Winter's gift

Every month brings its gifts. February's gift is the light - light returning to remind us that dark is only for a season. I should know better - seasoned (well-seasoned) nature disciple that I am, but it gets me every time. The wonder and awe of the whole thing. 

Discussing scientific / planetary concepts is a daily event in our house. This morning it was explaining to the crafty six and a half year old that morning is morning because Earth spins on its axis as we revolve around the sun. And we call that first light dawn, and dawn turns into morning. All that before coffee. It starts early in the Holly Cottage. 

And so February brings its earth-warming light, but it takes its time. Between January and the last few dwindling days of February's reign, a slumber-full silence has been maintained. Not a silence of the cars that go non-stop, 24/7 on the main road mind. Not a silence of alarm clocks in pitch black mornings. But a silence of the earth - sleepy, dreary, brown-tired - browned off? - restful, turned inward, motioned earth-ward. Seemingly devoid of life. But no - this is dreaming time. Barely a breath or a leaf decomposed. Barely a whisper beneath a foggy shroud. But very much alive. Time to mull and ponder. 

La vie en hiver

In all that silence and respectful pause - nature drawing breath - somehow we see more.

  - The goldcrest that appeared in our garden for the first time ever this winter, flitting from leaf to leaf of sheltering leylandii allowing us occasional glimpses of his beautiful, golden head-dress -

   - And then as if not to be beaten, goldcrest's larger companion - industrious wren - catches the corner of my eye, reminding me she never tires of hunting in littering leaves left where they fell. Wren does wren's bit - helping them return to ravenous earth.

  - And there, peeping up through darkest, rotting leaves - snow-white, snowdrop beauties - heroes of winter's realm and harbingers of spring. Humble warriors that salute us in a sun-hungry world laid bare. Should they be pitied they only experience sun as something rare and hauntingly distant beyond frost beckoning clouds? No - no pity. Only celebration of those that defy the dark. 

And of course there's more - more creatures to be watched - waiting under a leaf, hiding under a rotting branch, burrowing through rich, dark, crumbling earth. Or singing from the top of an ivy clad wall. And we watch what we can, through the barest of days. 

For that is January's gift; beautiful, bittersweet and painfully for some, the longest month of all. As Winter strips everything back to the bone, January honours those bones with time and space, to see and hear more. February carefully, cautiously brings us back, back to the light - back to magnificent glorious, radiant life. 

And then, as if it never was here, Winter is done. 

Farewell 2014

Farewell 2014 and welcome 2015. Farewell sleepless nights and being shoved down to one corner of our small double bed by fierce, kicking, wriggling 16 month old beauty. Farewell to sitting through 9am meetings feeling like I'm living in a human experiment to see how one can exist without the fundamental sleep that so many take for granted. 

Ah...2014. It was a tough one. Not without it's beauty and it's joys mind, but nevertheless a tough one.  And it got to the stage where even I was fed up of hearing myself saying to everyone how tired I was. So I just stopped saying and realised that no-one really cared - except for me of course. I was the one struggling under the weight of exhaustion - martyr to the cause of child rearing - too soft to ignore the cries of the now just over 1 year old in the middle of the night and too scared to wonder at what might happen if I did ignore them .  

And so, two weeks ago when the world of work stood still at 12.30pm on the Friday before Christmas, I stopped all pieces of my life that I could stop, and I endeavoured to stop myself. That meant - no more hauling weary legs carried by weakened lower back over miles of soggy bogland, no more over-active mind, no more martyr, no more nothing. And I let the man take over the nighttime stuff - with a break every now and then of course (need to ease him into it). 

I pretty much took a minute to bury my 'schoolbag' in the closet and at the same time I consciously buried all associated thoughts of work with it. And surprisingly enough, I did. 

And I lay on my back on our little daughter's play mat. And I let it all happen and I've pretty much being doing that for two weeks ;) (until today). Sure we had to venture out to let families know that we were still alive, and sure there were the post-christmas bargains to be had...but just that was enough. 

Lying on that playmat, no pen, no laptop, no phone, no diary. Just sweet and full o'boldness Alannah climbing and jumping and crawling over us as we watched the saddest of Christmas movies - why are kids' movies the ones that always make you melt?!! - and ate the finest of food and shared the tastiest seasonal treats that you never, never feel guilty about at this time of year. 

Oh sweet restful, decadent, lying on the floor in a heap doing nothing. I recommend it. Because now I actually feel near to normal. And when the 'schoolbag' was dusted off this morning on my return to work, I had the strength and the power to say - bring it on 2015. If 2014 didn't kill me, then don't you even bother trying. 

Happy 2015!

Holly racing into 2015

Clearing the path for winter

Winter has landed with all its force and unapologetic power. The heavy rains that pounded down on us all this week - causing roads to merge with waterways and keep us all indoors for as much of it as we could - is a stark reminder that no more is the phrase winter is coming  (in all its Game of Thrones foreboding doom and gloom) apt, and once more winter has come. The towering beeches that line the estate walls are completely bare of their golden leaves - earlier that normal it feels, and spindly oaks are bereft of leafy crown for  another five months at least. And the dark is back and dark is the new black for the season that's in it. 

Winter's garden

I don't see how we can ever get used to this forceful annual event - one day sunshine and bare feet, and then the next hats and scarves and wellied up to the nines - it's an annual imposition ;)  And so this weekend I suited up and wellies were donned for the (literal) clearing of the path for winter. 

