscous cod liver oil which my mother was convinced I would refuse but which - perversely - I used to love.  The morning ritual was this: as soon as I was old enough I would clamber up to stand on one of  the wooden kitchen chairs while my mother measured out a spoonful of the stuff.  I was now at her level, she didn't have to bend down and the oil didn't get spilled.   A special spoon.  Mouth open and in it went.

Then I remember the green gingham dress with parallel ruffles on the bodice.  The old wireless which we hung onto for years afterwards with all those names on the dial (Luxembourg, Cork, Hilversum. Moscow). Listen With Mother.  The flowering cherry just the other side of the back fence, bordering the gravel pit. One day in spring, maybe another sun-filled May day like today, the sight of the cloud of pink blossom against the bluest of blue skies is my first recollection of being awed by beauty.  I think my heart turned over.  

We moved from this house when I was five years old.