I don't get out into the Holly Cottage garden as much anymore, not since golden haired child appeared on the scene and the demands of motherhood that go with that. So when I do get out, it seems to me to be a rare treat and very much an event. And yesterday was the day for it - rain had cleared, sun was shining and a blue sky above to restore faith in the November sheltering canopy. 

Starflower blue remains to brighten our days

First there were the standing-dead forms of ornamental clover that lined the path to clear - how different they stood as skeletal lignin stems from the vibrant green and purple of summer. The grow-bags and falling down tomatoes of August and September were dismantled onto the compost heap. The tumbledown nasturtiums were forked away too, and the sturdy starflowers that bulged up between the patio slabs were ceremoniously taken away to the decaying pile of 2014 in the corner of the garden. Mint in disarray was ordered; withered oregano stems were chopped back and collapsing gladioli spikes dismembered - all traces of 2014's summer whisked away in the quick flash of a garden blunted scissors. And then the yard brush was brought forth to clear leaves and bits of sand and grit and bark that had spilled onto the path, and then my work was done. 

Inspector of paths

There are still a few things left out there, the stuff that doesn't mind the cold and most importantly, the stuff that's easily accessed in all types of weather: the protective green manure to feed the soil for next year - the colourful purple Phacelia; the hardy turnips; the leafy cabbage; the bursting brussels sprouts and the curliest, curly kale. These things will keep our vitamin levels up in dark days to fight off the colds that seem to be a much more frequent visitor to our door these days. 

And so we are ready. Ready for winter, again. Path is cleared. Wellies are off and packed away until spring time. Time for sitting by the fire. Time for winter to have its own way and do its own clearing and cleaning - changing the garden in the way that we can't, returning life-that-was back to the cold comforting, embracing earth so that 2015 can live its own new way. 

And just the time for us to do the same.

The cookie crumbled

It's a baking kind of a day. Wet and misty on the outside, warm and cosy inside. Walk is done - splashing through the ankle deep mud and wet sand and grit as we battled with the rush of football folk to get to the woods beyond the soccer pitch. Medals should go to all those children - all seemingly oblivious to the rain - running aound after a leather ball to a single line crowd of martyresque parents. It's the dads mostly - on the sideline that is. I can only imagine they've been hunted by the females as they grapple with preparing for the onset of mud shirts and clay gathering studded buds that will arrive at kitchen doors later in the afternoon. 

We're saved that yet though - the football that is, and the all sorts of organised sporting activities that dedicated parents must taxi children to and from. With Holly it's just chaotic football and stick throwing so that's adaptable, and with Alannah we have yet to move beyond the point of just enjoying the looking on from safety of warm sling to the getting on on the act itself. But I can see her in there with the worst and the best of them, caked in mud after football on Saturday afternoons under the watchful eye of the Oaks of Charleville. 

Standing dead, but still standing ;) 

And so, what does one do on a baking day? Well eat of course ;)  After a month of testing and tasting the delightful seasonal cakes of others all across the midlands of Ireland, we are back to harvesting the fruits of own our labour in the Holly Cottage kitchen. The man has mastered the bread-making so I decided to put a twist on the usual banana flavoured sweet stock that we tend to store in the cupboard. Today is cookie day. Note to readers - I seem to have difficulty with the americanisation of buns and biscuits, aka cupcakes (or even muffins) and cookies. When did a bun become a cupcake? And has no-one spotted the connection between over-sized buns (muffins) and muffin-tops? Sorry - self confessed traditionalist when it comes to the baking ;) But anyway, these 'bakes' below qualify as cookies and biscuits depending on what result Google throws back at you...

Cold and misty on the outside,
warm and crunchy on the inside ;) 

And so, today's sweet treat is banana flavoured oatcake cookies. By the way - don't fool yourself that just because there's oats in it, that it's (a) healthy and (b) that it's not devilishly sweet and tasty and full of plenty of good carbs and fats and vitamins and the like! Herewith the ingredients....

Oat-Banana Crunch Cookies: cream 2tbsps butter with half a cup of brown sugar, add in 1 egg (beaten), 1/2 teasp vanilla extract and 1 very ripe (and very mashed) banana - and blend. Now, stir in 2 cups of oats, 1 cup wholemeal flower, 1 teasp baking powder, 1 teas bread soda, 1/2 teasp salt and 1/2 teasp cinnamon. I also added in four chopped walnuts for the extra healthy super food fats ;) All is stirred up together - add a drop of milk if too dry - and then spoon contents onto greased baking tray and cook at 175 deg for 15mins. Cooking time depends on whether you used teaspoons or tablespoons to shape your cookies, so adapt. When we tasted them with strong hot coffee they were just right but I do feel that the recipe has room to evolve. The man suggested using golden syrup - I'm not sure but no harm in trying. The cookie was delicious with a dollop of natural yogurt, and I''m sure would go just right with vanilla or banana ice-cream for a more calorific treat. Or maybe even a biscuit....

Giving thanks...for comets, and water, and other things...

Ison - as it was

It's the shortest day. Direct opposite of the longest day. How lucky we are to experience both - the preciousness of light on this the shortest day, and the splendour of the seemingly endless light that creeps towards midnight on the summer solstice, and all that glorious warming sunshine. 

I'm presently at home alone with the two ladies and my imagination is captured by thoughts of Comet Ison - a comet that was due to pass by Earth a few weeks ago. Comet Ison was to potentially deliver access to elusive information about big issues - such as how life on Earth began, where did all the water on come from? Basic stuff like that ;) Did all the Earth's water come from the water that is locked up in comets and then released on their impact with the Earth over millions of years? Or, are complex molecules - such as amino acids - created in comets? Scientists have proven in the lab that the nuclear energy created by the impact of a comet on the Earth is sufficient to re-organise the bonds and atoms in simple molecules, to form more complex molecules that require high energy inputs, and ultimately to form some of the basic building blocks of life...like amino acids, the stuff proteins are made of and the like. If they - all those comets - hit the Earth and that caused amino acids to be formed....well, use your imaginations. Life on Earth - sure, but life elsewhere? Why not - just not as we know it. Mind boggling. Check out details of the Rosetta Mission for your own learning. Sadly, Comet Ison burned out when it was passing by the sun and we lost the chance to study and analyse in greater detail. So be it - but so disappointing for all the scientists looking forward to getting their gloved paws on precious rare data that would - that might - answer questions that are fundamental to the origins of life on Earth. 

It's tough being a scientist - first of all you're expected to know everything, when really your doctorate degree only qualifies you to understand how very little you know about even the most simplest and fundamental of questions about life. And yet we see it all around us, unquestioning in its being - we see it as we know it: life. It's there in our varied cultures, traditions, Christmas, seasons, families, love, beauty, nature, music.....it makes one feel incredibly small and incredibly insignificant in a vast universe, in a less vast galaxy, in a small solar system and on a beautiful yet (relatively speaking) teeny, weeny, blue green planet - Earth. It certainly makes me feel incredibly small and incredibly grateful. Grateful for the big things - like the Earth itself, and the water and the air and all those things we take for granted everyday - and grateful for the small things - the small things like....

• A fleeting glimpse of the sun on a solstice morning
• A bright blue sky tinged by pink on the distant horizon
• The rain falling
• The smell of fresh bread baking 
• Alannah's smile
• An unexpected kiss on the back of the neck from the one you love
• The wagging tail on a very happy Holly dog when she can't contain her excitement at getting to go for a run through the woods
• Christmas lights
• Time with dear friends that you only ever get to see at Christmas
• The warmth of your kitchen as you listen to the wind blow and the rain fall outside
• And most of all, the promise of more to come...

Happy Solstice and of course Happy Christmas everybody!

The Darkest Days

And so we have come to the darkest days. It happens every year and yet it always amazes me - all that uncompromising and dependable cyclic nature of the seasons (that is of course ignoring the impending prospect of ongoing climate change, but no doom and gloom in this post!). It's a harsh beauty - all that distancing from the sun leading to a dark and cold time, counter balanced by Christmas lights and beautiful frosty mornings...but all to be reversed come Saturday and the winter solstice (yay). 

'tis the season to be Holly

And why so harsh? Harsh because there is a stark absence of green and yellow and orange and red - the palette of the autumn that we love to watch in the easy days of October and November. Now there is only brown, grey, green and a tinge of blue - brown on the ground, grey on the trunks, some green in the trailing ivy (deceptively widespread in the woods and welcome shelter for blackbird and smaller woodland bird species) and blue in the sky, but blue only ever for precious minutes when the sun peeps over the horizon and the sky is refreshingly clear of grey clouds.  The storms of the last few weeks have completely stripped the oaks and the beech of the Charleville woods and the leaves are rapidly disintegrating back into the earth - the very fabric of the stuff that will bring forth next year's pale green recruits. Fresh faced leaves that will be ready for a season of turning light and carbon dioxide gas into food for the colossal stems that support them - the giant wooden towers of beech and the king oaks. I know - amazing really. Those small and unassuming power houses of green energy that turn light into sweet sugar. And all because of chloroplasts....but, I digress into the minutia...

It's also harsh because we have to wrap up in warm clothes and blanket-like scarves to shut out the cold and the damp. Sandals no longer work and wellies are de rigeur. Holly doesn't bother with either of course - she is an all-weather and all-functional kind of girl. And Alannah is amazingly immune to the cold - she is wrapped up of course but these days she stays awake on our winter walks, staring up into the broken canopy. What is she thinking? She is obviously stunned into silence because at all other times she is cooing and gurgling and 'talking' in her own sweet way. I try to talk to her about the trees and the birds, and the red squirrel that we've met three times now - always scarpering up the same tree - but she is blissfully immune to my breaking the silence. And all the while she just stares with those beautiful blue eyes - her, silent. It's all waiting for her to discover. 

And what about the beauty? Well, apart from Alannah and the bold Holly, the beauty is in feeling the biting cold breeze as we walk through the open fields, the warmth of the blinding winter sun when the clouds break and the feeling that spring is beckoning already - it's there in the knowing song of the blackbird - waiting beyond these darker, damper days. 

And what else do we do these days apart from get into the thick of it in the wintery woods? Very little I'm afraid. Bringing up baby is very basic - feeding, changing, bathing, coaxing to sleep, entertaining, distracting and then a bit of writing and emailing for me when I get a chance - laptop balanced on a cushion and writing with one hand over a sleeping baby. Some highlights of the past few weeks - the walking in the woods and the hinterlands of provincial Irish towns of course (over 100miles of the 1000 target), a successful heart saving exercise for Alannah's granny (my mother), various jaunts into town to catch up with friends for pre-Christmas coffees, the launch of Paddy Woodworth's great book Our Once and Future Planet (more of that again), and meeting up with work mates at the annual Biodiversity Action meeting. 

Holly is such a kidder...

I guess the greatest highlight of all is being a passive onlooker to the wonder that is a child's pace of growing. She is standing, rolling, watching, giving orders and basically, increasingly, ruling the roost. However, I'm reminded by the experts in the field of mothering that this status quo must change in order for peace and balance to reign. And so once Christmas is over, we must all - Holly and No. 1 Dad included - develop the elusive and all important baby routine....we shall have wait and see. In the meantime we'll stick with the policy of going with the flow, however chaotic that is. It always seemed to be so much more fun to me...

Sunday Evening Sky Divine

Evening Sky Divine http://christophermartinphotography.com

It was after 5pm, and the February sun was lowering itself slowly and gently onto the tops of the tall trees that shroud Charleville Castle in eternal shadow and mystic. Holly dog and myself were well overdue a walk in the evening spring air - having over indulged in, well - actually another well overdue treat for the man and me in the shape of a decadent Sunday lunch out. We don't treat ourselves that often - small treats here and there for sure. Like baking fresh apple and cinnamon scones on Saturday afternoons, or sneaking an afternoon nap on the Holly Cottage sofa when the sun is golden through the tall glass doors. Bliss divine. 

Hurray for the weekend I say. Time to catch up on sleep, time to bake some treats, time to put on non-work clothes and swap style-less wellies for high heels and high boots. Wearing wellies is a daily event for me, and to be honest I do enjoy the non glamour aspect of the job, keeps it real ;) During the week, hair and make up are largely dictated by which way the wind is blowing and the rose in my cheeks is  cause of the near zero chill wind factor blowing over the open landscape. And fashion comprises bundles of fleeces and wind proof coats - less wondrous than the glistening frosty veils of delicate silver birch or the winter down of seed head heavy century flowers. Can't compete with the timeless beauty of those effortless style icons ;) I am a clumsy over dressed Homo sapiens chick trundling through the wilds compared to their subtle panache. 

I digress. Back to our Sunday evening sky. 

There's something wonderfully humbling about walking amongst the Charleville trees at dusk. They are the lords of the wood - the magnificent Oaks, splendid Beech and the astounding and ancient Yew. As we walked off our Sunday indulgences, the evening sun lit our way, but it was dropping slowly and gracefully out of sight. The Blackbird was the last bird to be silenced in the darkening woods - it's song so diverse and shrill in the chilling air. One last throw of the schtick and then it was our turn to hurry home in the cold twilight. Back to the warmth of the firelight, back to the hearth of home. And we left behind glorious pinks and reds and blues and dusky greys layered in a sky that promised another day of sunshine come tomorrow's morning. Bliss divine on a cold Sunday evening. Hope ye enjoy it wherever ye are. 

Lifting the Fog - some gentle reminders for the tail end of winter

This article also appears in Elephant Journal, published February 9th 2013
http://www.elephantjournal.com/2013/02/lifting-the-fog-catherine-wilkie/

When the fog lifts...

The last week has had a bite to it. No complaints from my side of the house. I'd trade the grey and damp mundane for the drama of the Irish landscape cloaked in a thick freezing fog by morning, sun  peeking through by midday to warm the frozen fields any day. It's back to slow driving again, and frost covered windscreens in the morning. But it's magical. And bonus - the light has started to filter into the Holly Cottage kitchen by 7.30am, fading only at a generous 5.30pm evening time. I hardly know myself! Leaving the office in daylight, being able to view the Holly Cottage garden for at least 15mins when i land home every evening - it certainly lifts the spirits and makes one think that we made it through the worst of it all for this winter. 

Readers following www.hcottage.blogspot.ie will be aware that I wallowed in self pity last week as I bemoaned the horror of winter. Sorry for that. It was getting me down, or rather I was letting it get me down. It just seems to go on for so long, and no hint of sunshine for us lovers of the light. Urged on by the will to make it better I've been exploring buddhist philosophy to try to refresh and stir my own way of dealing with it. I was led to was is called in buddhism The Four Reminders. Apologies to those who are better versed in these matters, but I found some reminders for myself of the basic fundamentals of our human existence that really do get crowded out when we - please note I can only speak for my own dark moments - are buried in self pity and self interest.

The Four Reminders as explained in This Precious Life by Khandro Rinpoche (Tibetan nun, living in the US) are (paraphrased heavily) life is precious, life is finite, there is invariably suffering (I know - doom and gloom anyone, but wait!) and the life we lead, the decisions and actions we take all has an impact on the overall well being of the world we live our lives in - aka karma. Not so sweetness and light eh ;) Roughly translated to street speak - You get one life. It's the most precious thing you'll ever own/experience. You're completely responsible for that body and the life you live - so you really owe it to yourself to quit dallying and get living (flashback to that line in The Shawshank Redemption). There will be challenges, don't let them become insurmountable obstacles - just do it, slow, steady and consistently. And be the best you can be, it makes a difference to you and the world. In more detail...

Reminder 1: Life is precious. Think about it. The odds of you and I being here at this time, in this place. The gift of the amazing body we have that is essentially at minimum a complex of atoms and energy that can move, breathe, eat and taste amazing foods, see wondrous things and experience the world around us. And what is the world around us? Sun and moon and stars and trees and bees and ocean and coral and pandas and other people and structures living and non-living - all supporting us and there for us to experience - or ignore - whatever we choose. We get a scare every now and then, and something happens when we realise it could be taken from us at any time....leading onto.....

Seize moments of wonder ;)

Reminder 2: This life an't forever. This is the reminder of the impermanence of life. This one has the power to gather momentum. This realisation creates the urgency to live, really live. Imagine choosing to ignore this and going through your life in a haze of habit and un-thinking - ignorance I guess you call it, or taking life for granted, and then at the moment it might all be taken away, realising that it wasn't at all what you wanted it to be. It was a mistake. This is one of my own greatest fears - I admit it freely - to not pursue the chances that come, to choose the comfort and the monotony of the familiar when the unknown which is often so scary (in our minds) but so exhilarating (in reality). I did a skydive over two years - literally jumped out of a moving plane entrusting my life to my skilled tandem skydive expert. It was frightening, seemed completely ludicrous at the time as we climbed to 10,000 feet and then regardless of innate fear and self protecting mechanisms inbuilt since the dawn of human,  we flung ourselves to the mercy of the sky. As soon as it was done, I wanted to get back up there and do it again. I have a moment locked in my brain when we drifted, glided, gracefully waltzed down an imaginary skyslide and the world below was a distant dream. Beautiful.

Reminder 3: Suffering. Now, there's a whole lot of hells described in This Precious Life - my least favorite being the extreme cold hells that seem to be a living reality on some January days. I can't really relate to these ideas as described, but I take the reminder of Suffering as a form of reminding us that no matter how bad things are they could be a whole lot worse. Or that we need to examine our own suffering and realise whether it is self-inflicted - born of habit and destructive tendencies - and do we play a role in its continued existence. If we recognise that we are at least part of the cause of our own suffering, it's really our responsibility to deal with it and give ourself the chance to escape a vicious circle of self hurt. Like any form of addiction. A tough one I know. Sometimes the suffering is created completely by our own minds, and the inability to deal with it and get rid of it, a result of us preferring to hold onto the comfort of suffering and clinging again to what we know. And that's pretty sad. 

Reminder 4: Karma. This is a complex one - and please refer to more learned texts and knowledgeable teachings. I interpret Karma as us taking responsibility for our own lives, for the cause and effect of us. Being aware of how we treat ourselves and others. Our thoughts and actions impact of so many aspects of life that we really do have the power to bring peace and love (man) or that whole suite of negativity that brings no joy but anger, aggression, jealousy and pain. I know that given the choice we would all choose the positive, but how difficult is that when old hurts rise when one encounters a less than pleasant memory from the past? Or how easy it is to envy others instead of being happy for their fortune and getting on with realizing our own. These last few days I've been wishing January away and wishing for another life in a warmer climate and a Mediterranean substitute for Holly Cottage. That is so not good for the soul!

What's a gal to do? Well, I am sticking with my yoga practice - even though it's half hearted some days - don't let self criticism knock you down. Integral to the various postures (asanas) are the breathing (pranayama) and my resolve to gift myself at least 20mins every day of meditation. Some days those 20mins are calm and concentrated, and others it feels like I have a spaghetti junctions of thoughts between my ears and looping around the back of my eyes. But I see the difference already. I trust in the teachings of those who have learned before me and shared their journeys openly and honestly. I trust in my own intuition to help dissolve the myths and habits and thoughts that fool and misguide us everyday. 

And so, everyday I will remind myself how great it is to be alive and that I'm the one holding the wheel and controlling the gears. The goal is self realisation and maybe even enlightenment, and why not? Baby steps.

There is so much to learn and figure out in terms of our own habitual tendencies and behaviours, and how we owe it to ourselves to realise the best experience of living this precious life as far and as completely as possible. And so, worth exploring these Four Reminders. Taking time to remind ourselves. I know for me that it will mean changing some old entrenched habits and maybe not realising the effect for some time. Then it may be immediate. One thing's for sure, once you take responsibility for your own happiness then there's no shifting blame, no avoidance of reality and no easy way out. Surely this is the greatest challenge of our lives but the one that can transform us from barely living to joyously and blissfully-aware-experiencing?

Like lifting the fog on a freezing winter land and suddenly seeing and feeling a sun that was giving, and loving, and shining there all the time. 

Because January Hurts

A delicate beauty in a cold and harsh world

January hurts. 

We've made it kicking leaves through the amber tinted days of autumn. I even relished the nipping cold as the trees were undone in November and the sun sank to its lowest on the horizon through December. We bustled and rummaged our way through the Christmas season, glad for the comfort of brightly coloured lights draped on rooftops outdoors and the scattered tinsel that clung to lovingly decorated trees brought indoors to guard carefully wrapped presents.  New Year's was quiet and passive - great to be setting off on another temporal voyage, great to mark the start of the next chapter. 

But now. I'm stuck. Badly. It's not even the end of January. Still only the middle of it and it hurts!!! 

Still dark in the mornings - no more lying in and sleeping until the sun rises to ease the pain, holidays are truly done. Still cold and wet, still cutting breezes come to taunt us from the wild atlantic sea that batters our western shore. Still only a glimpse of sunshine on any given day. But when it does break through - well, the dark grey is transformed into a glorious golden that stirs the fire in an otherwise low activity fireplace - the fireplace that is the internal hearth. 

I was struggling with this the last few weeks. I couldn't quite explain my lack lustre and lack of enthusiasm, it was just a lingering mood. Now that I've recognised it for what it is - well, you see instead of making me feel worse I feel remarkably better! You see, we can try to pretend that everything is ok, that we are totally on top of things. But that just makes it all the more self delusional and unresolvable. But if - if - we recognise the problem, when we see it's face and call it by its name.....ay, there's real honesty and wisdom. Give the nagging feeling a name, give it a face. Then we are ready for the cure. Some may call it a sign of weakness. But I call it a huge leap in self honesty and accepting that we're not always as strong as we might like to think.

So what's the cure for January you might ask? Learn to love it. Re-wire the brain. Detach. Take each moment as it comes and see the wonder in it. 

In the meantime, here is one simple and true symbol of all that is fantastic and wonderful about January. Our drop of snow, our snowdrop, our first sign of spring and testament that beauty can be the face of the strongest and most defiant force though it wear a delicate and seemingly vulnerable coat. 

Snowdrops

Making Music in the Dark

"Ah yes, guitars a bit higher methinks..."

The last week has gone by in a bit of a blur - maybe it's the barely lit days; the fact that the glorious sun struggles to lift itself above the trees to brighten the Holly Cottage garden; or maybe it is just the time of year when all days seem to be building to the crescendo of holidays and time off work and an end of year breather to unwind and stay by the fire for at least three days in a row without having to drive somewhere. 

Sunday was a glorious day here - the one day in weeks where after a late breakfast I chose to linger in the garden and get a few jobs done. You know - the kind of day when the wellies are on and you're in no rush to retreat to the warmth of the fire because the sun is actually doing its job - warming your face and hands, and making otherwise-dreary winterscape golden. I took to pulling frost ridden spinach out, digging more sweet parsnips and the last of the sadly overdone turnips, and weeding out the few stray dandelions and young buttercup scourges that seeded themselves over the summer. I dug out the scraggy, slug-haven chives that originated two years ago from Cappaduff farm - we have loads more new plants - chips o' the old chive -  to replace that collapsing mess. I'm sure it's a good idea to replace old herb plants for new from time to time, but we'll stick with the hardy and generous thyme and rosemary plants for another season...oregano will more than likely be replaced in the spring. In terms of our limited space and general organisation we are faced with the reality that you really can't grow herbs and strawberries in one bed - especially when the strawberry runners are so enthusiastic and eager as to overgrow everything - rhubarb included. Some slight rearranging required there for the spring. 

Sunset at 4pm in midlands Ireland

On the inside - we've started to work on the green tomato chutney, having finished the last of the tomato chilli jam (see previous posts for details). Having just finished a block of gouda with the green tomato deliciousness - seriously, don't  pass up on an opportunity to make your own form of relish or chutney. It's one of the most rewarding things - along with the strawberry rhubarb jam - that brings the taste of summer to the winter table and helps in the good fight against the effects of winter darkness.

That said, it's hard to find any space these days on the Holly Cottage kitchen table. It seems to - nay, it has - been converted into a makeshift recording studio - not complaining! Both of us have been writing songs for years, and really most of those have been sitting wasting away in the corners of our minds for years if not decades. And so, this winter the aim is to get at least one song recorded and uploaded a week. The going is good this week - we have two of Craig's done and working on a second one of mine as I write - some spanish guitar playing in my ear going into the truly useful and easy to work GarageBand (more like kitchen band when you think about it).

It's great. Great to finally release these children into the cyber world for the amusement and hopefully pleasure of anyone who has time to listen. I always felt a bit weird about recording my own songs - always felt a bit like why would anyone bother to listen - always a bit shy about showing them off to the world - obstacles of the mind really. But, I don't think like that now. Any thought, any creative idea should be pursued. If it stays with you for a while, if it grows into something bigger, if it keeps growing - follow your instinct. Pursue that thought. For if in its creation and its fruition, that sound or expression of you, resonates with the rest of the world - even a small part - then its job is done and it is free.

http://www.reverbnation.com/catherinewilkie

http://www.reverbnation.com/craigwilkie

Finally - check out Holly's christmas time hair do...

"Did someone think this was a good idea?"

Making the Most of Darker Days

Winter sunset - blurring the boundaries between light and dark 

We wake in the dark here now, and we come home in the dark. The light creeps in slowly from the east from about 7.30am - not fully bright until after 8am - at which the time the car engine has been started and the slow winter ritual of teasing ice off car windows and mirrors begins. This morning-ritual ice-melting phase is pushed along with generous helpings of warm water from the Holly Cottage kitchen tap - steam rising as melting ice on car windows meets warm water meets cold air of December morning. And we shiver as we wait in the cold car for the windows to clear. Holly sits in the boot of the jeep wondering why there is no movement - c'mon let's go to the bog! - and I try to console myself in the knowledge that in 10mins we will at least have started the journey to work. However long it may take. It's the same story all the way up and down the street. Busy working class folk trying to get there on time, children wishing the snow would fall so school might be cancelled, and then me and the Holly dog sitting, waiting, car engine ticking over...waiting, waiting....watching intricate patterns of melting ice disappear as the sun too begins to rise over the roof tops of midlands Ireland.  

BRRRRR ;)

The cars crawl along the roads these mornings, ours crawls too. Too many skids and near misses, as well as several hits have taught me to be patient and respect the lethal power of ice and cold. And really - what can't wait for the cold claw of nature to thaw and release? Sure - there's the antsy boss or the cranky teacher, but you know what? There are forces stronger than them that must be obeyed.

And what waits for us? What promise of light before us? Truth told, another two weeks of this relentless dominating darkness and cold. Less than two weeks really. For by that time, on the holy day of December 21st, the tilt of our planetary home starts to reverse in our favour - sorry about that southern hemisphere ;) - and the light comes back. It is the winter solstice - the longest night or the shortest day, call it what you will.  In a moment of madness - nay, near insanity - I once climbed Knocknarea in County Sligo on a dark and foggy morning of December 21st. How I made it to the top unscathed, I'm not so sure - it's a slippy and rough climb at the best time of the year.  I guess I thought I might greet the sunrise on this pivotal day - welcome back the sun and all - and that might mean something more than just another day. But the fog took the hope of magical sunrise and killed it ;) 

Us enlightened folk of the 21st century know the story of planetary motion well of course and for most of us the winter solstice probably passes by un-noticed, un-significant. But in days long ago, one might never be so sure that it - the friendly warming sun that allows life on Earth - would return. More than 4,000 years ago the people of Newgrange in Ireland followed the path of the sun and moon more closely and the return and lengthening of the light from that day in cold December marked the gift to live another year, to sow and reap crops and revel in their harvest. 

And so too for us in the Holly Cottage garden. There is little in the depressed vegetable patch now save the cold-defiant celery and spinach, and the Brussels sprouts to be picked for Christmas dinners. The garlic must go in the ground soon - before the shortest day - so there is some real urgency to complete that task. But that is really it, for now. I generally use this time to sit back and reflect. To watch the light fade on another year, like the fading credits at film's end. To think about the good, the bad and the ugly; the relishing of beetroot; the relentless rhubarb; the unfortunate blight afflicted spuds; the astronomical bounty of strawberries....and the hours spent doing forward bends on endless rows of weeds. All the other stuff too of course - the trials and tribulations of work, the global travels - the general ups and downs, and sidewards bends and twists of being human.  

Morning sun - winter in Lough Boora

And so, you will understand now when I write that this week was tough for us lovers of the light. Next week will be tougher, most likely the toughest. But after that - from Friday week - the light will return and we will sigh relief and yell bring it on for another year. In the meantime for these short few days left ahead, we wait...and we wait...with patience and some surprisingly resilient philosophical endurance. Must be all that standing on one's head ;)

By the way - look out for some new music coming your way through the Holly Cottage production company. As a taster - check out this link - more on a rainy theme, something we get plenty of in Ireland...

http://www.reverbnation.com/craigwilkie/song/15426978-god-damn-rain?utm_campaign=opengraph&utm_content=song&utm_medium=link&utm_source=facebook

More to come.

Winter Thoughts (and a beetroot chocolate cake!)

Leaves undone

It's official. Winter is truly, deeply and darkly upon us. The darkness is winning over the light, and the light - when it comes - is filtered only through a thick blanket of cloudy grey and eerie frosty mists that may or may not lift on any given day. But the sun is always there - we see it every now and then - strong and giving and golden and welcome. A reminder of what has been and what will come again. It's just that the other side of the world is feeling it's loving more. For some months now the tilt of the Earth and the seasonal change in day length will halt further growth and we must wait until spring time to get digging in the garden. The beech trees that had clung to last summer's leaves are now delivered into stark winter nakedness. How can that feel? Only the ivy, the holly and the yew hang on to their glossy dark green leaves in defiance of winter. 

I spent the last week in Austria where winter has an edge on our dark and damp Irish version. In Austria the snow was just about to land. The Austrian alps were already covered but lower hills and ski slopes waited keenly for the promise of their winter white blanket. The experience of winter there is more white and bright than grey and damp. As I write here at the kitchen table in Holly Cottage, my eyes are drawn to the cold grey rain outside our sheltering windows that has been falling through the night. And I draw the blanket closer about me as if to shield me from its cold creep, and keep my own inner fire bright, un-dampened, protected.

Holly guarding the beetroot

It's not easy, this kind of winter. But it's what we have been given. It stops us in our tracks. It demands slow down. Stop digging. Think about when and where you need to drive. Rest. Time for looking outwards is reduced to daily walks on frosty paths or muddy fields. Or a run in the dark of an early morning. Doors are only opened for necessary seconds now, saving precious warmth from its escape. Time for looking inwards now. Time for taking the ashes out daily. Time to tend the fire so that it will burn through the short days and cold nights. All through this winter, and this seasonal night. 

But it's not all dark and brooding ;) More time to enjoy the gifts of summer past. This week's gift is dark and sticky, sweet and sating beetroot chocolate cake - yum! I found this recipe  in a Rachel Allen book while waiting on the homeward bound train in Heuston one cold dark evening. It is the perfect fit for the last of the beetroot that really should be a staple in every Irish garden. From relishing it, to roasting and boiling it. It's a gift in itself. 

Made for each other ;)

Take 10oz of raw beetroot and boil for about a half an hour until cooked. Then rub of the skins, chop into pieces and pop into a blender until its finely chopped, smooth. Melt 9oz of chocolate - use the best available. For example Shana Wilkie's ;) www.WilkiesChocolate.ie Cream 9oz of butter, add 11oz of caster sugar and blend until smooth and creamy in texture. Gradually add three beaten eggs, making sure to beat in-between adding the eggs. Then add in the beetroot and the melted chocolate. It might look a bit psychedelic - enjoy it! Then sift and fold in 3oz of flour and 2oz of cocoa. I used a 8inch round tin with a removable base - make sure to line it with parchment paper. Then into the oven at 180 degrees until firm to touch - Rachel says 30-35mins but we left it for a good 50 mins. Allow to cool in the tin before taking it out. 

Winter Path

A word of warning. This cake is absolutely divine. You may feel the need to eat it all in one sitting. But don't ;) Take a decent sized slice and have it with vanilla ice cream - we also tried it with banana and chocolate ice cream easily sourced from Lidl. What a wonderful accompaniment to those winter thoughts.....it can only make them better.

Seeing the Mystic in Falling Leaves

Journey into
the darker half of the year..Samhain

There's something completely magical about this time of the year. Not magical in the Christmas sense when artificial lights are colouring houses and trees. And not magical like springtime when hosts of daffodils bend over footpaths and otherwise dreary motorways. This is mystical magical. This is the time of year when everything that we took for granted - long summer evenings, leaves on trees and things a' growing in the garden - is taken from us. The evenings shorten, the lights come on early, the fire is lit everyday and slowly but surely things that were green and living, giving - start to decay and the boundaries between living and dying are blurred. No wonder it is the time of Hallowe'en and the time for spirits to cross over into the world of the living, reminding us of our own mortality. Us Gaels refer to it as Samhain - the seasonal festival that marks the end of the harvest or growing year and welcomes the darker half of the year until the light returns again in Bealtaine (the start of May). Samhain is essentially a festival for the dead and Bealtaine a festival for the living. Meanwhile, back in 2012 Ireland....

While we shiver and bemoan winter's return, those non-humans living closer to the march of Nature's tune surrender without a peep of discontent. Towering beech trees drop the spring green leaves of summer with a gentle shiver - not however without celebrating their passing with a veritable carnival of colour - the like of which would match the canvases of any Van Gogh or Gauguin kaleidoscope of colour. The trees' palette is mostly orange and rust and yellow and purple and green (reminiscent of The Orb's Little Fluffy Clouds anyone?) and all shades between. Walls of burnt orange tunnelling a long beech lined avenue - well, it's enough to take a gal's breath awake on a cold and bitter November day ;) I like ;)

The last three weekends we have been gifted with bright blue skies and views of the sun that would shame a summer's day in Ireland. The cold would bite the nose off you but layers of wool and soft cottons defy the wicked chill and once wellies are on, it's only a matter of minutes kicking through ankle deep layers of crispy, crinkling leaves before the warmth is back in the heart and defiance of life's hardships back in the soul. The Holly dog loves it, and her nose is well buried where newly fallen leaves meet rotting humus. What she hopes to find under all those layers I can only imagine, but the sense of joy that is conveyed by the constant wagging of golden cocker spaniel tail is testament to the joy of the woods and all that it brings her. She first came to us as a puppy in a late October, and I like to think that this is her true time of the year, and her golden coat blends well with the golden carpet that covers the woodland floor.

This one is a teaser - can you spot the Holly dog?

Other than walking the woods in our spare time, it's been pretty quiet on the Holly Cottage garden front. The first fine sunny day we had we emptied the greenhouse of collapsing tomato and cucumber plants, grow bags and all! Then it was time for washing - sudsy water to rid the plastic of the veneer of algae that had built up over summer. The job was painless and kind of therapeutic in some ways. We were reminded of the sweet cucumbers and the cherry delights that we feasted on since July, but resolve was strengthened to do a better job next year....whatever that will bring. In our autumn clean we did encounter the odd brazen slug who was hoping for a mild winter ride under a frost free ledge. Seriously, is there no end to their slug terror? In other news, all the carrots are up, a few sad turnips are left in the ground, beetroot is all harvested and a bounty of parsnips remain in the ground for the winter oven. Speaking of which...

Tonight's creation is oven baked sausages with roasted onions, potatoes and parsnips - you said it, yum ;) Cut spuds and parsnips into wedges, onions cut head to toe. Drizzle with oil, add a sprinkle of fennel and cumin seeds and some fresh thyme. Into the oven at 200deg for 30mins. Then add your favourite sausages - meat or veggie. Roast for another 20mins, let it sit for a few minutes out of the oven - if you can - and then enjoy immensely ;) It's a recipe from the captain of the River Cottage ship, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall....oh so tasty.  Check out the following link, and enjoy!
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/24/sausage-recipes-hugh-fearnley-whittingstall

River Cottage pic..the Holly Cottage pic wasn't taken quick enough ;)